The Crucifix Killer

turn was met with a shy giggle and a sexy wink from the dark-haired one.

He placed his jacket over the back of his chair and sat facing the entrance door. Out of habit he checked his cell phone for any missed messages or calls – there weren’t any. He ordered a Diet Coke and had a quick look at the menu. He wondered if he’d recognize Isabella. His memory of the weekend was pretty hazy.

The events of yesterday still played in his mind. Why greyhound racing? If the killer wanted to gamble, why not horse racing or roulette or something more common? Was there some hidden meaning behind it all? And as the captain had said, why has the killer started playing games now? Guilt? Repentance? Hunter didn’t buy that. His thoughts were disrupted by the waiter who had just finished pouring his drink into an icy glass. As he had his first sip his attention was drawn to the restaurant door.

Dressed casually in a thin, white, cotton blouse tucked into tight, faded, blue jeans with black cowboy boots and belt to match, Isabella looked prettier than he remembered. Her long dark hair fell loose over her shoulders and her olive-green eyes carried an intriguing sparkle.

Hunter raised his hand to catch her attention, but Isabella had already noticed him sitting by the window. With a pleasant smile she made her way towards his table. Hunter stood up and was about to extend his hand for the conventional handshake when she leaned forward and kissed him twice, once on each cheek. Her perfume was citrusy and subtle. He held out the chair opposite his offering her a seat, a gentleman-like gesture that was very much unlike him. He waited for her to sit down before going back to his chair.

‘So you found it OK?’ she asked in a cheerful voice.

‘Yeah, no problem. It looks like a very nice restaurant,’ he said, looking around.

‘Oh it is, trust me.’ She renewed her smile. ‘The food here is very tasty.’

‘Touche,’ he thought. ‘I’m sorry about that. That sentence came out all wrong yesterday. Sometimes my brain works faster than my lips and words don’t come out quite as I’d like them to.’

‘It’s OK. It made me laugh.’

‘So, you work at the University?’ Hunter changed the subject.

‘Yes.’

‘Medical or biological department?’

Isabella looked baffled for an instant. ‘Biomedical research actually. Wait, how did you know? Oh God! Please tell me I don’t smell of formaldehyde.’ She subtly brought her right wrist to her nose.

Hunter laughed. ‘No, you don’t. You smell terrific to be honest.’

‘Thank you, that’s quite sweet. But tell me, how did you know?’

‘Observation really.’ Hunter played it down.

‘Observation? Please tell me more.’

‘I just pick up on silly things that most people don’t.’

‘Like what?’

‘Just above your wrist line there’s a slight depression,’ he said, tilting his head towards her hands. ‘As if you’ve been wearing tight rubber bands around both of your wrists. The white powder residue around your cuticles is consistent with cornstarch powder, which you know is used in surgical gloves. My guess is that you’ve been wearing gloves all morning.’

‘Wow. That’s quite impressive.’ She looked at her hands for a couple of seconds. ‘But the powder on my fingers could be from chalk. That means that I could be a professor at the University. And I could teach any subject, not just biomedical,’ she challenged Hunter.

‘Different kind of powder,’ he shot back with conviction. ‘Cornstarch is much finer and a lot harder to wash off, that’s why you have it only around your cuticles and not your fingers. Plus you have it on both of your hands. So unless you’re an ambidextrous professor, I’ll stick with my surgical gloves theory.’

She stared at him in silence. A nervous smile played on her lips.

‘The other giveaway is that UCLA Medical School is just around the corner,’ he said with a new tilt of the head.

Isabella hesitated for a second. ‘Wow, you are good. I have been wearing gloves all morning.’

‘As I’ve said, just observation, really.’ Hunter smiled, secretly glad that he’d impressed her.

‘You said you teach? You don’t look like the professor type.’

‘I said I could be a professor, but now I’m curious. What does the professor type look like?’ she asked with a chuckle.

‘Well, you know . . .’ he chose his words carefully. ‘Older, balder, thick glasses . . .’

Isabella laughed and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it to one side but letting her fringe fall partially over her left eye. ‘Here at UCLA you’ll find even the surfer-type professor. Long hair, tattoos, piercings. Some even come to class wearing flip-flops and shorts.’

Hunter laughed.

The waiter came back to check on their orders.

‘Sig.na Isabella, come sta?’

‘Va bene, grazie, Luigi.’

‘What can I get for you today?’ he asked in a very strong Italian accent.

Isabella didn’t need to look at the menu to decide, she knew exactly what she wanted.

‘What do you recommend?’ Hunter asked, struggling to make a selection of his own.

‘Do you like olives, pepperoni and pine nuts?’

‘Yeah, very much.’

‘OK, then have the penne Pazze, it’s gorgeous,’ she said, pointing down at her menu.

Hunter accepted her suggestion and complemented it with a small rucola and parmesan salad. He thought about having some garlic bread, but decided against it – not the best of dishes when you’re out on a date. They both opted for no wine as they still had to go back to work after lunch.

‘How about you? How’s work going?’ she asked.

‘Same old, same old, just a different day,’ he said playing with his bread knife.

‘I bet being a detective in a city like LA isn’t easy?’

Hunter looked up and stared at Isabella, intrigued. ‘How do you know I’m a detective?’

It was Isabella’s turn to fix him down with a stare. ‘Huh?’ She paused and worked her fingers through her fringe. ‘Are you kidding?’

His expression told her he wasn’t.

‘This past weekend? In my apartment?’

She got no reaction from him.

‘Do you remember anything about that night? We went back to my place from the bar, you took off your jacket and the first thing I saw was a gun. I freaked out and you showed me your badge saying that everything was OK, you were a detective for the city of Los Angeles.’

Hunter looked down in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry . . . I actually don’t remember much about that night . . . little memory flashes, but that’s all. How much did I have to drink?’

‘Quite a lot,’ she said giggling to herself.

‘Was I on Scotch?’

‘Yep,’ she nodded. ‘So you don’t remember much about that night at all?’

‘Very little.’

‘Do you remember sleeping with me?’

The embarrassment was now complete. A slight shake of the head was all he could muster.

‘Oh God! So I wasn’t memorable?’

‘Oh no, it’s not like that. I’m sure you’re incredible in bed . . .’ Hunter realized he’d said those words louder than he intended. Their conversation had suddenly attracted the attention of some of the neighboring tables. ‘Wow, that sentence came out all wrong,’ he said in a much lower tone of voice.

Isabella smiled. ‘Your brain working faster than your lips again?’ she teased.

Luigi came back with a bottle of still mineral water and poured it into the wine glass in front of her. Hunter declined signaling that he was alright with his Diet Coke.

‘Grazie, Luigi,’ she said softly.

‘Si figuri, sig.na,’ he replied with a jovial smile.