‘Exactly, and that was no coincidence. The killer knew.’
‘I know. So was he gambling again or did the killer know about his past?’
‘I don’t know, but we really need to find out.’
‘As Lucas had said, dog racing is illegal in California, right?’ Hunter asked.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Can we find out which is the nearest state that allows it?’
‘Yes, easy, give me a minute.’ Garcia walked back to his desk and sat in front of his computer. After a few clicks and some typing he shouted out his search result. ‘Arizona.’
Hunter chewed his lower lip in thought. ‘That’s way too far. If George had been going to a racing track, it had to be within driving distance so he could make it there and back in the same evening. Arizona is totally out of the question.’
‘So if he was gambling again he was doing it over the internet or over the phone.’
‘Which means the killer did not single him out from a dog track.’
‘We have to find out where he was the night he was abducted. We know Jenny was in a nightclub,’ Garcia said, getting up once again.
‘We’ve gotta re-interview that tall, skinny, receding hair guy we talked to at Tale & Josh – what was his name?’
‘Peterson, something Peterson,’ Garcia recalled. ‘Why him?’
‘Because he knows more than he told us.’
‘How do you know?’
Hunter gave Garcia a confident smile. ‘He showed all the signs of being too nervous. Avoided eye contact, sweaty palms, uneasiness with all his answers and he kept on biting his bottom lip whenever we pressed him for a straight answer. Trust me, he knows more than what he told us.’
‘Surprise home call then?’
Hunter nodded with a devious smile. ‘Let’s do it tomorrow, Sunday. People always get caught off guard on Sundays.’
Garcia’s eyes were back on the photographs. Something else had been nagging him. ‘Do you think they knew each other?’
The question came unexpectedly and Hunter took a moment to think about it. ‘Maybe. She was a high-class hooker. If he was cheating on his wife, and that’s still a major possibility, he certainly had enough money to afford her.’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’
‘So we’d better find that out as well, and I know just who to ask.’
‘Who? D-King won’t give us Jenny’s client list and I’m sure you’re not thinking about that mound of muscle bodyguard.’
‘No, we ask one of D-King’s girls.’
Garcia hadn’t thought of that.
‘Anyway, what do we have on our first victim so far – did we manage to get a file on her?’ Hunter asked.
‘Not exactly.’ Garcia walked back to his desk. Hunter had never seen a better-organized desk. Three very neatly arranged piles of paper stood to the left of Garcia’s computer screen. All pencils and pens had been placed into color-coded can-like containers. The phone was precisely aligned with the fax machine and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Nothing looked out of place. Everything about Hunter’s partner suggested organization and efficiency.
‘Farnborough isn’t a very common name, but it’s common enough to make things difficult,’ Garcia carried on. ‘D-King couldn’t tell us for certain where she was from. He mentioned Idaho and Utah, so I used that as the starting point. My initial check has returned thirty-six Farnboroughs in both states. I’m getting in touch with the sheriffs in every town I found a Farnborough, but so far, no luck.’
‘And if D-King was wrong about Idaho or Utah?’ Hunter asked.
‘Well, then we’re in for a very long search. She probably ran away from wherever she came from looking to become the newest Hollywood star.’
‘Don’t they all?’ Hunter said matter-of-factly.
‘That didn’t work out, so she ended up becoming a pro, working for our scumbag friend D-King.’
‘Welcome to the Hollywood dream.’
Garcia nodded.
‘No easy identification via DNA then?’
‘Not until we locate her family.’
‘And we’ll obviously have no joy with dental records.’
‘Not after the job the killer’s done on her.’
They spent a minute in silence. Their eyes back on the photographs. Hunter finished the rest of his coffee before glancing at his watch – 5:15 p.m. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and checked the pockets as always.
‘You’re leaving?’ Garcia asked half surprised.
‘I’m already late for a dinner appointment, and anyway I think we need to try and disconnect from this case even if just for a few hours. You should go home to your wife, have some dinner, take her out, get laid . . . poor woman.’
Garcia laughed. ‘I will, I just wanna go over a few more things before I leave. Dinner plans huh? Is she nice?’
‘She’s pretty. Very sexy,’ Hunter said with a matter-of-fact shrug.
‘Well, have a good time, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Garcia started flipping through some files. Hunter stopped by the door, turned and watched Garcia. Hunter had seen that same scene before. It was like looking back in time, the only difference was he’d be sitting in Garcia’s seat and Scott would be by the door. He sensed in Garcia the same passion for success, the same hunger for the truth that still burned inside him, the same desire that had almost driven him to the brink of madness but unlike Garcia, he’d learned to control it.
‘Go home, rookie, it’s not worth it, we’ll carry on tomorrow.’
‘Ten minutes, that’s all.’ Garcia gave Hunter a friendly wink before turning his attention back to the computer.
Thirty-Five
Hunter hated being late, but he knew he wouldn’t make it in time from the moment he left his RHD office. He’d never been the type to pay much attention to his clothes, but today he tried all seven of his ‘going out’ shirts on at least twice and his indecision had cost him almost an hour. In the end he’d decided to go with a dark-blue cotton shirt, black Levi’s jeans and his new leather blazer jacket. His main problem was choosing a pair of shoes. He had three and all of them were at least ten years old. He couldn’t believe he’d spent so much time choosing what to wear. After splashing a handful of cologne on his face and neck he was ready to leave.
On the way to Isabella’s apartment he stopped at a liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine. Hunter’s alcohol knowledge was restricted to single malt whisky, so he accepted the salesman’s advice and bought a 1992 bottle of Mas de Daumas Gassac, and hoped it would go with whatever she was cooking. For the price he paid, it’d better.
The entrance hall to her Glendale apartment block was pleasantly decorated. Authentic oil paintings adorned the walls. A beautifully arranged bouquet of colored flowers sat on a squared glass table in the center of the room. Hunter caught a glimpse of his reflection in a full-length mirror positioned to the right of the door and made sure his hair was all in place. He rearranged his blazer collar before making his way up to the second floor via the stairs. He
