Hunter swallowed dry. ‘It actually turns me on even more.’
‘Great, but let’s have breakfast first.’ She opened the fridge door and retrieved a few eggs, a carton of milk, a small bottle of orange juice and from the freezer some hash browns.
‘Do you need any help?’ Hunter asked.
‘No, I’ll be OK, besides, last time you offered to help in the kitchen you know what happened.’ She poured two glasses of orange juice and handed him one.
‘Yeah, you’ve gotta point. I’ll just wait in the living room then,’ he said, giving her a quick kiss.
‘How do you like your eggs?’
‘Umm . . . scrambled, I guess.’
‘Scrambled it is.’
Hunter walked back into the living room and sat at the table. For the first time since the new killings began he’d managed to disconnect.
‘You forgot these in the kitchen,’ Isabella said, coming into the living room and handing him his very old- looking pair of shoes. ‘How long have you had these?’
‘Too long.’
‘Yeah, it shows.’
‘I’ve been meaning to get a new pair,’ he lied.
‘You should. In Italy it is a known fact that you can tell a man from the shoes he wears.’
‘Damn. So I’m old and . . . dirty?’
She laughed a contagious laugh. ‘Anyway, breakfast will be just a couple of minutes.’
Hunter had just finished his orange juice when Isabella walked back into the living room carrying a breakfast tray. Scrambled eggs, hash browns, brown toast and freshly made coffee.
‘Coffee? I thought you’d said you only had tea.’
‘I did, last week, but somehow I had a feeling you’d stay the night, so I bought some yesterday. I hope it’s OK, I’m not really a coffee person. I’m not sure if this is a good brand or not.’
‘I’m sure it will be just fine . . . it smells great,’ he reassured her.
‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing to the piece of paper in front of him.
Hunter had unconsciously started fiddling with a pen and paper while waiting for breakfast. Amongst the several meaningless doodles he’d drawn, he’d reflexively sketched the double-crucifix symbol.
‘Oh, nothing really.’
‘That’s funny.’
‘What’s funny?’
‘That thing you’ve drawn. I’ve seen it before, I thought it meant something.’
Thirty-Six
Los Angeles is a great party town. Rock stars, movie stars, celebrities, politicians, super rich, it doesn’t matter, one thing they all have in common is their love for parties, their desire to be seen.
Martin Young was a thirty-six-year-old entrepreneur who made all his millions in the property business. His company, Young Estates, specialized in properties for the super rich – Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Malibu and Venice Beach mostly. He’d rubbed shoulders with famous people from all walks of life. Madonna had sold one of her LA properties through Martin’s company before moving to London. It took Young Estates only six months to bring its owner his first million in profit. Two years after he started his company, Martin could’ve retired if he wanted to, but he’d been bitten by the money bug and the more he had, the more he wanted. He became a ruthless businessman with most of his life revolving around his company, except for the weekends. To Martin weekends were for partying, and he liked to party hard. Once a month he’d hire some extravagant-looking house on the outskirts of town, invite a few close friends, pay several prostitutes and fill the place up with every kind of drug imaginable – just like last night.
As Martin opened his eyes, it took him a while to realize where he was. The effect of whatever he’d taken the night before hadn’t properly worn off yet and he still felt dazed. He looked around the room taking his time to absorb the strange medieval decoration. He blinked a few times trying to clear his vision and slowly his focus started to come back. Over on the far wall, above a magnificent marble fireplace he could see a knight’s shield positioned over two crossed swords. To the right of the fireplace a full-size suit of armor. The floor had been lined with Persian rugs and the walls plastered with tapestries and paintings of English Dukes, Lords, Kings and Queens.
With great effort he sat up. His head felt heavy and a bitter taste lingered in his mouth. Only then he realized he’d been sleeping in a four-poster bed surrounded by silk sheets and pillows. Damn, I fell asleep on the set of King Arthur, he thought to himself with a little chuckle. Over on the bedside table, several pills lay scattered together with a small cellophane bag – some sort of white powder inside it.
That’s what I need before the comedown hits me, he thought. Without knowing or caring what they were, Martin picked up a couple of pills from the table and popped them into his mouth. He looked around searching for something to wash them down with. A half-full bottle of champagne was on the floor next to the bed. He took a large swig of it and shook his head, allowing the stale liquid to run down his throat. He waited a few minutes for the pills to start taking effect before getting up and slowly making his way out of the room.
From the landing Martin had a clear view of the living room downstairs. He could see another nine or ten people spread over the ancient-looking furniture and rug. One lonely body had fallen asleep over the grand piano. Two naked hookers on the floor next to it. Everyone seemed down and out. Martin stumbled over to the staircase passing another empty room to his right. This is definitely the entertainment room, he thought as he peeked inside. Holding on to the balustrade, he made his way down to the room below, one slow step at a time. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he realized how hungry he was.
‘Where the hell is the kitchen in this horrible place?’ he said out loud, scanning the exotically decorated lounge. He heard noises coming from a room at the end of a small corridor to the left of the staircase. ‘Someone is up.
Staggering as if drunk, Martin made it to the door. He tried to push it open but it barely moved. He wasn’t sure if it was stuck or his effort just hadn’t been enough. He took a step back and tried again, this time throwing his right shoulder against the door and putting every last ounce of energy into it. The door swung open and Martin was catapulted onto the floor.
‘Hey, man, are you OK?’ Duane, Martin’s best friend, was sitting at the kitchen table with a two-liter bottle of water in front of him.
Slowly Martin picked himself off the floor. The kitchen was very spacious, and unlike the rest of the house, decorated in a pleasant modern style. The black Italian marble worktop contrasted beautifully with the gleaming, polished, stainless-steel double-door fridge positioned at the north end of the room. An overwhelming collection of pots and pans hung grandly above the table where Duane was sitting.
‘Are you the only one up?’ Duane asked, sounding a little too animated.
‘I haven’t seen anyone awake apart from you, but then again I only surfaced a little more than ten minutes ago.’
‘Have you looked around this place? It’s awesome. It’s more like a museum than a house, except for this kitchen. Whoever owns this place is totally obsessed with medieval England, it’s everywhere like a rash.’ Duane’s words came out fast and in a steady rhythm like a machine gun.
‘And you think that’s awesome?’ Martin’s expression clearly indicated that he didn’t share Duane’s thoughts.
‘Well, it’s very different.’
Martin wasn’t very interested in Duane’s house review. His eyes roamed the kitchen looking for something. ‘Is there any food around?’ he asked.
