The Executioner

‘Wait!’ Tania suddenly called. ‘He called her Mandy.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hunter asked.

‘On the phone, when he called to let us know he’d be late for his viewing, after he said hello to me, he said – can I speak to Mandy?’

Fifty-Five

Claire Anderson had wanted to be a reporter for as long as she could remember. Born in Hailey, Idaho, she was a country girl with a big city woman mentality. Her parents still lived in Hailey, with thick accents and country ways. In school, Claire had been an exceptional student, but her size made her unpopular with boys. She started gaining weight very early, fuelled by her mother’s extraordinary talent for baking the most amazing cakes. By the time she finished high school she’d become positively tubby.

Her excellent grades gave her a wide choice of universities. She picked Idaho State University in Boise simply because she liked being close to home. Hailey was home, but the big city became her playpen, the place where she first experienced drugs and decided they weren’t for her. The place where she lost her virginity to someone she only saw twice. And the place where she decided she didn’t want to be overweight anymore. With irrefutable determination, she changed her eating habits and jogged herself down to a hundred and eighteen pounds. Her transformation was astounding, and she went from ‘unpopular’ to the girl everyone wanted to sleep with.

Upon graduating top of her class, Claire was offered a job with the Idaho Statesman, the highest-circulation newspaper in Boise. Through the paper she met Noah Jones, a freelance reporter from Los Angeles, who told her he could put in a good word for her with some of his friends at the LA Times. She had to sleep with him for that, but Claire considered it a small price to pay to join one of the biggest newspapers in the USA.

Claire sat perched on the edge of Matt Pasquier’s desk. Pasquier was a legend when it came to crime reporting in Los Angeles. He was old school, condescending, a heavy drinker and thought nothing of journalism degrees, but he was very smart and he liked Claire Anderson. She had something he hadn’t seen in years – raw ambition to be a good reporter. She wasn’t doing it for the money.

‘OK, what’s the problem?’ Pasquier let go of his cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair.

‘I’m doing something wrong,’ she said in a half-defeated voice. ‘I can’t get an angle on this story and now the TVs are getting involved.’

‘I take it you met Robert Hunter. I mean, properly met him.’

Claire nodded. ‘He blew me off.’

Pasquier let out an animated but strange laugh. ‘You tried to seduce him? Oh Claire. Robert certainly saw you coming a mile away. He doesn’t fall for those tricks.’

‘I could’ve used that information a few days ago,’ she replied, looking around the newsroom. Everyone looked busy staring at computer screens or talking on telephones.

‘I’ll tell you what, let’s go talk someplace else,’ Pasquier said, rolling his chair away from his desk and standing up. He scowled sadly at the large room. ‘This place depresses me. It’s full of university geeks who know shit about journalism.’

‘Hey.’ Claire tried to look offended. ‘I’m a university geek.’

‘Yeah, but you’re hot.’ He winked at her.

The cafeteria was in the mezzanine floor of the building. The food was by any standard crap, typical slop under heat lamps. A wall of vending machines offered just about anything, from apples to slightly bruised bananas, pie slices, yogurts, salads, candy bars and, obviously, triangular sandwiches.

‘Can I buy you anything?’ Pasquier offered, nodding at the machines.

‘I’ll have a coffee.’

Pasquier bought a pastrami and cheese sandwich from one of the machines and ordered two coffees at the counter. The food was so bad the place was almost deserted, and they easily found a vacant beige Formica table. He took a large bite of his sandwich and used a paper napkin to wipe some mayonnaise off his chin.

‘What do you have?’ he asked.

Claire had a sip of her coffee and met Pasquier’s gaze. ‘No one’s talking, but I know that what we’re dealing with is a serial killer, maybe a ritualistic one. Savage in a way we’ve never seen before. This guy is different.’

‘If no one’s talking, how can you know that?’ He dropped four sugars in his coffee.

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head and looked away. ‘Intuition, maybe. A gut feeling.’

‘I see.’ He had another bite of his sandwich and spoke with his mouth full. ‘You said you think this killer is different – different how?’

‘Just look at the facts, Matt. What sort of killer decapitates a priest inside his own church and shoves a mutt’s head down the corpse’s body? What sort of killer takes almost two days cooking his victim alive in front of a fireplace?’ Claire tucked her hair behind her ears using both hands. Pasquier liked when she did that. He thought it very charming. ‘They are keeping the bodies under strict lock and key. I can’t get a picture, but I heard the killer melted Amanda Reilly’s face.’

Pasquier queried with his eyes.

‘Amanda Reilly was the second victim.’ Her forehead creased. ‘Do you read our paper?’

‘Not lately. No good reporters to read.’

‘Oh, very funny.’

‘You see, the difference between you and most of the other deadbeat reporters on this paper is that you still have that intuition you just talked about. That gut feeling.’ He smiled and Claire pointed out that he had a piece of lettuce stuck to one of his teeth. He used his little finger to scrape it off. ‘And that’s probably because you’re a nice country girl. You didn’t grow up in a metropolis where money talks and bullshit runs the marathon.’ He did his best to forge a country accent. ‘Us folks here in the big cities have forgotten all about intuition, guts and what it is to do somet’ing just ’cos we loves doing it.’

‘Aw damn, mister, intuition and them guts on its own don’t help me none.’ In contrast, Claire’s country accent was perfect.

Pasquier laughed and swallowed the rest of his food down. ‘You won’t get a peep out of Robert Hunter. He’s a city folk with a country man’s heart. The only cop I know who actually likes his job. And he certainly doesn’t like reporters.’

Claire played with her hair again. ‘Well, I’m open to suggestions. There’s no way I’m giving up on this.’

A wicked smile spread across Pasquier’s face. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. OK, here’s what you’ve got to do . . .’

Fifty-Six

Downtown LA’s financial district is just south of Bunker Hill and north of South Park – this is where LA’s instantly recognizable skyline resides. The area concentrates around Fifth, Sixth, South Flower and Figueroa Streets and remains the southland’s most influential financial and business center. Tyler Financial Services had their office on the seventeenth floor of number 542 South Flower Street.

Dan Tyler sat in the elegant leather chair behind his mahogany desk. He was a kind-looking man in his forties. His brown hair, graying at the temples, was neatly combed back, and the strong lines that shaped his strangely attractive face indicated strength, experience, self-confidence and a degree of suffering. He wore an elegant dark suit and a pale blue shirt complemented by a gray striped tie. His dark brown eyes sat behind thin- rimmed glasses. His office bore the trappings of his profession – expensive-looking furniture, an impressive bar at the corner, several framed photographs on the walls and three interlinked computer monitors on his desk that were constantly displaying the stock market flow. His secretary announced the arrival of the two detectives, and he stood up to greet them by the door.

Dan Tyler showed them inside, indicating the two armchairs in front of his desk and offering both detectives a