few more details?’
Another enigmatic smile.
‘You bitch.’
‘Fuck you, Robert. I tried talking to you, but you didn’t wanna know.’ Her voice got louder, and some of the neighboring tables sent a disapproving look their way.
‘You tried taking me back to your place. You call that talking?’
‘Fuck you. Don’t come telling me how I should do my job.’
‘Someone should, ’cos you’re obviously fucking it up.’
‘Only an arrogant bastard like you could call getting a story on the front page of the
‘It’s not a story, Claire; it’s a case, and people’s lives are at stake.’ Hunter paused for a deep breath. ‘You scared her away. I need to find her before something happens.’
Claire narrowed her eyes. ‘You want my help, don’t you?’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Wait a second. You did all this, played the macho detective, scared my date away, called me incompetent and now you ask me for my help?’ She leaned back on her chair and put on a snobbish face. ‘Oh, this is rich. No wonder you have no wife or girlfriend. You have no tact with women.’
Hunter kept silent, his eyes holding Claire’s.
‘If I tell you where to find her, what information will you send my way?’
Hunter’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you serious?’
She studied him for a second. ‘Dead serious.’
‘Have some decency, Claire. She’s just a girl, and she’s probably scared shitless. I’m just asking you to do the right thing.’
‘If you rub my back, I’ll rub yours.’ A whisper of seduction in her voice. ‘Nothing in this world is free. At least not the good things.’ She gave Hunter the same inviting wink she’d given him the first time they met.
‘Her life could be in danger.’
No reaction.
‘You don’t give a shit, do you?’
‘A lot of people die every day in this city, Robert. It’s a fact of life. We can’t save everyone.’
‘But we
‘And all I’m asking is for something in return.’
Hunter’s cell phone went off. He held Claire’s gaze for a tense moment.
‘Aren’t you gonna answer that?’ she asked, conscious that heads were starting to turn.
Hunter reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Detective Hunter.’
‘Detective, it’s Monica.’ A quick pause. ‘I mean, Mollie.’ She sounded like she was crying.
Hunter turned away from Claire. ‘Are you OK? Where are you?’ he asked, but the only reply he got was static noise. He quickly covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked back at the reporter. ‘You’re wrong, Claire—’ getting up, he placed five twenty-dollar bills on the table ‘—there’re a lot of good things in this world that are free.’
Eighty-Six
Hunter covered the twenty-five miles between Beverly Hills and South Gate in record time. Mollie had told him she’d be waiting in a coffee shop called Cafe Kashmir in Tweedy Boulevard. Hunter didn’t need the address; he knew the place.
After parking his Buick just outside, Hunter entered the cafe. At 10:35 p.m., it surprised him how busy it was. Even more surprising was that all of the customers seemed to be younger than twenty-five. Mollie was sitting at a round table by a terracotta-brick wall adorned with several oil paintings – a young artist’s exposition. A small rucksack sat by her feet.
‘Hello,’ he said, smiling as he joined her. She tried to mirror it but failed. The sleepless night and apprehension showed on her face. Telltale dark circles. Bloodshot eyes. Flushed cheeks. She closed the notebook she was scribbling on and put it away.
‘You write?’
Mollie looked embarrassed. ‘Ah, it’s nothing. Children’s stories.’
Hunter sat down. ‘When I was young I dreamed of becoming a writer someday.’
‘Really?’
‘I loved reading so much that it seemed only natural.’
Mollie looked at her rucksack where she’d just stuffed her notebook. ‘Me too.’
‘Were you thinking of going away?’
‘I made a mistake coming to Los Angeles.’ Her voice was firm, but it lacked conviction.
‘Do you think if you’d gone someplace else you would’ve avoided the visions?’ Hunter asked.
No answer. No eye contact.
Hunter let the moment pass. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, turning to look at the cake display on the counter. ‘I’d love some cheesecake or something. How about you?’
Mollie looked unsure.
‘C’mon. I feel really guilty eating cake by myself. Just to keep me company. What do you say? How about a slice of that chocolate one?’ He pointed to a chocolate gateau on the top shelf of the display.
She hesitated for an instant before nodding. ‘OK.’
‘Hot chocolate?’ He gestured towards the empty mug on the table.
‘Yes.’
A minute later Hunter returned with two slices of cake, a coffee and a hot chocolate. As Mollie stirred her drink, Hunter noticed that her fingernails had been chewed to the nail beds.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, fidgeting with her teaspoon.
‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.’
‘The woman I talked to. I didn’t know she was a reporter. She said she was working with you. I never told her I was a psychic. You’ve gotta believe me.’
‘I believe you, and it’s not your fault,’ he replied in a serene tone. ‘Unfortunately, this city is full of people who will do anything to try and get ahead. I’m the one who’s sorry for exposing you like that. I should’ve known better.’
Hunter retrieved a brand-new cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Mollie. He explained that his and Garcia’s number were already programmed into it and the phone had the latest GPS chip. It was the easiest way for them to keep in contact. She promised never to turn it off.
‘The photo in the paper,’ she said after a short silence. ‘I’m scared someone might recognize me.’
Hunter picked up on her fear. ‘And maybe tell your father?’
Unconsciously, she ran her right hand over her left arm.
‘Did he do that to you?’
She looked up with questioning eyes.
‘The broken arm?’ Hunter nodded at her arm.
‘How did you know?’
‘Just observation, really,’ he said with a subtle head shake.
She looked at her arm and at the minor irregular curvature just past her elbow. When she spoke, her voice carried a mixture of anger and sadness. ‘He beat me up almost every day.’
Hunter listened while Mollie told him about the beatings. The broken arm and fingers. And the never-ending hate her father had for her, simply because she was born a girl. She told him how much she missed her mother and how her father blamed her for her death. She still never told Hunter about the sexual abuse. She didn’t have to.
Hunter clenched his hands as he thought of the many psychological scars and how they’d affect Mollie for the
