room. The faces that stared back at him each had their own different history – told their own different story. A wave of excitement rushed through his body at the thought of what he’d already accomplished and what was still to come.
‘
His eyes rested on the sketches and plans on the oversized metal table and he laughed. He’d decided to leave the best for last. He knew exactly what scared them to death – one was petrified of spiders and the other of rats. That knowledge filled him with a mind-boggling feeling of power. What he had in store for them was a masterpiece – a whole new dimension of panic and pain. He couldn’t wait to be face to face with them. To see the fear in their eyes. To taste their blood. To make them suffer. But he knew the importance of being patient.
He opened the miniature fridge at the corner of the room, and carefully ran his fingers over the small glass vial of blood he’d extracted from his last victim.
So far everything had gone to plan, but something unexpected had come into play. He glared at the photograph on the front page of the
Hundred and Nine
‘Motherfucker! He lied to us,’ Garcia whispered, staring at the picture Hopkins had showed them.
‘I asked you to run a check on him. Did you find anything out?’ Hunter asked Hopkins.
The officer nodded, searching his folder. ‘Unlike Brett, James Reed was an exemplary everything – student, citizen, you name it. He maintained a 4.0 average all throughout high school and graduated with honors in ’87. He didn’t lose any time either, starting university the same year – UCLA. Two majors, mathematics and physics, and again his grades were outstanding. He got involved with computer software design right after university and for several years worked for a games company right here in LA named Konami. They’re one of the big boys. He made a lot of money using his math and physics knowledge to develop ‘shoot ’em up’ game engines. His mother, who used to be Father Fabian’s algebra 2 teacher in Compton High, fell ill about three years ago, and that’s when he quit the company.’ He looked at Hunter. ‘You asked me to also check where he lived when young. Guess what?’ He smiled. ‘When he was in high school, they used to live just a few houses from our young priest.’
‘And that’s why Elder has highlighted him. If they lived on the same street as Brett, Strutter’s gang must’ve picked on him no end.’
‘Funny how he failed to mention that when we talked to him yesterday,’ Garcia commented with irritation. ‘I think we should pay him a less cordial visit this time.’
‘You were right on the money again when you suggested I check everything about him, including who his neighbors were and if they had kids the same age,’ Hopkins said, nodding at Hunter. ‘I would’ve never thought of that.’
‘What did you get?’
‘One of their neighbors had two kids, a boy and a girl, both around James Reed’s age. Neither of them went to Compton or Gardena High. They went to Centennial High on North Central Avenue. The boy’s called Keyon Powell. He’s now a doctor and lives in Colorado, but his sister, Kelly Powell, now Kelly Sanchez, is an attorney at law and lives in Santa Monica with her husband and two children.’ Hopkins handed Hunter his sheet.
He studied it for a moment before checking his watch.
‘Maybe we should talk to her first – like now.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Garcia said, reaching for his jacket.
Hundred and Ten
Hardgrave and Mortimer Law Firm occupied the third, fourth and fifth floor of the large, all tinted-window modern office building on the corner of Sixth and Broadway in Santa Monica. Hunter had called from the car just to make sure Kelly Sanchez was in her office and not in court this afternoon.
At the reception, a young and immensely attractive red-haired woman told them that without an appointment it was very doubtful Mrs. Sanchez would be able to see them today, but the magic of Hunter’s detective badge created a last-minute opening in her schedule.
They still had to wait a few minutes before the receptionist was given the all clear to guide them inside. They tailed her down a corridor where photographs and framed newspaper articles hung on the walls, passing a display case filled with golf trophies and into a second corridor. Kelly Sanchez’s office was the second to last on the right. The red-haired receptionist knocked gently and waited precisely three seconds before opening the door and showing them into a spacious and luxurious office. Delicate furniture, oil paintings on the walls, a broad window behind an imposing Victorian mahogany desk and an entire wall covered in books. An office certainly decorated to impress clients.
Kelly Sanchez came to meet them at the door. A statuesque black woman in her late thirties with lush, straight shoulder-length hair and razor-sharp hazel eyes. They shook hands and Kelly scrutinized their credentials before offering them a seat.
‘How can I assist you, gentlemen?’ she asked, taking her place behind her desk.
Without giving too much away, Hunter explained the purpose of their unannounced visit.
‘James Reed? Wow, that’s a blast from the past.’
‘You were neighbors, is that correct?’
Kelly nodded skeptically. ‘Many years ago.’
‘Do you remember a boy they used to call Strutter and the group of kids he used to hang out with?’
Kelly’s sweet demeanor hardened, and she leaned back on her chair, clinically studying both detectives. ‘Yes, I remember them.’
‘Did you or your brother know any of them? Did you know their names?’
She shook her head. ‘The only name that was ever mentioned was Strutter’s, and that’s a nickname. I knew who they were if I saw them on the street. Every time I did I went the other way.’
‘In Strutter’s gang there was a girl they called Lipz and a skinny boy they called JayJay. Did you know them at all?’ Garcia pressed.
She frowned. ‘I just told you I didn’t know any of them.’ Her stare moved from Garcia to Hunter. ‘What’s this really about, detective? James was never part of that gang.’
‘Yes, we know. Were you and your brother friends with James Reed? Did you know him well?’
‘We were friends, but I wouldn’t say we knew him well.’
‘Do you remember if he got along with Strutter and his gang?’
Kelly chuckled. ‘Nobody got along with Strutter’s gang. In fact, everyone did their best to avoid them.’
‘Including James?’
‘Especially James, but it was harder for him.’
‘How’s that?’ His leather seat squeaked as Hunter leaned forward.
Kelly gave them a subtle shrug. ‘James went to Compton High. His mother was a teacher there, and I think some of Strutter’s gang members were students of hers. James paid the bill every time they got bad grades or detentions in her class.’
‘Or suspensions,’ Garcia noted quietly.
‘Strutter’s gang sought him out. He got more heat than most.’
‘How about you and your brother?’
‘We went to a different school, Centennial High. None of Strutter’s gang were students there. It was easier for us to avoid them.’ Kelly rested her elbow on the arm of her luxurious leather chair and her chin on her closed
