The Death Sculptor

‘OK, how about this guy?’

Alice paused the recording. ‘Right then I showed her a picture of Nathan Littlewood,’ she clarified before letting it play on.

‘Yeah, I see him too . . . from time to time. Not as often as I see Paul, though. This one calls himself Woods.’ A more animated chuckle this time. ‘I wouldn’t quite put it that way, if you know what I mean, but that’s the name he likes, that’s the name I call him.’

‘Was he also . . . “rough”?’

Nicole gave a dirty, full-throated laugh that sounded too old for her. ‘All my clients are rough in their own way, lady. That’s why they come to me and not some two-buck-an-hour ho from West Hollywood. They get what they pay for here.’

In the office, Alice subtly shook her head, obviously failing to understand how any woman could subject herself to verbal and physical abuse and other humiliations for money.

‘And when did you see him last?’

Some more pages flipping. ‘Right at the beginning of the month, June 2nd.’

‘Let me show you one more picture.’ Looking at Hunter and Garcia, Alice mouthed the words ‘Derek Nicholson’.

‘Umm, no. I’ve never seen him before.’

‘Are you sure?’

Several silent seconds. ‘Yep, positive.’

‘So he wasn’t a client?’

‘That’s what I just said, lady.’

‘OK, just one more thing. Do you know if Paul and Woods knew each other? Have they ever done a session together with you, or something like that?’

‘No, I don’t do group sessions. Way too intense. And my clients are too greedy. When they book me, they want me all for themselves.’ Another throaty laugh. ‘But yes, they knew each other. That’s how Woods became a client. When Paul first started seeing me years ago, he said that he had a friend who would probably love to see me too. I told him to pass his friend my number. A week later Woods called me.’

Ninety-Four

When Alice turned the recording device off, Hunter brought her up to speed on what he’d found in Nathan Littlewood’s apartment the day before. She couldn’t hide her disappointment that her big discovery turned out to be not so big after all, but Hunter knew it was significant. What he’d found out from the picture he’d got from Littlewood’s apartment was that Andrew Nashorn and Nathan Littlewood knew each other about thirty years ago. What Alice had found out was that they had kept in touch ever since, which was a whole new discovery. Hunter knew it was easy to lose touch with old friends – people from school, college, neighborhood, or former workplace. Finding out that Nashorn and Littlewood spent an afternoon drinking beer in a park thirty years ago didn’t mean they were friends. Alice’s discovery had proved they had been and still were.

‘I went through all the phone records,’ Alice said. ‘There’s no direct contact between Nashorn and Littlewood. At least not through that phone. But as you know, many people have more than one cellphone, and sometimes their second phone is the untraceable kind.’

‘How about Derek Nicholson?’

‘I spent half of the night going over all the phone records we have for him,’ Alice said. ‘Going back six months prior to him being diagnosed with cancer. Neither Nashorn nor Littlewood’s cellphone numbers showed up. His number doesn’t show up on their bills either.’

Towards the end of the afternoon, Garcia received a preliminary report from his digging team. So far they’d managed to check school and college records for the victims, together with early addresses. They’d found nothing to suggest that any of the three knew each other from either their neighborhoods or their learning institutions. Garcia told them to keep on digging – gym memberships, social clubs, anything that would’ve left behind a paper trail; but he understood that even if that paper trail existed at one time, today it would be almost impossible to find it.

The sun had already set, and so had another day coated with frustration.

Sitting at his desk, Hunter let out a weary sigh, placed his elbows on the desktop, and rested his forehead on the palms of his hands. He’d been going over all his notes and the crime-scene photographs for the zillionth time, and right now the puzzle seemed harder than ever. His head was throbbing with a pain that he knew wouldn’t go away easily. Questions kept colliding with each other inside his mind, but the answers simply weren’t there.

What were they looking at? A coyote and a raven to signify a liar? A devil figure looking down at possible victims – four in total? Someone looking and pointing at someone else inside a box? Was that a coffin? Were those images supposed to represent a funeral? Was that why the next image they got looked like someone down on his knees, praying? Or was that a kid? And how in the world did they relate to each other?

‘Drink?’ Garcia said from his desk.

‘Umm?’ Hunter lifted his head and blinked a few times.

‘Let’s go for a drink.’ Garcia checked his watch, already getting up. ‘This office is claustrophobic, it’s hot as hell, and I swear I saw smoke coming out of your ears about two minutes ago. We both need a break. Let’s go get a drink, maybe some food, and definitely some rest. We can start again fresh tomorrow.’

Hunter had no argument against that. If he’d had fuses in his brain, some of them would’ve burned out a long time ago. He shrugged and started powering down his computer.

‘Yep, a drink sounds like a great idea.’

Ninety-Five

With probably the tackiest decor in downtown Los Angeles, Bar 107 sat just a block away from the PAB. Sporting walls redder than Communist Russia, vinyl booths, and a shabby-chic garage-sale theme, the place was a four-room retro drinking spot favored by many for its huge range of cocktails and Scotch whiskies.

Bar 107 was busy, but not excessively so. Hunter and Garcia sat at the far end of the long, varnished bar, and each ordered a shot of 10-year-old Aberlour.

‘Great choice,’ the female bartender said with an inviting smile. Her blonde hair was done up in a messy bun, but there was something very attractive about the way its edges fell down, caressing her naked neck.

Hunter had a sip of his Scotch and let the dark liquid swoosh around in his mouth, fully enjoying the hint of sherry that had been infused into the Aberlour’s taste, enhancing it, but without letting the wine palate take over.

In silence, Garcia watched a well-dressed couple come up to the bar and drink down two shots of tequila each in quick succession. The smile on their lips told him that they were celebrating something. The look on the man’s face told him that he really lusted after the woman, but she probably had never given in. Maybe tonight would be his lucky night.

‘How’s Anna?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia dragged his eyes away from the couple. ‘Yeah, she’s great. She started another crazy new diet. You know – no this, no that, no carbs after seven in the evening.’ He pulled a face.