I Am Death (31 page)

But somebody heard her, because seconds later the door at the top of the stairs opened and a male figure was framed in the light behind it. He stood there, in silence, for a moment. His strong
arms hung loosely by his sides.

‘Wh . . . who are you?’ she breathed out, but her voice sounded so weak she was unsure he had heard her. She tried again. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

No reply. No movement.

That only served to fill Alison with even more terror.

‘Please . . . please.’

The figure finally reached for a light switch on the outside of the door and a fluorescent bulb, encased in a metal box on the ceiling, blinked into life, flooding the basement with light.

Alison immediately looked away, squeezing her eyes tight to protect them from the sudden brightness. Seconds later, she tried to focus on the figure by the door. His shoes clicked against the
stairs as he made his way down to the basement floor. Alison’s gaze followed him.

‘Please. What do you want from me? Who are you? Why am I here?’

The man walked over to the workshop table in the shadows and paused, facing her. They locked eyes for a long moment.

‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’ he finally said. His voice was deep, cold and guttural – and overflowing with confidence. His posture was firm and strong, like a
warrior’s ready for battle.

Alison concentrated. No, she didn’t recognize him, but she also couldn’t shake the feeling that something about him was very familiar to her, especially his eyes.

She didn’t have to answer him. He knew she didn’t recognize him. His disguises were always flawless.

He turned toward the workshop table and reached for something Alison couldn’t see.

‘Let me ask you something, Alison.’

The man began unbuttoning his shirt.

Alison felt her body begin to convulse with fear.

‘Oh no, no, no.’

He allowed the pause to linger on, stretching the suspense.

‘How much do you know about pain?’

He turned to face her.

Her eyes locked on to the object he was holding in his hand and her voice completely failed her.

‘Because I know . . . everything.’

‘OK, this is it,’ Garcia said as he parked his car right in front of an old three-storey construction located halfway down a relatively busy road. The building
looked tired and in serious need of some attention. Most of the windows looked like they’d never been cleaned, at least not on the outside, and what should’ve been a front lawn looked
more like the remains of an old battlefield.

It didn’t get any better on the inside.

The wooden door at the entry lobby creaked loudly as Hunter pushed it open, revealing a small and poorly lit room that smelled of a thousand ashtrays. Water infiltration stains marked the
ceiling like freckles on a face. Some of that water had lazily traveled down one of the walls, pushing itself behind the wallpaper and creating blisters that looked ready to pop at any minute.
Cigarette burn marks formed an interesting pattern on the old and dirty rug that centered the room.

‘Nice. Classy,’ Garcia said as he and Hunter stepped inside.

It seemed like the creepy sound generated by the hinges on the old front door was used as a shop bell, because as soon as the noise came to a stop, an overweight Hispanic-looking man promptly
appeared behind the counter on the south wall. He smelled of spiced refried beans and Taco sauce, and his greasy hair was stuck to his sweaty forehead as if he’d just finished the toughest
exercise session ever known to man.

‘What can I do for you gentle—’ He paused midsentence, before his shoulders slumped down as if all of a sudden he’d become fed up with life. ‘Aww,
cbinga tu
madre!
Cops.’

Hunter had had a suspicion that this wouldn’t be a regular apartment building. From the outside it looked like one of those places that rented their apartments by the hour, day, week,
month, or whatever arrangement better suited the customer – no questions asked, just as long as they could make the payments.

‘Are we that obvious?’ Garcia asked Hunter, looking at him from head to toe.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘What? Are you joking,
ese
?’ the man said from behind the counter. His Mexican accent wasn’t nearly as heavy as he was. ‘Your badges are practically tattooed on
your foreheads. Yes, you are that obvious. Why do you guys like to bust my balls so much, huh? I’m just trying to earn an honest living here.’

‘Yeah, that
is
a wonder,’ Garcia said, emphasizing the way he was looking around the entry lobby and bringing his right hand to his face to cover his nose. ‘Everything
around here looks to be right on the money, and that includes the attitude.’

The man began to murmur something inaudible but Hunter cut him short.

‘We’re not here to bust your balls,’ he said, approaching the counter and displaying his credentials.

‘Or to criticize your fine establishment,’ Garcia said, coming up behind Hunter. ‘And yes, we are cops.’

‘I take it that you are the building’s superintendent, Mr.?’ Hunter said, returning his ID to his pocket.

‘Moreno,’ the man replied with a sullen face. ‘Arturo Moreno and, yes, I am the building’s superintendent.’

The sweat stains on his shirt, directly under his armpits, looked like they were growing larger.

‘OK,’ Hunter said, being careful to place Mathew Hade’s portrait photograph, not his mugshot, on the counter. ‘We have information that this man lives here. Apartment
two-eleven?’

Moreno eyeballed the picture for a little while.

‘Um-hum.’ He nodded, looking bored. ‘But I’d say that “lives” is a very strong word to describe his relationship with apartment two-eleven.’

Hunter’s eyebrows lifted inquisitively. ‘All right, so how would you describe it?’

‘He comes and goes,’ Moreno replied. ‘Like most people here. Sometimes he’ll stay for a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. And sometimes he’ll disappear for the
same amount of time. Even longer. He’s got no schedule. No one here does.’

‘Is he in now?’ Garcia asked, his eyes moving to the staircase to the left of the counter. The severely worn-out red and black carpet that lined the stairs was ripped at the edge of
every step, some of it so badly Garcia was certain it would constitute a health hazard.

Moreno shook his head. ‘No, he isn’t. I haven’t seen him for . . .’ He paused and looked up at the cobwebs on the ceiling, as if the answer was up there with all the
dust. ‘Five, six days, maybe? Maybe less, I’m not sure. Last time I saw him he was only here for a couple of days. If I remember right, he had a friend with him then.’

‘A friend?’

‘Well,’ Moreno shrugged carelessly. ‘They came in together, chatting like they were friends, so I guess that that’s what they were.’

‘Was this friend male or female?’ Hunter queried.

‘Hombre,
’ Moreno answered. ‘Male.’

‘Have you ever seen this friend before?’

Moreno thought about it for just a couple of seconds. ‘No. I can’t say I have.’ He began scratching the back of his neck as if his life depended on it.

Garcia frowned at him before taking a step back. He wouldn’t be surprised if the place had a flea or bedbug problem.

‘But in this place,
ese,’
Moreno continued. ‘A lot of new people come and go with the guests.’ He stopped with the scratching and checked his nails, before rubbing
them against the front of his shirt. ‘You know how it goes, right? What the guests do in their apartments is their own business,
comprendes?
I just take care of the place.’

And you’re doing a fine job,
Garcia thought, but kept his mouth shut.

‘Have you ever seen him bring any women back here?’ Hunter asked.

Moreno coughed a laugh. ‘Are you for real,
ese?
Yeah, I’ve seen him bring women here and, before you ask, as far as I am concerned they were all of legal age.’

‘Have you seen either of these two women around here?’ Hunter asked, now showing the building super a photo of Nicole Wilson and one of Sharon Barnard.

While studying the photographs, Moreno kept his mouth closed and ran his tongue against his upper front teeth. His top lip bulged with the movement.

‘Umm . . . nope, they don’t look familiar to me.’

‘Are you sure?’ Garcia insisted.

Moreno kept his gaze on the pictures for a while longer. ‘Yep. Positive,
ese’

‘Who else works here? Like, who takes your place on your day off, or on your once-a-week shower day.’

Garcia’s joke was completely missed by Moreno.

‘My cousin,
ese,
but he’s not around till the end of the week. You can come back then and speak to him, if you like?’

‘Maybe we will,’ Garcia said.

‘You do have the keys to apartment two-eleven, right?’ Hunter asked.

Moreno looked at him, then at Garcia, then back at Hunter. ‘Yes, of course I do, but don’t you need some sort of warrant to go up in there? This place might be a dump, but it’s
not a free-for-all,
ese.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Garcia replied. ‘We can go get a warrant if you like, and maybe we’ll come back here with more than just a warrant for apartment two-eleven,
ese.
We’ll have a warrant for this whole building, including your office back there.’ He pointed at the closed door just behind Moreno. ‘And while we’re at it, we’ll bring
a few health inspectors and immigration officers with us too. Sound good?’

‘Aw,
pincbe culero
.’ Moreno rubbed his greasy forehead while looking down at the floor.

‘Usted sabe que hablamos español también, ¿no?’
Garcia said, reminding Moreno that he and Hunter both understood Spanish.

Moreno didn’t look back at him. Instead, he simply opened one of the drawers behind the counter and picked up a set of keys.

‘OK,
ese
, but the only way you’re going up there is if I go with you.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,
ese
,’ Garcia said, taking a step back and pointing toward the staircase. ‘After you,
compadre
.’

By the time they cleared the four flights of stairs that took them up to the second floor, the building superintendent looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. His
forehead was dripping with sweat and his breathing was so labored he sounded like an asthmatic Darth Vader.

‘Are you OK?’ Hunter asked as Moreno finally reached the second-floor landing. It had taken him almost two minutes to get through fifty steps.

‘Hijo de perra.’
Those words came out as a gasp. ‘Yeah . . . I’m fine,
ese
. . .’ he finally replied, in between deep breaths, while holding on to the
wall. ‘I just need a moment.’

‘Yeah, you look fine,’ Garcia observed. ‘You sound fine too.’

Once again, Moreno simply ignored the sarcastic comment.

Down the short corridor in front of them, a door opened just enough for someone to peek outside, quickly shutting again a second later.

‘OK,’ Moreno said, standing up straight and wiping his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Let’s just get on with this. The two of you walking these corridors is bad for
business,
comprendes?
You guys even smell like cops.’

Garcia frowned at Hunter before quickly bringing his left forearm to his nose, smelling it, then doing the same to his right one.

‘You mean, we’re making the place smell nice?’ he said.

Moreno looked back at him, a reply almost materializing on his lips, but then he thought better of it.

Apartment two-eleven was the first door on the left as they entered the hallway. Moreno was about to slide his master key into the lock when Hunter grabbed his arm, gesturing for him not to. He
pulled the building super to one side, moving him away from a direct line with the front door.

‘We knock first,’ Hunter whispered.

‘Why,
ese?
I told you, he’s not here.’

‘That may well be, but we still knock first.’

Hunter pulled Moreno away so that the two of them were standing against the wall to the left of the door. Garcia did the same, but on the right side.

Hunter knocked three times.

No answer.

Another three knocks.

Still no answer.

‘See? I told you,
ese.’

‘OK.’ Hunter nodded. ‘You can use your key now.’

As Moreno unlocked the door and pushed it open, it creaked just as loudly as the one down at the entrance lobby.

From the outside, they could only see as far as the light that seeped in from the hallway allowed them to, which wasn’t far. Most of the room lay in shadow as all the curtains were drawn
shut.

‘Lights?’ Hunter asked, once again pulling Moreno back a few steps.

‘On the wall.’ Moreno indicated from outside. ‘To the right of the door.’

Garcia reached in and flipped the switch.

At the center of the ceiling, a bulb flickered twice before coming on, bathing the small room in crisp, bright light.

‘Mathew Hade?’ Hunter called from the door.

No reply.

‘Mathew Hade?’ Hunter called again. ‘This is the LAPD. We would like to ask you a few questions.’

There was no one there.

As both detectives finally stepped inside, they paused, their eyes searching the room. It smelled slightly of bleach and disinfectant, with a hint of orange, as if somebody had spring-cleaned it
not that long ago.

Intrigued, Garcia turned and checked the number on the door again – 211. They were indeed in the right apartment.

The room was completely bare, save for a simple wooden desk by the window on the north wall, a single chair and a two-drawer cabinet to the left of it. There was no sofa, no rug, no table and
chairs, no TV, nothing hanging from the walls, none of the items one would expect to see in a living room.

‘Like I said,
ese,’
Moreno said again. ‘He’s not here. I haven’t seen him for several days.’

‘It looks like he’s
never
been here,’ Garcia said, still looking around.