One by One (35 page)

‘Welcome to PaulsenSystems,’ she said. Her voice was velvety and warm. ‘How can I help you today, gentlemen?’

‘Hello,’ Hunter replied. As much as he would like to, his smile didn’t carry the same level of enthusiasm as hers. ‘We were wondering if we could have a few moments of Mr. Paulsen’s time.’

The receptionist glanced down at her computer, where she would no doubt have a list of Thomas Paulsen’s appointments for the day, but Hunter quickly got her attention back to him.

‘We do not have an appointment,’ he clarified, displaying his credentials. ‘Nevertheless, this matter carries a certain urgency, and we would really appreciate if Mr. Paulsen could give us a few minutes this morning.’

The receptionist smiled again and nodded once, reaching for the phone behind the counter. She spoke quickly and discreetly. Hunter could tell that she wasn’t speaking directly with Thomas Paulsen but with a secretary or PA.

Seconds later, sitting behind his handcrafted oak desk, Thomas Paulsen answered the ringing phone and listened for a few seconds. A dry grin came to his lips, and he sat back, gently rocking in his high-backed leather chair for a moment.

‘Do I have anything scheduled for now?’ he asked.

‘You are actually free for the next hour, Mr. Paulsen,’ his PA confirmed. ‘Your next appointment is at 12:45.’

‘OK,’ Paulsen said, considering his thoughts. ‘You can tell the detectives that I’ll be able to spare a few minutes, but make them wait. I’ll see them when I’m good and ready. Oh, and Joanne . . .’

‘Yes, Mr. Paulsen?’

‘Let’s make them wait downstairs in the lobby, not in my anteroom. They might smell the place up.’

‘Of course, Mr. Paulsen.’

He put the phone down, stood up and walked over to the large panoramic window that faced the Santa Monica Mountains. He felt like laughing out loud, but instead he allowed himself only a proud smile.

About time they came talk to me.

Eighty-Six

And wait they did . . .

Even the petite receptionist had started to look embarrassed after the first ten minutes or so. She went over to where Hunter and Garcia were sitting several times and offered them water, coffee, cookies, juice . . . When they said no to all, she suggested that she could send someone out for some donuts if they preferred. That made both detectives laugh.

Twenty-nine long and frustrating minutes after they had arrived at PaulsenSystems, the receptionist was finally told to allow both detectives to go up. She apologized yet again, and told them to take the elevator to the top floor. Someone would meet them there.

The elevator doors rolled back on a new, very elegantly furnished lobby. Three sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Persian rugs, surrounded by several modern American sculpture pieces. The walls were adorned with an impressive collection of original paintings.

Waiting for them just outside the elevator doors, and standing beneath a halogen spotlight, was Joanne, Thomas Paulsen’s PA. Her long red hair sparkled under the light. As Hunter and Garcia stepped out of the elevator, Joanne smiled.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said in the most professional of tones. ‘I’m Joanne Saunders, Mr. Paulsen’s personal assistant.’ She offered them her manicured hand. Both detectives shook it, introducing themselves. ‘If you’d like to follow me, please, Mr. Paulsen is waiting for you in his office.’

They crossed the anteroom and followed the PA down a softly lit hallway that terminated in a highly polished wood set of double doors. She knocked twice, paused for a second and pushed the doors open, which led them into a sprawling and luxuriously decorated corner office.

‘Mr. Paulsen,’ Joanne announced. ‘This is Detective Robert Hunter and Detective Carlos Garcia from the Los Angeles Police Department.’

Standing with his back toward them, facing the window, Thomas Paulsen nodded at the view but didn’t bother turning around. ‘Thank you, Joanne.’

The PA swiftly stepped out of the room, soundlessly closing the doors behind her.

Hunter and Garcia stood by the entrance, quickly assessing the office: more black leather and sumptuous rugs. Two recessed bookcases containing books on computer programming languages, Internet security and finance shared the north wall with even more expensive-looking works of art. Hunter knew that the south wall was what was known as the Ego Wall – a potpourri of framed photos showing Thomas Paulsen grinning and shaking hands with well-known and not-so-well-known celebrities, certificates attesting that he was highly skilled and qualified, and a few shiny plaques producing clear proof that he had been justly recognized over the years.

‘This is indeed a beautiful city, isn’t it, gentlemen?’ Paulsen said, still facing the window. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a physique that even under his elegant pin-striped suit was easy to tell was lean and strong. His voice was dry and authoritative, clearly belonging to someone who was used to giving orders and getting things done his way.

Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.

Paulsen finally spun around and faced them. He had a thin and remarkably youthful face for a man who was in his early fifties. His short peppered hair was combed slickly back from his forehead, giving him a boyish charm. His light blue eyes seemed full of knowledge, like a university professor’s, glowing with an intensity that was unsettling. There was no denying he was an attractive man, despite the crooked nose that had certainly been broken once or twice. He had a squared jaw, strong cheekbones and full lips. A small scar graced the tip of his chin. Everything about him suggested tremendous self-confidence, but his presence was almost menacing. He didn’t so much as smile, but smirked at them.

‘Would you please have a seat?’ he asked, indicating the two armchairs in front of his desk.

Hunter took the one on the left, Garcia the one on the right. There were no handshakes. Paulsen remained as he was, standing by the window.

‘We’re very sorry for barging in unannounced like this, Mr. Paulsen. We do understand that you are a busy man . . .’ Garcia said in his best, polite voice, but Paulsen interrupted him with a brisk hand gesture.

‘You didn’t barge in, Detective Garcia. If you had, especially without some sort of warrant, I’d have my lawyer here, you removed from the premises and a complaint made to your captain and the Chief of Police so fast you’d probably experience time travel.’ None of it was delivered with anger, or even sarcasm. ‘You’re here because I’ve allowed you to be here. But as you’ve said, I am a very busy man, and I have an important meeting in a few minutes, so I suggest you use this time wisely.’

Garcia paused, surprised by the retort.

Paulsen sensed his hesitation and took the opportunity.

‘Actually, there’s no need for pleasantries, or even beating around the bush, so we can speed things up. I know why you’re here, so let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

Hunter could clearly see that Paulsen’s tactics were to take control of their meeting. He had kept them waiting – not because he was busy, but because waiting time irritates and frustrates even the most calm of individuals. He had assumed the textbook interviewer’s position of power – standing, while everyone else sat. There had been no physical contact, and Paulsen was keeping a reasonable distance between him and both detectives, making the meeting impersonal, as if he was interviewing someone for an entry-level job. Paulsen was also careful to keep his voice as calm as Garcia’s, but just a notch louder and firmer, stamping authority. Thomas Paulsen was a very experienced man, and the kind who wouldn’t be easily intimidated. Hunter was keen to allow Paulsen to play his game . . . for the time being.

‘You already know why we’re here?’ Hunter asked, his voice calm, its decibel level deliberately not matching his host’s.

‘Detective Hunter, please. Look around you.’ Paulsen lifted both of his hands, palms facing up. ‘I didn’t achieve all this by sheer luck, as I’m sure your file on me would’ve told you already. Sure, I could play dumb with you gentlemen and pretend that I don’t know what this is all about.’ Paulsen looked bored as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt under his suit jacket. ‘Then act offended and insulted when the real reason finally transpires, but hey . . .’ The smirk came back to his lips. ‘I don’t have that much time to throw away. And I’m sure you could use yours to run around in circles some more.’

Garcia’s eyebrows arched, and his eyes stole a peek at Hunter, who had sat back and comfortably crossed his legs.

‘Why do you think we’re running around in circles?’ Hunter asked.

Paulsen threw his head back and laughed a full-bodied laugh. ‘Detective, please . . . This isn’t a psychoanalysis session. Your “double-meaning” questions will get you nowhere, and—’ he checked his watch ‘—tick-tock, tick-tock, time’s a wasting . . . for you at least.’

Paulsen spoke and carried himself like a man with zero worries in life. He placed both hands inside his trouser pockets and walked around to the front of his desk. Before Hunter or Garcia could formulate the next question, he spoke again.

‘But OK, let me indulge you, just this once. The reason why you’re here is because of your investigation into this . . . shall I say . . . “Internet show murderer”? And because Christina Stevenson was one of the victims.’ He allowed his eyes to move from Hunter’s face, to Garcia’s, and then back to Hunter’s before nodding confidently. ‘Yes, I watched the broadcast too. Superb, wasn’t it?’ He tagged the question with a chuckle.

No reply.

Paulsen moved on.

‘And you’re running around in circles because you’re here, in my office. And the only reason why you’re here is because you’ve got nothing . . . not a thing. I’m the only “person of interest” you’ve got on your list, isn’t that what you cops call someone like me?’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘And the only reason I am a “person-of-interest” is because an article written by Miss Stevenson months ago has set off the most negligible of bleeps on your radar. If you had anyone else of more substance on your list, any other “person of interest”, you would be talking to him, her or them, not me.
This
is a panic visit. You know it, and I know it.’

‘And what makes you think that we haven’t talked to others already?’ Garcia asked.

Another laugh from Paulsen. ‘The desperate look on your faces is a pretty good giveaway.’ He paused. Checked his watch again. ‘The evasive words in your press conference last night.’ An unconcerned shrug. ‘You look and sound defeated . . . out of options. Everyone can see it. And you’re here now to try to assess me.’ He adjusted his tie. ‘So let me help you with that. Am I glad that Christina Stevenson is dead? Delighted. Do I feel bad because she was tortured before being murdered? Not even a little bit. Do I have the knowledge, the IQ, the means and the nerve to do something like that, and then vanish into cyberspace before you even knew what hit you? You bet your bottom dollar I do. Did I know yesterday’s victim? Maybe, maybe not. What difference would it make? Could I be behind these murders? Possibly. Did I ever threaten Christina Stevenson after her article came out? Perhaps. Did I want to make her life hell, like she did mine? Absolutely. Did I succeed? Who cares? She’s dead. Thank you very much.’ He winked at them. ‘Would that be all?’

‘Not quite,’ Garcia said.

Paulsen’s egotism was setting Garcia’s teeth on edge, and he had to take a moment to contain his anger.

‘Could you tell us where you were yesterday in between five and six in the afternoon?’

‘Ah!’ Paulsen lifted a finger in the air. ‘The all-important placement question at the time of the murder. And this is where it gets good, Detective.’ He returned his hands to his pockets. ‘I wasn’t feeling too well, so I left the office early. At that specific time I was at home, alone, in front of my computer, logged into pickadeath.com, and watching the show, like so many others.’ A new grin. ‘And before you ask,
no
, I don’t have an alibi. Would you like to arrest me?’

‘What time did you leave the office?’ Garcia asked.

‘Early enough.’ Another quick glance at his watch. ‘Let me ask you this, if I may, Detective Hunter. If I am behind these Internet murders, and as I’ve said that’s a possibility, what makes you think that you’d be able to catch me?’

Before Hunter could reply, the phone on Paulsen’s desk rang.

‘Oh,’ he said in an apologetic tone. ‘That will probably be my PA reminding me of my meeting. Excuse me for a second.’ He answered the call, listening for a few moments. ‘Thank you, Joanne. I’ll be right out. We are pretty much done here.’

Paulsen put the phone back down and walked over to his office door.

Hunter and Garcia stood up.

Paulsen reached for the door handle, halted and looked back at both detectives. ‘I must admit, these Internet killing shows are terribly entertaining, don’t you think?’ He opened the door. ‘I wonder if we’re going to get another one soon.’

Eighty-Seven

‘What the hell just happened in there?’ Garcia asked as soon as he and Hunter stepped outside PaulsenSystems. His anger now clearly getting the best of him.

‘I’m not quite sure,’ Hunter replied, looking back at the building. ‘But he’d been expecting us. For some time, I’d say. That little show he put on was very well rehearsed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We barely asked a question, Carlos,’ Hunter answered. ‘Paulsen controlled the whole thing from the moment we entered the building, never mind his office. He kept us waiting for as long as he wanted to, and I’m sure it was just to check how desperate we really were, not because he was busy. In his office, he was very quick to stamp his authority, from body language to tone of voice. He asked and answered his own questions, and timed everything perfectly. I’m certain that he’d given his PA the exact time he wanted that “meeting reminder” call to be put through to his office. That’s why he kept checking his watch. He wanted to get through his script in time. He gave us only what he wanted to give us. And despite the somewhat shocking and suggestive nature of what he said, his words were measured.’

‘Measured?’