The Night Stalker (12 page)

‘She could’ve, but check this out.’ Hunter pointed to a spot further behind the canvas, closer to the wall.

Garcia squinted again. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’

Hunter reached for his pen flashlight. ‘Look again.’ He handed it to Garcia.

Garcia directed the light beam to the spot Hunter had indicated. This time it didn’t take him long to see it.

‘I’ll be damned.’

Just a few inches from the wall, he identified the faint outline of foot imprints left in the dust. Clear indications that someone had been standing there.

‘Look at it one more time,’ Hunter said. ‘See anything that strikes you as odd?’

Garcia returned his attention to the imprints. ‘Nope, but you obviously have, Robert. What am I missing?’

‘The amount of variation on the imprints.’

Garcia looked for a third time. ‘There’s barely any.’

‘Exactly. Isn’t that strange?’

It finally clicked. When standing in a confined space for even a small amount of time, it was natural for anyone to fidget and shift his or her weight from foot to foot, to try to move into a more comfortable position every time the old one becomes uncomfortable. That shifting should, in theory, leave behind several different onionskin imprints. There were none. And that could only mean two things – either the killer didn’t wait long, or – and the thing that really bothered Hunter – the killer was preternaturally patient and disciplined.

Hunter’s cell phone rang in his pocket.

‘Detective Hunter.’

‘Detective, it’s Pam from Operations,’ said the voice at the end of the line. ‘I’ve emailed you all the information we managed to get on Patrick Barlett. At the moment he’s out of town.’

‘Out of town?’

‘He’s been away at a conference in Dallas since Tuesday evening. He’s flying back tomorrow – mid-afternoon. Everything checked out.’

‘OK, thanks, Pam.’

Hunter disconnected and returned his attention to the space behind the large canvas and the faint foot imprints. A strong and fast perpetrator could have covered the distance between there and where Laura would have been standing in a flash, too fast for her to react. But Hunter didn’t believe her attacker had surprised her in that way. If he had, there would have been some sort of a struggle, and there were no such signs anywhere. If someone had crept up behind her and sedated her in some way, Laura would have no doubt dropped her paint palette and brush, not placed it on the unit next to the stand. The surrounding floor area where Laura would have stood while working on her canvas was covered in small speckles and splashes of paint, not blotches and smudges caused by a palette hitting the ground.

‘Pass me the flashlight, Carlos.’

Garcia handed it to him and Hunter moved its beam to a point on the brick directly behind the large canvas.

‘Something else?’ Garcia asked.

‘Not sure yet, but brick walls are notorious for pulling fibers out of fabrics if you lean against them.’ Hunter kept inching the beam up. When he got to a point about six feet from the floor, he paused and moved forward, stopping just millimeters from the wall, careful not to disrupt the dust. ‘I think we might have something.’

He reached for his phone and dialed the number for the Forensics team.

West Hollywood is famous for its nightlife, celebrity culture and diverse atmosphere. Themed bars, chic restaurants, futuristic and exotic nightclubs, art galleries, designer boutiques, sports centers, and the most varied selection of live music venues will keep you entertained from sunset to sunset. Informally referred to as ‘WeHo’ by most Angelinos, the word is that if you can’t get your kicks in West Hollywood, then you’re probably already dead.

It was just past 6:00 p.m. when Hunter and Garcia got to the Daniel Rossdale Art Gallery in Wilshire Boulevard. The building was small, but stylish. Smoked glass together with concrete-and-metal frames were used to create a pyramid-style structure that could be considered a sculpture on its own.

Calvin Lange, the gallery’s curator and Laura Mitchell’s closest friend, had agreed to a meeting. Laura’s last exhibition had been at his gallery.

Hunter and Garcia were shown to Calvin Lange’s office by an attractive and elegantly dressed assistant.

Lange was sitting behind his desk, but stood up as both detectives entered the room. He was a wiry, sandy-haired, smiling man in his early-thirties.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said as he firmly shook their hands. ‘You said over the phone that this was about Laura Mitchell?’ He indicated the two leather chairs in front of his desk and waited for both detectives to have a seat. ‘Have there been any problems with any of her paintings purchased from this gallery?’ He paused and quickly studied both detectives’ expressions. Then he remembered Laura’s mother’s phone call to him two weeks ago. ‘Is she OK?’

Hunter filled him in.

Calvin Lange’s eyes flicked from Hunter to Garcia and then back to Hunter. His lips parted but no words came out. For an instant he looked like a little kid who’d just been told Santa Claus was a con. Still in shocked silence, he approached the minibar built into the tall wooden unit on the north wall, and with a trembling hand reached for a glass. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ His voice quivered.

‘We’re fine,’ Hunter said, taking in all his movements.

Lange poured himself a large glass of Cognac and quickly took a mouthful. That seemed to bring some of the color back to his face.

‘I was told by Mrs. Mitchell that you were probably Laura’s closest friend outside the family,’ Hunter said.

‘Maybe . . .’ Lange shook his head as if disoriented. ‘I’m not sure. Laura was a very private person, but we got on well. She was . . . fantastic: funny, talented, intelligent, beautiful . . .’

‘She exhibited in this gallery not so long ago, is that right?’ Garcia asked.

Lange told them that Laura’s exhibition had run from the 1st to the 28th February and it’d been a tremendous success – very well attended, and all of the twenty-three pieces she’d exhibited had been sold. Laura had only been present for about two hours on the opening and closing nights, and Lange said she hadn’t seemed at all upset, worried or anxious at either of them.

‘Was that the last time you saw her?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And did you use to keep in contact regularly? Phone calls, texts, that sort of thing?’

Lange moved his head from side to side. ‘Not that regularly. We usually chatted on the phone two maybe three times a month. It really depended on how busy we both were. Sometimes we did lunch, dinner or drinks together, but again, nothing regular.’

‘Mrs. Mitchell also told me that her ex-fiancé was here on her closing night,’ Hunter said.

Lange’s eyes shot in Hunter’s direction.

‘Do you remember seeing him talking to Laura at all?’

Lange took another sip of his Cognac and Hunter noticed his hands had started shaking again.

‘Yes, I’d forgotten all about that. He’d had a little too much to drink. He really upset her that night,’ Lange recalled. ‘They were by the staircase at the back of the gallery, away from the main floor and the crowd. I was looking for her because I wanted to introduce her to an important buyer from Switzerland. When I finally found her, I went over and that’s when I noticed she looked unhappy. As I joined them, he walked away angrily.’

‘Did she tell you what happened?’

‘No, she didn’t want to talk about it. She went straight into the ladies’ room and came out again about ten minutes later, but before doing so, she asked me to get him out of here, before he made a scene with the guests.’

‘A scene?’ Hunter questioned. ‘Did she tell you why?’

Lange shook his head. ‘But I sensed it was because he was jealous.’

Garcia craned his neck. ‘Jealous of whom? Did Laura have a date with her that night?’

‘No, but I saw her talking to someone earlier that night. And I know they swapped phone numbers because she told me.’

‘Could you describe him?’ Garcia asked.

Lange bit his lower lip and looked at a distant nothing as if considering something. ‘I can do better than that. I think I might have a picture of him.’

Calvin Lange lifted his right index finger at both detectives, asking them for a minute, and reached for the phone on his desk.

‘Nat, we still have the photos from Laura Mitchell’s exhibition, right? . . . Great, can you bring your laptop into my office, please . . . Yeah, now is good.’ Lange put the phone down and explained that they always photographed and sometimes videoed their exhibitions, especially the artists’ nights. The photos were used for brochures, advertisement campaigns and their own website.

‘How about your CCTV footage?’ Hunter asked. He’d noticed six cameras in total on their way up to Lange’s office.

Lange gave him an embarrassed headshake. ‘We recycle hard drive space every two weeks.’

There was a soft knock on the door and the same assistant who had guided Hunter and Garcia into Lange’s office earlier stepped into the room carrying a white laptop.

‘You’ve met Nat,’ Lange said, motioning her to his desk.

‘Not properly,’ she replied with the same smile she’d given them earlier. Her eyes stayed on Hunter.

‘Natalie Foster is my assistant,’ Lange explained, ‘but she’s a great photographer and very good with computers. She’s also our webmaster.’

Natalie shook both detectives’ hands. ‘Please, call me Nat.’

‘These are detectives from the Homicide Division,’ Lange told her.

Natalie’s smile quickly slipped from her face. ‘Homicide?’

Hunter explained the reason for their visit and Natalie’s entire body tensed. Her eyes searched for Lange’s and Hunter could tell her mind had flooded with questions.

‘We need to take a look at the photographs from Laura’s exhibition, Nat,’ Lange said.

It took a few seconds for his words to register. ‘Umm . . . yes, of course.’ She placed the laptop on Lange’s desk and fired it up. As the computer booted, an anxious silence hovered over the room. Natalie typed in a password and scrolled a trembling finger across the laptop’s mouse pad as she searched for the pictures directory.

Hunter grabbed a small bottle of water from the drinks cabinet. ‘Here, have some of this, it’ll help.’ He poured some into a glass with ice and brought it over to her.

‘Thank you.’ She forced a smile before taking two large sips and returning her attention to the computer.

A few more mouse clicks later and Natalie set the picture display to full screen.

‘OK, here they are.’

The first picture was a wide shot of the main gallery floor on the opening night of Laura Mitchell’s exhibition. It looked full to capacity.

‘How many people were here that night?’ Hunter asked.

‘About a hundred and fifty.’ Lange looked at Natalie for confirmation. She nodded. ‘And there were a few more outside waiting to get in.’

‘Entry wasn’t by invitation only?’ Garcia asked.

‘Not always, it depends on the artist,’ Lange replied. ‘Most, especially the more famous and egocentric ones, like to make their launch nights invitation- and RSVP-only.’

‘But not Laura.’

‘Not Laura,’ Lange confirmed. ‘She wasn’t like most artists who think they’re God’s gift. She insisted her exhibitions were open to everyone and anyone. Even on artists’ nights.’

Most of the photographs were of Laura smiling and chatting to people. She was usually surrounded by a group of four or five. A few of the photographs showed her posing in front of a canvas or with a fan. She certainly was a very attractive woman. Hunter could hardly make the connection with the crime-scene photos he’d seen.

‘Wait,’ Lange said, stepping closer. His eyes squinted as he studied the photograph that had just appeared on the screen. ‘I think that’s him – the guy who swapped numbers with Laura.’ He pointed to someone standing at the back of the frame. He was tall with short dark hair and was dressed in a dark suit, but his face was partially obscured by a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Natalie used the zoom feature at the bottom of the screen to enlarge it, but it didn’t make the man’s face any clearer. He looked to be around the same age as Laura Mitchell.

‘Have any of you seen him before?’ Hunter asked.

Lange shook his head, but Natalie looked uncertain. ‘I think I have, at one of our previous exhibitions.’

‘Are you sure? Can you remember which one?’

She took a moment. ‘I can’t remember which exhibition it was, but he looks familiar.’

‘Are you sure you saw him here in the gallery? Not in a coffee shop, restaurant, nightclub . . . ?’

Natalie searched her memory again. ‘No, I think it was here at the gallery.’

‘OK, if you see him again, or you remember which exhibition, you call me, all right? If he comes in, don’t try to talk to him, just call me.’

Natalie nodded and moved on with the pictures.