The Night Stalker (21 page)

Captain Blake leaned against the windowsill. ‘It’s an unlikely possibility.’

Garcia cracked his knuckles. ‘It’s also unlikely that anyone would create his own bomb, his own crazy knife, his own trigger mechanism and place it inside a victim before stitching her body shut.’ He paused for effect. ‘C’mon, Captain, the evidence says this guy is everything but predictable. He’s smart, very slick and very patient. Would it really surprise you if he
did
have another collage room somewhere else? It gives him deniability.’

‘Garcia is right, Captain,’ Hunter said, sitting at the edge of his desk. ‘We can’t discard James Smith simply because the room we found didn’t have anything about Kelly Jensen.’

‘And has he been sighted anywhere yet? Have the phone lines produced any useful tips?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s just great, isn’t it?’ She pointed to the street outside. ‘Over four million people in this city and no one seems to know who this James Smith really is. The guy has simply vanished.’ She crossed to the door and opened it. ‘We’re chasing a fucking ghost.’

When Hunter got back to his office, he found an email from Mike Brindle in Forensics – the lab results from the fibers found on the wall behind the large canvas in Laura Mitchell’s apartment were in. They had been right in their assumption. The fibers had come from a common wool skullcap. That meant that whoever had hid behind that canvas was somewhere between six foot and six four.

The results for the faint footprints were also in, but because they were set on house dust, and therefore smudged, they weren’t 100 per cent accurate. The conclusion was that they’d probably come from size eleven or twelve shoes, which was consistent with the height theory. The interesting fact was that they had found no sole marks. No trademark imprints, or grooves, or anything. A completely flat sole. Mike Brindle’s take on it was that whoever had waited in Laura’s apartment had used some sort of shoe cover. Probably handmade. Probably soft rubber or even synthetic foam. That would have no doubt also muffled the perpetrator’s footsteps.

After analyzing the entire studio floor for any more size eleven or twelve foot imprints, Brindle arrived at the same conclusion as Hunter and Garcia had. After hiding behind the large canvas resting against the back wall, Laura Mitchell’s attacker had somehow diverted her attention and very quickly gotten to her with a strong sedative, probably an intravenous one.

‘I’ve got the personal info on Kelly Jensen from research,’ Garcia said as he walked through the door, carrying a green plastic folder.

‘What do we have?’ Hunter asked looking up from his computer.

Garcia took a seat behind his desk and flipped open the folder. ‘OK, Kelly Jensen, born in Great Falls, Montana, thirty years ago. Her parents haven’t been notified yet.’

Hunter nodded.

Garcia continued. ‘She started painting in high school . . . At the age of twenty, against her parents’ wishes, she relocated here to Los Angeles . . . She spent several years struggling and being rejected by every agent and art gallery in the business . . . blah, blah, blah, your typical LA story, except she was a painter, not an actress.’

‘How did she get noticed?’ Hunter asked.

‘She used to sell her work on the oceanfront – a street stall. Got noticed by none other than Julie Glenn, New York’s top art critic. A week later, Kelly got an art agent, a guy called Lucas Laurent. He was the one who reported her as missing.’ He paused and stretched his arms high above his head. ‘Kelly’s career took off quickly after that. Julie Glenn wrote a piece about her in the
New York Times,
and within a month, the canvases Kelly couldn’t give away at the beach were selling for thousands.’

Hunter checked his watch before grabbing his jacket. ‘OK, let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘To see the person who reported her missing.’

The traffic was like a religious procession and it took Garcia almost two hours to cover the twenty-three miles between Parker Center and Long Beach.

Lucas Laurent, Kelly Jensen’s agent, had his office on the fifth floor of number 246 East Broadway Street.

Laurent was in his thirties, with olive skin, dark brown eyes and neatly cut hair that was starting to gray. The wrinkles that already surrounded his lips came from heavy smoking, Hunter guessed. His navy blue suit was well fitting, but his tie was a masterpiece of bad taste. A Picasso-style monstrosity of chunky color pieces that only someone with enormous amounts of confidence could wear. And confidence Laurent certainly had – the quiet kind that came with wealth and success.

He stood up from behind his twin pedestal desk and greeted Hunter and Garcia by the door. His handshake was as firm as a businessman’s ready to close a large deal.

‘Joan told me you’re detectives with the LAPD?’ he said as he eyed Hunter. ‘I hope you’re not actually artists and this was just a trick to get you into my office without an appointment.’ He smiled and deep crinkles appeared at the edges of his eyes. ‘But if it was, it certainly shows you’ve both got creativity and ambition.’

‘Unfortunately, we’re the real thing,’ Hunter said, showing Laurent his credentials. The agent’s smile faded fast. Only then did he remember he’d reported Kelly as missing a couple of weeks ago.

Hunter told him only what he needed to know and watched as the color vanished from his face. Laurent slumped back in his chair, his eyes catatonically looking through Hunter.

‘But that’s just ludicrous . . . murdered? By whom? And why? Kelly was an artist, not a drug dealer.’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘But she had an exhibition scheduled in Paris in less than two months’ time . . . it could have made us close to a million.’

Hunter and Garcia exchanged a quick, concerned glance.
Strange time to be thinking about money.

Laurent ruffled inside his desk’s top drawer for a pack of cigarettes. ‘I don’t usually smoke in my office,’ he explained, ‘but I really need this. Do you mind?’

Both detectives shrugged.

Laurent brought a cigarette to his lips, lit it up with a shaking hand and took a drag as if his life depended on it.

Hunter and Garcia sat in the two salmon-colored armchairs in front of Laurent’s desk and began asking him about his relationship with Kelly and his knowledge of her personal life. From Laurent’s answers, just like from his comment about making millions a moment ago, they quickly gathered that Laurent’s relationship with Kelly had been 99 per cent business.

‘Did you have a set of keys to her apartment?’ Garcia asked.

‘God, no.’ Laurent had one last drag of his cigarette, walked over to the window and stubbed it out on the ledge before flicking the butt onto the street below. ‘Kelly didn’t like having people in her apartment or her studio. She wouldn’t even allow me to see any of her pieces until they were completely finished, and even then I almost had to beg her to show them to me. Artists are very self-centered and eccentric people.’

‘Her apartment is in Santa Monica and her art studio in Culver City, is that right?’ Garcia asked.

Laurent nodded nervously.

‘Am I right in thinking you and Miss Jensen attended some social engagements together? Dinners . . . receptions . . . exhibitions . . . awards, things like that?’

‘Yes, quite a few over the three years I’ve been representing her.’

‘Have you ever met anyone she was seeing? Has she ever taken a date to any of these engagements?’

‘Kelly?’ He laughed tensely. ‘I couldn’t think of anything that’d be farther from her thoughts than a relationship. She was stunning. She had men throwing themselves at her, but she just didn’t wanna know.’

‘Really?’ Hunter said. ‘Is there a reason why?’

Laurent shrugged. ‘I never asked, but I know she was really hurt by someone she was in love with a few years ago. The kind of hurt that never goes away. The kind of hurt that makes you wary of every relationship you have from that day on. You know what I mean?’

‘Do you know if she had casual relationships?’ Garcia asked.

Another shrug. ‘Probably, as I said, she was stunning; but I never met anyone she was dating. She never mentioned anyone either.’

‘Did she ever mention anything about emails? Something that’d scared or upset her lately?’ Hunter took over.

Laurent frowned, taking a few seconds to remember. ‘Nothing in particular. I’m not sure about any of them being scary or upsetting, but I’m sure she got a few strange ones from infatuated fans. It happens more than you think. I just tell all my artists to disregard them.’

‘Disregard them?’

‘Fans come with fame, Detective; it’s a package deal that you can’t opt out of. And unfortunately some of them are just plain weird, but they usually mean no harm. All the artists I represent get them every now and then.’ His eyes moved back to the pack of cigarettes on his desk and he quickly debated if he should have another one. He started fidgeting with a black-and-gold Mont Blanc pen instead. ‘I’ve been Kelly’s agent for three years, and in that time I’ve never seen her unhappy, or worried. She always had a smile on her face, as if it were tattooed to her lips. I really can’t remember ever seeing Kelly unhappy.’

‘When did you last speak to Miss Jensen?’ Garcia asked.

‘We were supposed to meet up for lunch on the . . .’ he flipped open a leather-bound diary on his desk and quickly leafed through it, ‘ . . . the 25th February, to discuss Kelly’s upcoming exhibition in Paris. Kelly had been very excited about that particular trip for months, but she never turned up for the meeting, and she never called to cancel either. When I tried getting hold of her, all I got was her answering service. Two days later I gave up trying and contacted the police.’

‘Was she involved with drugs, gambling, anything of the bad sort you know of?’ Garcia asked this time.

Laurent’s eyes widened for an instant. ‘God, no. At least not that I know of. She barely drank. Kelly was your typical good girl.’

‘Financial difficulties?’

‘Not with the kinda money she was making. Every one of her paintings sells for thousands. Probably more now.’

Hunter wondered if he threw a hundred bucks out the window, would Laurent jump after it?

Before leaving, Hunter paused by the door to the office and turned to face Laurent again. ‘Do you know if Miss Jensen was friends with another LA painter – Laura Mitchell?’

Laurent looked at him curiously before shaking his head. ‘Laura Mitchell? I’m not sure. Their styles are very different.’

Hunter turned to look back at him curiously.

‘Believe it or not,’ Laurent clarified, ‘many painters are funny in that way. Some won’t mix with different style artists.’ He pouted reflexively. ‘Some won’t mix with other artists at all. Why do you ask?’

‘Just wondering.’ Hunter handed Laurent a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t—’

‘Wait!’ Laurent cut him short. ‘Laura Mitchell and Kelly
did
meet. It was a few years ago. I’d forgotten all about that. Right at the start of Kelly’s career. I had just started representing her. She was interviewed for a cable TV documentary. Something about the new wave of American artists from the West Coast, or something along those lines. Several artists took part in it. I think it was all filmed at the . . .’ his eyes moved to a blank spot on the wall ‘ . . . Getty Museum or maybe at the Moca, I can’t be sure. But I’m in no doubt Laura Mitchell was one of the artists who was there that day.’

Night had already darkened the sky by the time Hunter and Garcia got back to Parker Center. They both felt exhausted.

‘Go home, Carlos,’ Hunter said rubbing his eyes. ‘Spend the night with Anna. Take her out for dinner or a movie or something. There ain’t much we can do now but review information, and our brains are both too fried to process anything at this time.’

Garcia knew Hunter was right. And Anna would really appreciate having her husband for an entire night. He reached for his jacket.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked as Hunter turned his computer on.

‘Five minutes,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Just gonna check something on the net.’

It took Hunter a lot longer than he expected to find any references to the documentary Kelly Jensen’s agent had mentioned. It was a low budget production by the Arts and Entertainment cable TV Channel called
Canvas Beauty, The Upcoming
Talents from the West Coast.
It had only aired once, three years ago. He called the A & E TV network office in LA, but at that time of night, there was no one there who could assist him. He’d have to contact them again in the morning.

Hunter didn’t go straight home after he left his office. His mind was too full of thoughts for him to try to brave the solitude of his apartment.

If the killer was really forcing his victims to kill themselves by impact-activating a trigger mechanism, then they were right about Laura Mitchell, the first victim. She wasn’t supposed to have died on that butcher’s counter. She was supposed to have jumped down from it. The bomb was supposed to have gone off inside her. But the trigger was never activated. She died from suffocation. Her mother had told Hunter about the choking seizures Laura used to suffer when young. Possibly some psychological condition that had ceased to manifest itself after she started painting. Hunter knew that such conditions could easily be shocked back to life by a traumatic experience, like severe panic. The kind of panic she would have experienced in that dark back room, alone, with her mouth and body stitched shut.