The Night Stalker (24 page)

The old man never returned to the park, but Jessica never forgot him. A week later her mother fell ill with something no one could diagnose. Her disease advanced quickly, eating away at her from the inside and transforming her from a smiling, vital woman into an unrecognizable bag of skin and bones. Jessica’s father faded along with his wife. As the disease progressed, so did his depression. His pay as a supermarket clerk was barely enough to keep them going, and when he lost his job two months after his wife had gotten ill, their financial situation collapsed.

Jessica’s mother died the day after doctors finally found out she had developed a rare carcinoid tumor.

Jessica’s last happy memory of her mother was that day in the park, both of them listening to the old guitar man.

Jessica took to the guitar as if that memory lived in every note she plucked. She had no money for lessons, magazines or music books, but she spent every possible second with her beloved instrument. Soon she’d developed her own unique style of tapping and fingerpicking the strings, exploring every sound the instrument could give her. She could play the guitar like no one had ever heard. At the age of nineteen she was offered a record deal by a small independent record company based in South Los Angeles. Through them she’d released six albums and done countless tours over the years. Jessica became well known and well respected in the jazz music scene, but her music wasn’t mainstream enough to be played by the most popular radio stations.

Three years ago, the manager of her record company decided to go back to basics and record a few videos of Jessica playing by herself before uploading them onto YouTube. He was betting on her beauty as well as her talent.

Jessica was stunning in a simple way. Five foot six with a dancer’s lithe body, straight shoulder-length black hair, magnetic dark brown eyes, full lips and flawless skin. She attracted looks anywhere she went.

The gamble paid off, but even he hadn’t expected it to take off as it did. Through word of mouth and social networking, Jessica’s YouTube videos went stratospheric. Over one million worldwide hits in the first month alone, placing her name on YouTube’s front page as the most watched clip. Today, as many of Jessica’s albums were sold and downloaded as those of mainstream, world-famous pop bands.

Jessica’s attention returned to her living room. A single, empty dinner plate and a half-drunk bottle of red wine sat on the small glass table in front of her. Seeing that made her remember that she’d eaten alone, and reality finally caught up with her. Mark wasn’t in. And he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon.

Jessica and Mark had met at the Catalina Jazz Club on Sunset Boulevard two years ago, after one of her gigs. That night she had been sitting at the bar, surrounded by fans and a few music reporters when she’d noticed someone hanging out by the stage. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a strong physique. His long midnight-black hair was tied back Viking-style. But his good looks weren’t what caught Jessica’s attention. It was the intriguing way he was studying her guitar.

She’d excused herself from the crowd and approached him, wondering what was so interesting about her instrument. They’d chatted for a while and she found out that Mark was also a guitarist. He’d been classically trained, but instead of following that route he’d formed his own hard rock band. They were called Dust, and they’d just signed their first record deal a few days before.

The chat turned into dinner somewhere along Sunset Strip. Mark was funny, intelligent and charming. Several more dates followed and eight months later they’d rented a large warehouse loft conversion in Burbank together.

With the help of the Internet and the music video channels, Dust’s first album became a worldwide sensation. Their second had just been mixed down and it was scheduled for release in a month’s time. Their grueling touring schedule was about to begin again. As a pre-tour warm-up they were doing a series of eight secret gigs in smaller venues all around California. The first one was tonight in Fortuna. Mark and the band had left that morning.

Jessica crossed her legs under her and checked her watch – 1:18 a.m. She’d fallen asleep in an awkward position and the left side of her neck had gone stiff. She sat there for a while longer, nursing the pain and dreading the loneliness of her bed. But spending the night in the living room would probably make her miss him even more. She had one last sip of her wine and blew out the scented candle before heading to bed.

Jessica wasn’t the best of sleepers, and sometimes she would toss and turn for a long while before finally falling into a light sleep. Tonight though, with the help of the wine, she started dozing almost immediately.

Click, click.

She blinked a few times before opening her eyes. Had she really heard something or was that her mind playing tricks on her? The bedroom curtains weren’t drawn, and the full moon just outside her window was enough to keep total darkness out. Jessica allowed her eyes to roam the room slowly – nothing. She lay still, listening attentively but the sound didn’t repeat itself. A minute later she started drifting back into sleep.

Click, click.

Her eyes shot open this time. There was no doubt in her mind. She’d heard something. And it was coming from inside her apartment. Jessica sat up in bed and brushed her fingers against the touch lamp on her bedside table. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Had she left a tap on somewhere? But if that was it, why wasn’t the sound constant?

Click, click.

She held her breath and her pulse surged in her neck. There it was again. It was coming from just outside her bedroom door. It sounded like a shoe heel lightly clicking against the corridor’s wooden floor.

‘Mark?’ she called and instantly felt silly for doing so. He wouldn’t be back for several weeks.

Jessica hesitated for an instant, debating what to do. But what else could she do? Stay in bed worrying for the whole night? It was probably nothing but she had to go check it out. Slowly, she slid out of bed. She was wearing nothing but a tiny pair of shorts and the thinnest of sleeveless shirts.

She stepped outside her room and switched on the hallway lights. Nothing. She waited a moment. No sound. She grabbed Mark’s old baseball bat from the storage closet before proceeding cautiously down the corridor. An uncomfortable shiver ran through her as her bare feet touched the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. All the faucets were securely off. There were no drips. She walked back and checked the living room, the kitchen, Mark’s games room and her practice den. The entire apartment was absolutely still, except for the tick-tock that came from the clock in the kitchen. She rechecked the windows – all closed – doors – all locked.

Jessica shook her head and chuckled as her eyes focused on the baseball bat in her hands.

‘Yeah, I’m a real home-run hitter, me.’ She paused. ‘But just in case, I’m keeping you by the bed.’

Back in her room, Jessica looked around one more time before resting the baseball bat against her bedside table and getting back into bed. She switched off the lamp and snuggled under the covers once again. As her eyes closed, every hair on her body stood on end. Some hidden instinct inside her exploded into life. Some sort of danger sensor. And the only thing she could sense was that she wasn’t alone in that room. Someone else was there with her. That’s when she heard it. Not a clicking sound coming from outside, but a hoarse whispering voice coming from the only place she didn’t check.

‘You forgot to look under your bed.’

Hunter had spent the rest of the night on the computer discovering who Whitney Myers really was.

In the morning, after a strong cup of black coffee, he made his way back to Culver City and Kelly Jensen’s studio. The blinking red light he’d seen last night from her window was a wireless CCTV camera, hidden away in an alcove in the wall. The camera was pointing straight at the small parking lot. There were no computers in Kelly’s studio, so the camera couldn’t have belonged to her.

At 6:00 a.m. only one of the shops that shared the car parking lot with Kelly’s studio was open – Mr. Wang’s convenience store. Hunter’s luck was in; the wireless camera belonged to the elderly bird-like Chinese man.

Mr. Wang’s wrinkled face and observant eyes only hinted at how much he’d lived, what he’d seen and the tremendous knowledge he’d accumulated over so many years.

He told Hunter that he’d asked his son, Fang Li, to install the camera at the back after his old Ford pickup truck was broken into one too many times.

Hunter asked him how far back he kept the recordings.

‘Year,’ Mr. Wang replied with a wide smile that seemed to never fade.

Hunter’s face lit up in surprise. ‘You have recordings going back a year?’

‘Yes. Every minute.’ His voice was like a whisper, but the words came out quickly, as if he was about to run out of time for what he wanted to say. His pronunciation was perfect, indicating that he’d been in America for many years, but the sentences were staccato. ‘Fang Li too smart. Good with computers. He make program that box files. Twelve months – files delete automatic. Don’t need do nothing.’

Hunter bobbed his head. ‘Clever. Can I have a look at them?’

Mr. Wang’s eyes narrowed to such a thin line, Hunter thought he’d closed them. ‘You wanna see in store’s computer?’

A quick nod. ‘Yes. I’d like to see the footage from a few weeks ago.’

Mr. Wang bowed and his smile spread even wider. ‘OK, no problem, but me no good. Need talk to Fang Li. He not here. I call.’ Mr. Wang reached for the phone behind the counter. He spoke Mandarin. The conversation didn’t last longer than a few seconds. ‘Fang Li coming,’ he said, putting the phone down. ‘Be here very fast. Not live far.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Not go to work yet. Too early.’

Hunter asked Mr. Wang about Kelly Jensen. He said that she came into the shop almost every day when she was around, but sometimes she’d disappear for weeks. He liked Kelly very much. He said she was very polite, always happy and very beautiful.

‘In my country, whole village be asking her to marry.’

Hunter smiled and looked around the shop while he waited. He bought a cup of microwavable coffee and a packet of teriyaki-flavored beef jerky. A few minutes later Fang Li arrived. He was in his late twenties, with longish black hair that shined like in a shampoo commercial. His features were striking, a replica of what his father must have looked like when he was younger, but much taller and well built. He quickly spoke to his father before turning and offering his hand to Hunter.

‘I’m Fang Li, but everybody calls me Li.’

Hunter introduced himself and told him the purpose of his visit.

‘OK, come with me and I’ll show you.’ Li guided Hunter through a back door that led into a large, well-organized storage room. The entire place carried a sweet and pleasant smell, a combination of exotic spices, condiments, soaps, fruit and unburned incense. At the far end of it, up a set of wooden stairs was the shop’s office. Hundreds of Chinese calendars hung from the walls – Hunter had never seen so many. It was like they used them as wallpaper. Apart from the calendars there were several old, metal filing cabinets, a wooden shelf rack, a water cooler and a large desk with a computer monitor on it. Chinese characters danced across the screen.

Li chuckled as he read them.

‘What does that mean?’ Hunter asked.

‘Be yourself. There’s no one better suited for the job.’

Hunter smiled. ‘Very true.’

‘My father likes this kinda thing. Proverbs and all, you know. But he prefers to create his own, so I programed a little screen saver for him. It reads from a list of his own wise sayings.’

‘So is that what you do? Computer programing?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Your father said that you could store as much as a whole year’s worth of footage.’

‘That’s right. My father’s pretty much obsessed with organization.’ He pointed out the window at the storage room. ‘Nothing’s ever out of place with him.’

Hunter nodded.

‘He’s also big on security. We’ve got five cameras filming twenty-four hours a day. One picking up the front door, one facing the parking lot out back, and three inside the shop. There’s no way we could archive that much data without having a ridiculous amount of hard drive space or compressing the hell out of the footage. So I created a small program that automatically compresses the files that are over three days old and then archives them into external high-capacity hard drives.’ Li rolled his chair back and pointed at four small black boxes under the desk. ‘At the end of twelve months, those files auto-delete to create more space.’ He paused and faced Hunter. ‘So what do you need, Detective?’

Hunter wrote something down on a piece of paper and placed it on the desk in front of Li. ‘I need a copy of all the footage you have between those dates.’

Li looked at the paper. ‘An entire week’s worth? From all five cameras?’

‘Maybe, but let’s start with the footage from the one in the parking lot.’

Li coughed. ‘That’s one hundred and sixty-eight hours of footage. Even compressed that’ll take . . .’ his eyes narrowed and his lips moved without a sound for a second, ‘. . . around thirty DVDs. Maybe a few more. When do you need them for?’