The Night Stalker (32 page)

‘The “true love” fairy tale?’

‘Yes. The magical make-you-float-on-air kind of love. Sparks flying the first time you set eyes on someone and you just know you were made for each other.’

‘Have you ever been that much in love?’

Another chuckle. ‘No, not yet. But there’s no rush, and I have my music. That really does make me float on air.’

‘I’d say your music makes us all float on air.’

‘Thank you.’ A short pause. ‘And now I’m really blushing.’

‘So, judging by your comment about sparks flying the first time you set eyes on someone means you believe in love at first sight?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And what would someone have to say or do to grab your attention?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. I believe that love is a lot more than words, or looks. It’s something that hits you and then just takes over, without any warning. I believe that when you meet the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with—’

‘The proverbial “soul mate”?’ the DJ interrupted.

‘Yes, your soul mate. I think that when we meet that person, we just know. Even from a silent moment. Even if he doesn’t say a word at first.’

‘OK, I guess I can see what you mean, but he can’t be silent forever. He’ll have to say something eventually. So what would that have to be? How would he grab your attention?’

‘He wouldn’t have to do or say anything in particular, but let me tell you my favorite romantic story.’

‘OK.’

‘As a teenager, my grandmother’s first ever job was as a flower girl in a street market in Perm in the old Soviet Union. My grandfather worked in a tailor shop, just a few streets from the market. Her first day at work was the very first time he saw her, and just like that, he fell madly in love. My grandfather was an attractive man, but he was also very, very shy. It took him sixty days to gather up the courage to finally say something to her.’

‘Sixty?’ the DJ commented.

‘Every morning on his way to work he walked past her stall. Every morning he’d promise himself that’d be the day he’d speak to her. And every morning when he saw her, he’d become too nervous. Instead of speaking to her, he’d just walk on in silence.’

‘OK, so what happened?’

‘What my grandfather didn’t know was that my grandmother had also fallen in love with him from the first day she saw him. Every day she watched him walk past the flower stall, and every day she hoped that he’d stop and ask her out. So one morning, he gathered all the courage he could muster, walked up to my grandmother, looked her in the eye and managed to whisper five little words: “You take my breath away.”’

Myers reached over and pressed the pause button.

Hunter’s memory flashed back to the deciphered answering machine recording Myers had given him a few days ago. The very first words Katia’s kidnapper had said had been exactly those – YOU TAKE MY BREATH AWAY . . .

By the way Myers looked at Hunter, he knew that there was more to come.

‘Fifty-nine days walking past the flower stall in silence,’ Myers said, her stare fixed on Hunter. ‘Fifty-nine silent messages left on Katia’s answering machine. And I’m sure you remember the first five words on the sixtieth message.’

Hunter nodded but said nothing.

‘Now this next part of the interview comes after a couple of commercial breaks. The DJ is asking Katia questions that were phoned or emailed in by listeners.’ She pressed the pause button again and the interview resumed. It started with animated laughter.

‘OK,’ the DJ said, ‘I’ve got another question here from one of our callers. This is going back to you being a hopeless romantic, and about you finding your knight in shining armor.’

‘OK . . .’ Katia sounded hesitant.

‘The question is: you said that you believe that love is a lot more than words, or looks. You also said that you believe that when you meet the right person, your “soul mate”, you’ll just know. Even from a silent moment, like your grandparents. What I’d like to know is how long is that moment? How much silence do you need before you know?’

‘Umm.’

Laughter from the DJ. ‘That’s not a bad question. So how long is that moment? How quickly do you think you’ll be able to know if you’ve met the right person?’

There was a pause as Katia thought about it. ‘Twelve seconds,’ she finally replied.

Hunter’s stare met Myers but neither said a word.

‘Twelve seconds?’ the DJ asked. ‘That’s a strange number. Why twelve?’

‘Well, I’d probably know in ten seconds flat, but I’d give it another two seconds just to be absolutely sure.’ Katia and the DJ both laughed.

‘That’s a very good answer,’ the DJ agreed.

Myers reached over and pressed the stop button. ‘Before you ask,’ she said, ‘I checked, the station has no record of who called in with that question.’

‘Remind me when that was aired again?’

‘Eight months ago, but this recording was passed on to other radio stations.’ She retrieved a notebook from her bag. ‘KCSN in Northridge, KQSC and KDB in Santa Barbara, KDSC in Thousand Oaks and even KTMV, which is a smooth jazz station. It’s been aired all over the court. I got this from KUSC’s website. Anyone can listen to it online, or download it. Even if the kidnapper wasn’t the one who called in with the question, he could’ve heard the interview and got his idea from there.’ She had another sip of her Scotch. ‘You and I know that those twelve seconds of silence in every message weren’t just coincidence.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ There was excitement in Myers’ voice. ‘Katia’s abduction is about
love,
not hate. Whoever took her is desperately
in love
with her. So that pretty much discards the possibility of your sadistic killer being the one who kidnapped her.’

Hunter remained silent. His expression gave nothing away.

‘Katia had been seeing the new conductor for the Los Angeles Philharmonic, Phillip Stein, for the past four months. He was, and still is, completely obsessed with her. But she broke it all off just a few days before the tour ended. He didn’t take the break well at all.’

‘But he couldn’t have done it. He flew straight to Munich after their last concert in Chicago. I read your report.’

‘And you double-checked that just to be sure, didn’t you?’

Hunter nodded. ‘Any other lovers, ex-boyfriends . . . ?’

‘Her previous boyfriend lives in France, where she was before coming back to the US. If she had any other lovers, she kept them well hidden. But I don’t think her kidnapper was a lover.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I think we’re dealing with an obsessed fan. Somebody who is so in love with her his whole reality is distorted. That’s why he took what she said in that interview so tremendously out of context. His wants to give her her fairy-tale love story.’

Myers almost jumped out of her skin when Hunter’s phone vibrated against the tabletop, announcing a new incoming call. The caller ID read
Restricted call.

He didn’t even have to answer it to know that his night was about to get a whole lot darker.

Rain was still falling by the time Hunter got to Cypress Park, Northeast Los Angeles. He hadn’t said anything after he disconnected from the call. He hadn’t said a word during it either. He’d just listened. But Myers knew from the defeated way he closed his eyes for just a second – they had another victim.

Cypress Park was one of the first suburbs of Los Angeles. Developed just outside the downtown area at the beginning of the twentieth century, it had been created as a working-class neighborhood, whose main attraction was its proximity to the railroad yards. That’s where the victim’s body had been found, inside one of the abandoned buildings along the tracks.

The old railroad yards still occupied a vast area, but great parts of it were now just wastelands. One of these wastelands was located directly behind Rio de Los Angeles State Park. Half a mile north from there, still inside this desolated area and sandwiched between the train tracks and the LA River was an old maintenance depot. On a rainy, moonless night, the flashing police lights could be seen from quite a distance.

Forensics were already there.

Hunter parked next to Garcia’s car. A young policeman, wearing a standard issue LAPD raincoat and holding what could only be described as a kid’s size umbrella, came up to his door. Hunter pulled his collar up and tighter around his neck, refused the umbrella, and started walking up to the brick building. His hands were tucked deep inside his pockets. His eyes were low, searching the ground, doing his best to avoid stepping into any puddles.

‘Detective Hunter?’ a man called from the perimeter.

Hunter recognized Donald Robbins’ voice – the pain-in-the-ass
LA Times
reporter. He’d covered every case Hunter had been involved in. They were old friends without ever being friends.

‘Is this victim related to the case you’re already investigating? Perhaps a painter as well?’

Hunter didn’t lose stride or look up, but he wondered how the hell Robbins had found out about the victims being painters.

‘C’mon, Robert. It’s me. You’re after another serial killer, aren’t you? Is he an artist stalker?’

Still not even an acknowledgement from Hunter.

The outside of the brick building was a mess of graffiti and colors. Garcia, together with two police officers, was standing under an improvised canvas shelter by the entrance to the old depot. The metal door directly behind them had been graffitied with the silhouette of a long-haired pole dancer bending forward. Her spread legs created a perfect upside-down V shape.

Garcia had just zipped up his forensic Tyvek coveralls when he saw Hunter coming around the corner.

‘You
have
noticed that it’s raining, right?’ Garcia said as Hunter reached the shelter.

‘I like rain,’ Hunter replied, using both hands to brush the water off his hair.

‘Yeah, I can see that.’ Garcia handed him a sealed plastic bag containing a white hooded coverall.

‘Who called it in?’ Hunter asked, ripping the bag open.

‘Old homeless guy,’ the officer closest to the door confirmed. He was short and stout with a bulldog-like face. ‘He said that he sometimes sleeps here. Tonight, he wanted to get out of the rain.’

‘Where’s he now?’

The officer pointed to a police car twenty-five yards from where they were.

‘Who talked to him?’ Hunter looked at Garcia, who shook his head.

‘I just got here.’

‘Sergeant Travis,’ the officer replied. ‘He’s with him now.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Have any of you been inside?’

‘Nope, we got here after Forensics. Our orders are to stay out here soaking our asses in this shitty rain and act like nightclub doormen to all of you big Homicide boys.’

Garcia frowned and looked at Hunter.

‘I guess you were right at the end of your shift when you got this call, right?’ Hunter said.

‘Yeah, whatever.’ The officer ran two fingers over his peach-fuzz moustache.

Hunter zipped up his coveralls. ‘OK, Officer . . . ?’

‘Donikowski.’

‘OK, Officer Donikowski, I guess you can do your nightclub doorman job now.’ He nodded at the door.

Garcia smirked.

The first room was about fifteen feet wide by twenty deep. The walls were also covered in graffiti. Rain spat onto the floor through a windowless frame to the left of the door. Discarded food cans and wrappers were piled up in one corner, together with an old straw mattress. The floor was littered with all different sorts of debris. Hunter could see no blood anywhere.

The familiar, strong crime-scene forensic light was coming from the next room along, where hushed voices could be heard.

As they approached the door, Hunter picked up on a mixture of smells – mostly stale urine, mold and accumulated garbage. All of them the kind of odors you’d expect to find inside an old, derelict building, sometimes used by drifters. But there was a fourth, fainter smell. Not the kind of putrid stench you get when a body starts to rot, but something else. Something Hunter knew he’d smelled before. He paused and sniffed the air a couple of times. From the corner of his eye he noticed Garcia doing the same thing. He was the one who recognized it first. The last time Garcia smelled that same smell he’d thrown up within seconds. This time was no different.

The second room was smaller than the one Hunter and Garcia were in, but identical in shape and state of deterioration – graffitied walls, windowless frames, piles of garbage on the corners and all sorts of debris scattered around the floor. Doctor Hove and Mike Brindle were standing by a door on the far wall that led into a third chamber. The same portable tactical X-ray unit they’d used in the basement of the preschool in Glassell Park had been set up on the floor next to them. Three paces to the left of the unit, lying on her back, was the naked body of a Caucasian brunette female. Hunter could see the thick black thread used to stitch her mouth and lower body from across the room. There was very little blood surrounding the body.