‘No, not a coincidence, Carlos,’ Hunter said, checking his notes. ‘All four bogus calls were made inside the same thirty-minute interval – between ten-fifty-five p.m. and eleven-twenty-five. Do you remember what was the time logged for Tanya Kaitlin’s nine-one-one call?’

‘Not from the top of my head,’ Garcia replied. ‘But I’m guessing somewhere inside that half-hour bracket.’

‘Eleven-nineteen p.m.,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘All four bogus calls were also made on a Wednesday evening. Karen Ward was murdered two nights ago, on a Wednesday evening.’

Garcia’s gaze jumped back to his computer screen. All four calls had been date-stamped in the usual format – month/day/year. He hadn’t yet worked out that they had all fallen on a Wednesday.

‘If you average the four response times,’ Hunter continued. ‘You come to nine and three-quarter minutes. Round it up, and that’s exactly the average response time the caller told Tanya over the phone.’ He shook his head. ‘This was no coincidence, Carlos. Our killer made all four calls.’

Garcia thought about the last call for a moment.

‘A voice modifier?’ he half stated, half questioned.

‘Audio forensics will confirm it,’ Hunter replied. ‘But with the right equipment, changing a male voice into a female one is just a question of sliding a few faders up and down, that’s all.’

‘He probably also thought that a female voice would be a nice touch,’ Garcia accepted.

‘Certainly less suspicious,’ Hunter agreed. He knew that about 70 to 75 percent of all bogus 911 calls in the USA were made by men, not women. ‘Remember, Carlos, he’d already made three fake calls prior to that one – all using a male voice, all directing Long Beach PD to the same exact area. This was the last call before the actual murder. He wouldn’t want to risk it.’

‘Well, he certainly knew how to fake these calls,’ Garcia said. ‘Because I’ll tell you this, If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought that they were all legit – sometimes tense, sometimes frightened, sometimes anxious, and absolutely no hesitation in his voice. Every question he was asked by the dispatcher, he answered it in character. I wouldn’t be surprised if this guy has trained as an actor.’ Garcia rethought his words. ‘Then again, half of this city has trained as an actor.’

Hunter said nothing, but right at the back of his mind, something else began bothering him.

Twenty-Six

Hunter and Garcia spent the next hour revising crime-scene photographs, going over various documents, and trying to obtain a more thorough profile on Karen Ward. Garcia had been searching the Internet for the past thirty-five minutes when he paused and frowned at his computer screen.

‘Wait a second,’ he whispered, leaning forward and placing both elbows on his desk.

Hunter looked at his partner over the top of his screen.

Garcia looked completely absorbed as he began scrolling down the webpage.

‘Something wrong?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia lifted his index finger. ‘I’m not sure yet. Give me a minute.’

Hunter went back to the file he’d been reading, but his thoughts were still on the four 911 calls they’d heard. The more he tried, the less sense he could make of everything – the less sense he could make of everything, the more the stalker theory bothered him.

In general, stalkers were fragile people who were highly impulsive and almost always enslaved to their own emotions, rarely being able to control them. Sure, some were known for being very well organized when it came to certain aspects of their obsession. They observed the object of their affection compulsively because they simply needed to know all there was to know about them. They followed them. They took pictures. They fed the fire of their obsession in any way they could because, the sad truth was, most of them led somewhat boring, unadventurous lives and, strangely, that obsession gave their lives a ‘sense of purpose’, something to live for, and that was the catch.

If the object of their affection were to die all of a sudden, then so would that ‘sense of purpose’, substituted by a void so deep that it could potentially tear them apart inside. So why kill them?

History has shown that in most cases, when that had actually happened, it hadn’t been a planned action. They hadn’t set out to kill the one they were stalking. What happened was a return to that volatile individual who struggled to control his/her emotions. In short – a thoughtless, impulsive act that resulted in the death of the one being stalked. And that was nothing like this killer had shown so far. No, this killer was well prepared, methodical, very clever, resourceful, and if he’d begun clocking the police response time three months before the actual murder, he no doubt planned well ahead. Impulsiveness . . . thoughtlessness . . . simply didn’t come into his equation.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Garcia said, ripping Hunter away from his thoughts.

They locked eyes.

‘Maybe there’s a different reason why Tanya can’t remember having another one of those conversations with anyone else.’

‘And what reason would that be?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia pointed at his computer screen. ‘You’ve got to come have a look at this.’

Twenty-Seven

Cassandra closed her living room door behind her, dropped her handbag by the dark-gray sofa and slowly made her way into the kitchen. In there she retrieved a glass vase from one of the cupboards, filled it with water and placed the colorful bouquet of flowers she had brought home with her inside it.

No, the flowers hadn’t come from a secret admirer, nor had they been sent to her by Mr. J. Cassandra had bought that bouquet herself; truth be told, even after twenty-one years, her husband still surprised her every now and then with unannounced little gifts – sometimes flowers, sometimes chocolates, sometimes an invitation to a romantic dinner, or tickets to an opera, or a ballet, or even a Lakers game, since Cassandra was a big LA Lakers fan. No matter the occasion, though, the card attached to the bouquet, or whatever gift he had brought home with him, would always say the exact same thing: You make me the happiest man on earth. With all my love, today and always. J.

The memory brought a sparkling smile to Cassandra’s lips, mainly because she considered herself to be a very lucky woman. Despite the years, Mr. J was still a very handsome man, tall and square-jawed, with a shaved head and dark eyes that were so full of expression, he could make himself understood with a simple look. Physically, unlike so many of her friends’ husbands, Mr. J had never let himself go. His frame still showed signs of all the physical training he did when younger, with strong shoulders, a flat stomach, and lean, muscular arms. Cassandra had never failed to notice the playful looks that other women, including most of her friends, would give Mr. J every time they were out, but she had never seen her husband reciprocate any of it. He was always polite towards other women, but never flirtatious.

Once, and only once, after she had rejected his advances in bed years ago, Mr. J had calmly asked her if there was someone else. If she had fallen for another man. If she had stopped loving him.

‘Please don’t be silly, honey,’ she had replied. ‘Of course I haven’t fallen for anyone else. Of course I haven’t stopped loving you. I’m just not in a good mood tonight, OK?’