‘Exactly. I’m thinking, maybe that’s how he first picks his victims.’

‘Very possible,’ Garcia accepted it. Garcia was about to say something else when Hunter’s phone rang.

‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special.’

It was Dr. Carolyn Hove, the Chief Medical Examiner for the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner. She had just finished the autopsy on Cassandra Jenkinson’s body.

Fifty-Seven

After Mr. J left Hunter and Garcia, he checked himself into a cheap motel in Porter Ranch, not that far from his house in Granada Hills, but that had been just for show in case the LAPD came checking. He didn’t even see the inside of the room. As soon as he got the keys from the stick-thin night attendant who smelled of grease and fried cheese, he jumped back into his car and drove straight to the apartment he kept down in Torrance, South Los Angeles. The apartment, which absolutely no one knew about, had been rented under a completely bogus name several years ago and it was paid for in cash at the beginning of every year – always a full year in advance.

Mr. J needed to make a few phone calls, but he knew that until the sun had once again recolored the LA sky, there was very little that he or anyone else would be able to do. He felt exhausted and his brain kept on telling him that his best option was to try to recharge and get some much-needed rest, even if only for an hour or two, but sleep never came. The turmoil inside his mind simply wouldn’t allow it. Every time he closed his eyes, he was bombarded by images of Cassandra covered in blood.

In the living room, Mr. J poured himself a healthy measure of bourbon – enough to take the edge off and slap his nerves back a few notches, but not enough to cloud his thoughts. Drink in hand, he switched off the lights and dumped himself into the compact sofa that faced the large window on the east wall. The view from it was nothing spectacular, but when the sun was up, it did manage to catch a sliver of Redondo Beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond it, and that alone had a tremendous calming effect.

Staring at the city lights, Mr. J had a sip of his drink and let the intense alcohol, which carried notes of sweet oak and caramel, linger in his taste buds until it started burning his tongue and the inside of his cheeks. Only then did he allow the golden liquid to finally flood his throat. Usually his body would immediately begin warming up from inside, but Mr. J doubted that could ever happen again. He felt as if his soul had frozen and all that was left inside of him was hatred, shadowed by an insatiable desire for revenge.

He got himself comfortable on the sofa and his mind took him right back to the moment he had re-entered his home and met the two detectives who were in charge of the investigation.

Mr. J had crossed paths with more cops and detectives in his lifetime than he had friends. To him, they were all potatoes from the same sack, but there was something about one of the two detectives that had intrigued him. Unlike every other detective he had ever met, who seemed to be always on edge and fighting a losing battle against his/her own demons, this one seemed to be right at the other end of the spectrum. There was something about the calm in his eyes, about his composure, about the degree of confidence with which he spoke, that made him stand out. Right then, Mr. J was unsure if that was a good sign or not.

He had another sip of his bourbon, pulled out his wallet and reached for the card the detective had given him:

Robert Hunter, LAPD Homicide Special Section.

Mr. J would have to ask Brian Caldron to send him a complete dossier on Detective Hunter.

By the time Mr. J had finished his second drink, cracks of blue light had begun sliding through the dark sky. He put his glass down and checked his watch. It was time to make his first call.

Mr. J made his way into the apartment’s only bedroom, opened the wardrobe door and kneeled down by the heavy-duty, fingerprint biometric safe that sat where his shoes should’ve been. Thumb scanned and six-digit security code entered, the safe opened with a muffled thud. He grabbed one of the several brand new prepaid cellphones he kept locked in there, unwrapped it and dialed a number he knew by heart. The phone number belonged to someone else who worked for the same cartel as Mr. J. Someone at the very top of it and who he knew only as Razor.

The phone rang twice before it was answered by someone with a smooth crooner’s voice.

‘Razor, it’s Mr. J.’

‘Mr. J?’ Razor replied, his tone intrigued and inquisitive. He certainly wasn’t expecting to get a call from Mr. J, let alone at that time in the morning. ‘Is everything all right? Have you run into any problems in Fresno?’

‘No. Fresno went as smoothly as it could’ve gone. No glitches.’

‘I’m glad to hear.’

‘I do have another problem, though.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I have to step back for a while.’ Mr. J’s tone was decisive but calm. ‘I can’t take any more contracts for the foreseeable future.’

There was a short, thoughtful pause.

‘How long is “a while”?’

Mr. J had been expecting that question. ‘At the moment – indefinitely.’

A much longer pause this time.

‘What’s this really about, Mr. J?’ Razor’s voice remained unaltered. ‘Are you calling me to tell me you’re retiring? You know better than anyone that, in this business, retirement comes in a very ugly and final manner.’

Mr. J stayed silent.

‘Is this about Fresno? Did something happen that you’re not telling me?’

‘No, Razor, this is not about Fresno.’

‘So talk to me straight, Mr. J, because right about now your request is sounding a lot like a getaway, like you’re changing sides, and you know we don’t take kindly to those.’

Mr. J had thought long and hard about this. There were very few people on this earth who he trusted completely. In the whole of California, Razor was the only one. He told him enough for Razor to appreciate his decision.

‘Wait a second,’ Razor said when Mr. J was done, this time sounding tremendously surprised. ‘Are you . . . punking me, Mr. J? At this hour of the morning?’

Mr. J could picture Razor shaking his shaved and shiny head like he always did when he found out that he had been tricked. The reason for Razor’s huge surprise was because Mr. J never joked.

‘I’d give anything for this to be a joke, Razor.’ Those words were delivered calmly, but full of sadness.

The long pause returned to the call.

‘So you mean to tell me that someone really did break into your house and not only murdered your wife, but he also made you watch it via a video-call?’

‘Yes.’

Mr. J could practically hear Razor’s thinking gears begin to spin faster.

‘Well, that’s just plain fucked up. No other way to put it. And you’re telling me that this isn’t payback for a job. This . . . masked freak didn’t somehow manage to track you down?’

‘It’s not payback,’ Mr. J confirmed decisively. ‘Whoever this guy is, on the phone, he had no idea of who I was. No idea of who I work for.’

‘How can you be so sure of that?’

Right then, Mr. J’s memory took him back to the thought he’d had just hours ago, when the interview with the LAPD detectives was finally over.

Yes, he now knew exactly what his mistake had been, or better yet, he knew exactly what the detectives’ mistake had been. He now knew why that interview had sounded so wrong. Why he had not once got the impression that he was a suspect in his wife’s murder, when he knew he should’ve been.

What had betrayed the two LAPD detectives hadn’t been one of their questions or anything they’d said, on the contrary, it had been something left unsaid. A question left unasked.