The FBI had tried recruiting him several times, first as a profiler then as an agent, but for some reason, not mentioned in Brian’s report, Detective Hunter had politely declined each and every offer, choosing to stay with the LAPD. The FBI’s NCAVC Director had once said that Robert Hunter was the best criminal behavior profiler the FBI had never had.

After joining the police force, straight after his Ph.D., Hunter had moved through its ranks at lightning speed, becoming the youngest officer to have ever made detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Since then, his track record had been second to none. He had closed almost every investigation he had ever led. The ones he was unable to were brought to as near completion as humanly possible.

Robert Hunter was now the lead detective for the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit of the LAPD Homicide Special Section. Inside the LAPD, the UVC Unit was also known as the Freakshow Unit, not because of its team of detectives, but because of the kind of criminals they chased. It was the type of unit most detectives would give their right arm not to be assigned to.

‘I was wondering if I could maybe ask you a quick question over the phone,’ Hunter said, seeing no point in trying to make any small talk.

‘Yes, of course, Detective. Whatever I can help with.’ Time to become the clueless Mr. Jenkinson again.

‘Could I ask you,’ Hunter began, ‘have you had any work done to your house recently?’

‘Work?’

‘Yes,’ Hunter clarified. ‘Renovations, paint jobs, quick fixes, plumbing, installations, anything at all where a stranger had to visit your home?’

It took a couple of seconds for Mr. J’s fatigued brain to fully engage. The photos on the mantelpiece, he realized. Cassandra’s killer didn’t get the idea for that damn question right there and then . . . he’d been to the house before. Not only that, but he knew I wouldn’t know the answer to that question. That whole game was a farce. The gears inside his mind started spinning faster. Any work done to the house? Any installations? Anything at all where a stranger had to visit your home? Think, goddamnit, think.

‘Mr. Jenkinson?’

‘Cassandra was the one who usually dealt with anything like that,’ Mr. J finally replied. ‘But she’d always let me know for budget purposes and all.’ Another short pause. ‘I can’t recall anything, Detective. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s fine,’ Hunter replied. ‘At the moment we’re just speculating around the little we have, really.’

‘I understand, and I’m very sorry.’

‘There’s no need to be, Mr. Jenkinson.’

Hunter knew that in addition to being completely exhausted, Mr. Jenkinson’s head would be a total mess of emotions, and memories, and images, and everything else, not to mention the overly destructive feeling of guilt that Hunter knew had already settled in. Right now, for anyone in Mr. Jenkinson’s shoes, trying to recall simple memories – like a repairman coming to the house for whatever reason – would be a monstrous uphill battle.

‘If anything comes to mind,’ Hunter said, ‘anything at all, please call me straight away, no matter the time of day or night.’

‘Of course, Detective,’ Mr. J replied. ‘If I remember anything, I’ll call you immediately.’

What Hunter didn’t know was that Mr. J had lied.

Sixty-One

Garcia had just finished making a brand new pot of coffee when Hunter stepped back into their office. The mouthwatering smell of the strong Brazilian brew Garcia had used had completely intoxicated the air and Hunter found it impossible to resist. Not that he wanted to, anyway. He walked over to the machine and poured some into his mug. As he began stirring his coffee, Garcia chuckled, sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

‘Why do you do that?’ he asked.

‘Do what?’

‘Stir your coffee? You drink it black. No sugar. No cream. No milk. There’s nothing for you to stir into the coffee, so why do it?’

‘I like the noise it makes,’ Hunter replied with a shrug, deliberately hitting the metal spoon against the side of the porcelain mug.

‘Yeah, I bet you do. You know, that’s just like putting water inside a shaker, adding absolutely nothing to it, shaking it vigorously, then drinking it. It’s still just water.’

‘Yes,’ Hunter replied. ‘But that would be water shaken, not stirred.’

‘Oh, hell, no,’ Garcia said, half laughing. ‘You didn’t just make a double-oh-seven joke, did you? That was absolutely awful, Robert.’

‘You laughed.’

‘That wasn’t a laugh.’

‘Yes it was.’

‘No it wasn’t . . . Anyway. Any luck?’ Garcia asked, referring to Hunter’s phone call to John Jenkinson.

‘No,’ Hunter replied, placing his mug on his desk. ‘He can’t remember any sort of work being done to their house recently. No technicians either, but he said that his wife was the one who took care of things like that.’

‘Just like we thought,’ Garcia agreed.

As they’d left Mr. Jenkinson’s house that morning, before getting to the coroner’s office, Hunter and Garcia had asked Operations to run a search, backtracking all of Cassandra Jenkinson’s credit-card transactions in the past five years. The idea was to flag any sort of home improvement or home repair company she might’ve used, including electronic repairs, plumbers, gardeners, gutter cleaning, even delivery people who might’ve had to walk through her living room – a new sofa, new rug – anything. The same was also being done to Karen Ward’s credit cards. The lists would then be cross-referenced. If Karen and Cassandra had used the same company, or even the same tradesman at any time, they knew that they were probably on to something.

‘While on the phone,’ Hunter said, sipping his coffee. ‘I thought of something else. Let’s add John Jenkinson’s credit cards to our search. Maybe his wife used one of his to pay for something and forgot to tell him. If he’s not tight with his finances, he could’ve easily missed it.’

‘Good point,’ Garcia agreed, reaching for the phone on his desk.

Hunter finished his coffee and consulted his watch. ‘There’s something I need to go check with the forensics lab, but can I ask you a favor?’

‘Sure. By the way, this something you need to check doesn’t happen to be called Dr. Susan Slater, does it?’

‘What?’

‘Just saying. Anyway, what’s the favor?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘Remember how you came across the probable way in which our killer found out about Tanya Kaitlin not knowing Karen Ward’s cellphone number by heart?’

‘Of course, the entry on their friend’s social media page. Pete Harris. The brainlazy fun chart thing.’

‘I was thinking,’ Hunter said, ‘if the killer really used social media to gain that sort of information on Tanya Kaitlin, why wouldn’t he have tried the same thing to gain information on Cassandra Jenkinson’s husband?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that myself,’ Garcia admitted. ‘Don’t worry. I’m on it.’

Sixty-Two

As soon as he disconnected from the call with Hunter, Mr. J urged his exhausted brain to pick up speed. Until then, he had to admit that he was sold on the assumption that the idea for the killer’s wedding question had been something he had come up with on the spot, instigated by the photographs on the mantelpiece. The thought that maybe the killer had been to his home before had never crossed his mind. At least not yet, but it made sense. It made a hell of a lot of sense. When Hunter mentioned the possibility of a stranger entering the house – someone doing some sort of repair work, like a technician – then, and only then, the memory came back to him.