About two months ago, while he was away on another ‘business trip’, a major pipe had burst in their utility room, flooding most of the kitchen with it. Cassandra had called a plumber who had been recommended to her by a friend of hers. According to what she had told Mr. J, the plumber was a very skillful and friendly man. Not only did he fix the problem in a lot less time than she expected he would, but he also helped dry the kitchen floor and put everything back in place. She also told him that he was a very pleasant man to talk to. Very chatty. She even mentioned that he had paid her a very nice compliment, saying that her husband was a lucky man. Once in conversation, extracting the information about Cassandra’s wedding anniversary would’ve been child’s play.

On the phone, while speaking to Hunter, Mr. J made a split-second decision to keep that information to himself, at least for the time being. He wanted to talk to the plumber first before the police did. Even if the detectives found out about the repair work, and Mr. J had no doubt they would eventually, Mr. J could easily blame his forgetfulness on his exhausted brain.

Cassandra had paid the plumber in cash, he clearly remembered her telling him that, but, as always, she had obtained a receipt, which also served as a guarantee for the work done. The receipt would be with all the other house receipts – in a drawer in their kitchen – but, before getting back to his house, Mr. J had to make one more phone call.

Sixty-Three

Once Hunter had left, Garcia went back to his computer. He had two separate browsers and several applications open at the same time. Essentially, what he’d been trying to do was find some sort of link between the two victims – places they both could’ve been to in the past, activities they enjoyed, groups they could’ve belonged to . . . anything.

Serial murderers rarely chose their victims at random. There was always something that would grab the killer’s attention and attract him to them. It could be a physical attribute, a mannerism, a tone of voice, a belief . . . the possibilities were almost endless and most of the time obscure, because in truth, they didn’t have to make sense to anyone else but the killer. To the outside world, it could be something as silly and insignificant as wiping their mouth from right to left, instead of left to right, but to the killer, for some reason, that insignificant action made him mad. Mad enough to want to kill.

Garcia knew that he was clutching at straws, but straws were really all they had at the moment.

He spent another half an hour or so trying a few new combinations, but they all ended up at a brick wall. Frustrated, Garcia got to his feet. What he really needed was a break.

He refilled his coffee mug and placed it on his desk. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he began pacing the room. Just like Hunter, he liked walking when he was thinking. He spent five minutes punishing the office floor before he got back to his seat.

Think out of the box, Carlos, he told himself. Think out of the box, because that’s exactly what this killer is doing. A few minutes later, he’d had a couple of very odd ideas. ‘Oh, what the hell! What have I got to lose, anyway?’

For the next forty minutes he scrolled through pages and pages of information, some of it mind-numbing. His eyes were watering and a ghost of a headache began haunting him. He decided to take another break and try something completely different, but just as he closed the browser tab he was on, something at the bottom of the page caught his eye for a fraction of a second.

‘Shit! What was that?’ he said, blinking a couple of times. Immediately, Garcia right-clicked on the browser window and selected ‘reopen closed tab’. The tab popped back up on his screen. He scrolled down and slowly read the entry.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

Sixty-Four

Michael Williams – that was the name of the plumber Cassandra had called to fix the burst pipe in her utility room two months earlier. Despite paying him cash instead of using one of her credit cards, Cassandra had demanded a receipt. She had always been very strict and organized when it came to those, especially when that receipt also doubled as a guarantee for the work done.

Williams was employed by a company called NoLeaks Plumbing, based in Sylmar, San Fernando Valley. It took Mr. J just one phone call to get a residential address on Williams. The drive there took him just over an hour.

The house was a small bungalow that sat halfway down a discreet dead-end street, just a couple of blocks away from the plumbing company itself. The entire property looked like it’d been neglected for years. Its front lawn was a mess, with overgrown patches of grass, dead leaves from nearby trees, and rubbish sprinkled all over the place. The house itself looked tired and in desperate need of some repairs. Its once vibrant yellow had lost its fight against the Californian sun years ago, fading into a pastel cream color that reminded Mr. J of sour milk. The front door, with an oval bevel glass window, was dirty and stained with what looked to be either oil marks or grease. The windowsills were peeling and riddled with dry rot. There was no driveway, but parked on the street, directly in front of the house, was a black Chevy Mark 2 van, with the plumbing company’s logo, phone number and web address showing on both sides of it.

Mr. J walked up to the house, knocked on the door and waited. He looked nothing like what he did earlier that morning. The wig he had on was black, with the hair layered in waves. It made him look like an aging rock star from the 1990s. His cheeks and under-chin had gained half an inch in volume, making his face look unhealthily puffy. His peppery goatee was thick, but well trimmed. His eyes – light blue. His fake nose looked like it had been broken at least a couple of times.

Twenty seconds went by with no reply from the house. Mr. J stepped closer, bringing his right ear to an inch from the door. No sound from inside. He knocked again, a little firmer this time. Another twenty seconds went by before he saw some movement through the beveled glass window.

‘Hold your fucking horses,’ a thick male voice called from inside, ‘I’m coming.’

Mr. J took a step back and cracked his knuckles.

The door was pulled open by a man who looked to be around the same age as Mr. J. He wore basketball shorts, an old pair of sneakers, and a blue tank top that seemed too small for his muscular physique. His strong arms were completely exposed.

‘Can I help you?’ the man asked, sizing Mr. J up. He didn’t seem to be in a good mood.

With the open door, Mr. J picked up the scent of food cooking in the background. Something spicy and greasy.

‘Mr. Williams? Michael Williams?’ Mr. J asked.

There was a moment of hesitation.

‘Who wants to know?’

Mr. J produced an almost perfect forgery of an LAPD’s detective badge. Even an expert would struggle to tell the difference.

‘I’m Detective Craig Lewis with the LAPD.’ Mr. J’s voice also sounded completely different. His tone had gone up about half an octave and the accent was typical of northern California.

In hearing those words and seeing the badge, Michael Williams’ demeanor changed slightly.

Mr. J noticed it.

‘I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?’