Hunter looked at Garcia.

‘You were right again,’ Garcia said. ‘The killer knew beforehand that Mr. Jenkinson wouldn’t know the answer to his question.’

Sixty-Six

Mr. J’s ribs hurt as if they were broken. The kick Michael Williams had delivered to his abdomen had gotten him completely by surprise. At the time his body wasn’t exactly relaxed, but it wasn’t rigid or foreseeing an attack so soon either, so the kick had penetrated with maximum force.

‘You should’ve expected that, J,’ he whispered to himself, while opening another drawer inside Michael Williams’ bedroom. ‘What the fuck were you thinking? You turn up unannounced, pretending to be a cop, and you thought he would just invite you in for donuts and milk?’ He lifted his shirt to take a look. Bruising was already starting to come through.

Mr. J had already gone through every drawer, every box, every hole he had found in Michael Williams’ living room. So far, he’d found nothing that could give him a lead as to where he could’ve run to, but the search wasn’t over yet. Inside a box that had been slid under an old display unit, he’d found receipts, house bills, and some documents regarding NoLeaks Plumbing. The company had been established two and a half years earlier, and it belonged to Michael Williams himself. As far as Mr. J could tell, he was also its only employee.

Once he was satisfied that he had looked absolutely everywhere in the living room, Mr. J moved his search operation to Michael Williams’ bedroom. Just like the living room, the bedroom was small, lightly furnished, and it smelled of stale sweat and fried food.

Mr. J started with the chest of drawers that was pushed up against the east wall. His living room search had already told him that Michael Williams was an extremely organized man. Every object seemed to have its specific place, but the bedroom told him that Mr. Williams was undoubtedly OCD. Every item of clothing he’d found inside the drawers had been folded to perfection, completely maximizing the use of space, but the obsession didn’t end there. The items had also been color- and type-coordinated.

Mr. J unfolded and looked through each and every single item, including pockets. He found nothing, not even a scrap of paper.

Next, he tried the small wooden wardrobe, where he found a gray suit that looked to have been purchased from a charity shop, two white button-up shirts, one striped tie, a pair of heavy-duty working boots, and a pair of black shoes, which had certainly seen better days.

He checked all the clothing before looking on top and under the wardrobe but, once again, Mr. J found nothing.

There was only one bedside table, set on the right side of the bed, closer to the door, and that was where things began getting exciting. In the drawer, Mr. J found a Beretta 96 A1 .40-caliber pistol. Next to it, two boxes of 180-grain full-metal-jacket ammunition.

‘I don’t suppose I’ll find a permit for this anywhere,’ Mr. J said, as he picked up the weapon and released its twelve-round magazine. None were missing. He brought the gun’s chamber up to his nose. It didn’t smell of gunpowder, but of oil and lubricants.

After securing the pistol between his trousers’ waistband and his lower back, Mr. J got down on all fours and checked under the bed – nothing except for a dark-gray suitcase. He reached for it and dragged it towards him.

It was a polycarbonate suitcase, with a two-way zipper, held shut by a three-digit combination locking mechanism. It felt very light, as if it was empty, but if that was the case, why was it locked?

Mr. J reached for his pocketknife. The average commercial suitcase locking mechanism is there more as a deterrent, rather than as a security feature. All it really takes is a quick flick with the tip of a knife and the system comes apart. It took Mr. J less than three seconds to breach this one.

Zippers free, he flipped the suitcase top open and frowned. Inside it he found a second bag – this one a military-style, thick canvas duffle bag. Its zipper was secured shut by a high-grade, enclosed shackle padlock. There was no way Mr. J was breaching that lock with a pocketknife, but it was still only a zipper on a canvas bag, and that, a pocketknife could rip open in no time.

‘OK,’ Mr. J said to himself. ‘I’m done playing games.’ He stabbed the knife through the zipper, forced its jaws open, and looked inside.

‘Motherfucker.’

Sixty-Seven

In seeing what Garcia had achieved from searching the social-media sites, an idea came to Hunter. He returned to his computer and called up his browser before reaching for the phone on his desk and dialing an internal extension.

‘Dennis Baxter, Computer Crimes Unit.’ A tired-sounding voice answered after the third ring.

‘Dennis, it’s Robert from the UVC Unit.’

Baxter coughed to clear his throat. He knew that when Hunter called him on his work line, something serious was either going down, or about to. ‘Hey, man, what’s up?’

‘Listen,’ Hunter said, ‘does the LAPD have some kind of bogus social media account? Something I can use without having to create a whole bunch of accounts myself?’

Garcia’s brow creased as he leaned sideways on his chair to look at Hunter past their computer screens.

‘You mean a bogus personal account,’ Baxter questioned back. ‘Not a business one. Something with which you could send out friend requests, and messages, and join conversations and all that?’

‘Exactly,’ Hunter replied. ‘Does the LAPD have anything like that?’

‘Yeah, we’ve got a few of those. Why? Do you need one?’

‘By yesterday.’

‘Sure. No problem. What do you need, Facebook?’

‘I need everything you can get – Facebook, Instagram, Twitter – whatever it is that people are using the most these days.’

‘OK. Do you need the same email account to be the primary account across the board here? For legitimacy?’

‘Not really necessary,’ Hunter answered. ‘All I want to be able to do is browse through a few pages, but I understand that I can’t really do that without an account.’

‘Yes, that’s right. So you mean to tell me that you don’t have a Facebook or a Twitter account?’

‘I don’t have any social media accounts.’

‘You’re a caveman,’ Baxter laughed. ‘OK, any particular look or gender you’d rather have or be? I can give you any sort of profile you need – hot chick, super nerd, naive little girl, badass motherfucker, old, young, black, white – when it comes to cyberspace profiles, I provide a God service.’

Hunter thought about it for a second or two. ‘Can I get two identities? One male, one female. Just average people will do.’

‘Sure,’ Baxter replied. ‘Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll email you back.’

‘What’s going on, Robert?’ Garcia asked once Hunter had put his phone down. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘I’m not really sure, myself. But it looks like our killer spends a lot of time on social media sites. That could be how he got his insight into his victims’ lives. If that really is how he does it, then I need to do the same.’

The phone on Hunter’s desk rang twice before Hunter picked it up.

‘Sending the email with your new identities to you now,’ Baxter said.

Hunter called up his email application and his eyebrows arched – lolitasmokinghot@gruntmail.com and pipethepiper@gruntmail.com? ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Swift.’