‘Brian, I need you to check something for me.’

There was a labored pause from Brian’s side.

‘Who is this?’ he asked. ‘How did you get this number?’

Only then did Mr. J realize that he was still speaking with a heavy northern California accent, and his tone of voice was still half an octave higher than usual.

‘Brian, it’s me, Mr. J. No one else has this number, you know that.’

‘Umm . . . sorry, Mr. J. For a moment you sounded completely different there.’

Not wanting to lose any time, Mr. J told Brian about what he had found out in Michael Williams’ bedroom. He also sent him a digital picture of Mr. Williams, something he had snapped from a picture frame in Williams’ living room.

‘I need this ASAP, do you hear me, Brian?’

‘Yeah.’ Brian’s voice was full of hesitation. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Mr. J didn’t like that answer. ‘What does that mean, Brian?’

‘It means that obtaining information about this case might prove to be a problem.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because the LAPD Homicide UVC Unit is running this investigation, and though I’ve never met them, there’s one thing everybody knows about them – those guys trust no one.’

‘And how is that my problem?’

‘Well,’ Brian replied, ‘I’m an IT geek. I deal in cyberspace. Yes, I can get you pretty much any information you need, as long as that information exists in cyberspace . . . and that’s where the problem lies with the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit – they don’t trust anyone. Until they close a case, they keep about ninety-five percent of their investigation off-line. Everything they find out, every lead, every interview, every deduction, all of it, is either kept on paper only, locked inside their office, or worst yet, kept nowhere but inside their own heads. Those guys aren’t like normal detectives, Mr. J. They aren’t even like normal people.’

Mr. J ran a hand over his mouth and chin a couple of times.

‘On an open UVC Unit investigation,’ Brian continued, ‘all the information that’s flying around in cyberspace is only there because it was uploaded by a different department – forensics lab, coroner’s, toxicology lab – you know what I’m talking about, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So,’ Brian carried on, ‘if they run any sort of search from their computers, or a result comes back from any lab, or a photo is sent to them . . . anything like that, I can easily grab it and send it your way. But whatever they deduce from the results, or the photos, or whatever it is that they get, that will be in UVC Unit-land only and there’s no way I can get to it.’

Despite the bad news, Mr. J smiled to himself. Detective Hunter was still surprising him.

‘So, do you have anything at all for me?’ he asked.

‘I do. The woman you asked me to find out about – Karen Ward – she was murdered on Wednesday night, four days ago.’

Another victim, Mr. J thought. That was why Detective Hunter asked me if I knew her – if Cassandra knew her. He was trying to establish a link between the killer’s victims. ‘How? What was the cause of death?’

‘Perforation of the temporal lobe, achieved through the left ocular globe cavity.’

‘What?’

‘She was stabbed through the left eye with a glass shank long enough to reach her brain,’ Brian explained. ‘Her face was completely mutilated by glass, as if she’d flown, face first, through several windows. I’ve just emailed you the official autopsy report and all the photographs, together with a file on Ms. Ward. A word of warning, the photographs are shocking.’

‘OK. Anything else?’

‘Yes, earlier today they began a credit-card transaction check on Cassandra Jenkinson, her husband John Jenkinson, and Karen Ward.’

Mr. J thought about it for an instant. Detective Hunter is checking for that ‘house visit’, he concluded. Any tradesmen who have been to my house or Karen Ward’s house for whatever reason. Whichever names he gets from one credit card, he’ll cross-check with the other. Smart. Unlucky for him that Cassandra had paid Michael Williams in cash.

‘OK, Brian, I’ll need all the results from this search. Whatever they get, I get. Is that clear?’

‘Sure. I’ll ghost the search.’

Mr. J jotted down some notes. ‘OK, now get started on this Michael Williams. Pull whatever stops you need to pull and find me this sonofabitch.’

The call disconnected.

Mr. J’s phone didn’t ring again until 9:52 p.m. that night.

Seventy-Four

It took Hunter fifty-three minutes to get to West Hollywood from Huntington Park. As he pulled up in front of the place Tracy had told him about – a cocktail bar called the Next Door Lounge – he saw her at the traffic lights, just about to cross the road.

Tracy looked even more attractive than Hunter remembered. Her bright red hair was loose, falling in beautiful waves past her shoulders. Her fringe once again looped over and above her forehead, this time forming two very gracious victory rolls. She wore black jeans, a white T-shirt under a cropped leather jacket, black Mary Jane shoes and the same old-fashioned, cat-eye glasses she’d worn the first twice they’d met. Her delicate makeup made her look like a pin-up model.

‘You walked here?’ Hunter asked, meeting her by the lounge’s front door.

‘I told you, I don’t live that far from here.’ She pointed west. ‘Just a quick fifteen-minute walk.’

‘It’s a nice area,’ Hunter commented.

‘It can be,’ Tracy agreed.

‘Shall we?’ Hunter asked, pulling open the door for Tracy.

The Next Door Lounge wouldn’t have looked out of place in a film about the prohibition era in America. Its interior carried all the glamour and forbidden excitement of a speakeasy of the 1920s, with shiny floors, Chesterfield leather seats, and a small stage with an old-fashioned piano where artists would perform jazz and ragtime classics. Even the air carried a very gentle scent that seemed to belong somewhere in the past.

On that Sunday evening, the place wasn’t very busy, which suited Hunter just fine.

‘Would you prefer to sit at the bar or at a table?’ he asked.

‘I don’t mind. You choose.’

‘Table,’ Hunter said confidently, indicating two high-back winged armchairs by a crude brick wall. As they sat down, a waitress walked over and placed two menus on the table in front of them.

‘You’re a whisky man, right?’ Tracy asked.

‘Single malt Scotch,’ Hunter replied. ‘But do you know what? I feel like having something different tonight.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Maybe I’ll go for a cocktail. Why not?’

Tracy replied with a smile that Hunter found hard to read. ‘You’re in good hands. They make some great cocktails in here.’ She paused and pinned Hunter down with a serious stare. ‘But before we order anything.’ She took the menu from his hands. ‘Before your phone rings on you and you dash out the door like you do, I need answers.’

Hunter sat back, crossed his legs and placed his hands on his lap. ‘What answers?’

‘Don’t play dumb,’ she said, with a shake of the head. ‘It doesn’t fit with your image.’

‘You’re talking about you being a psychology professor?’

‘That’s right,’ Tracy confirmed. ‘How did you know? And how did you know it so fast? As I said last night, I know you didn’t figure any of it out from the books I had with me in the reading room that night because none of them were on academia, or on psychology. So how?’

‘I think I’ve answered that question already, haven’t I?’

‘Ha, ha’ Tracy chuckled. ‘Your reply was . . . “It’s just observation”.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘Well, I’m listening. What did you observe? Please feel free to be very specific.’