Hunter regarded Tracy for a moment before he began.

‘OK, I’ve seen you at the UCLA library a couple of times before.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed you there before too,’ she came back. ‘Always at night. Always at the twenty-four-hour reading room, but I didn’t manage to figure out that you were a detective with the LAPD. And, let me add, I never have any psychology reference books with me when I go there. I prepare my lectures in the afternoons or early evenings, never that late at night. And I never prepare them in the library, anyway. I prefer to do it at home. So I know that it wasn’t the books that gave it away.’

‘Not your books.’

Tracy looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure I get it.’

‘In the library,’ Hunter clarified, ‘you’re always sitting at a table by yourself, while all the other tables usually have groups of students sitting together. In a public library, sitting by yourself is expected, but in a university library, students sit together.’

‘UCLA is a very big university, Robert, with over forty thousand students. And furthermore, when you are there, you sit by yourself too.’

‘True,’ Hunter accepted it. ‘And that’s where the second observation comes in.’

Tracy looked intrigued.

‘I’ll admit that the first time I saw you at the reading room, sitting by yourself, I thought that you went to UCLA, but within a couple of minutes, a group of three, maybe four students, walked past your table, said “hello” and carried on to the next available table. They didn’t ask if you wanted to join them. They didn’t ask if they could join you. That meant that they knew you, but not as a fellow student.’

Tracy finally began catching on.

‘The night we met by the coffee machine,’ Hunter continued, ‘the same thing happened again, but this time one of the students showed you something on her textbook. You looked at it, then smiled and nodded at her. A teacher’s confirmation nod, as if you were saying, “Yes, that’s right.” ’

For Tracy it was as if a light had finally been shone on a dark secret. ‘And the book she showed me was on psychology,’ Tracy said.

‘Forensic psychology,’ Hunter confirmed.

She smiled. ‘That is my main field, yes – forensic psychology, hence why I was so intrigued by your powers of observation and deduction.’ She paused and looked at Hunter in a peculiar way. ‘Thanks for finally clarifying it for me.’

‘Am I in the clear now?’ Hunter asked, extending his hand. ‘Shall we order?’

Tracy handed the drinks menu back to him. ‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea.’

Hunter didn’t stray that far from home, ordering a Scotch-based cocktail; Tracy went for a rum-based one.

‘I guess it’s my turn to come clean,’ Tracy said, as the waitress walked away with their order. ‘I did check you out a little bit.’

‘Did you?’

‘I was intrigued,’ she confessed. ‘I wanted to at least find out which LAPD department you were with.’

‘And how would you have done that?’

Tracy shrugged. ‘I have a few good friends in high places within the LAPD.’

Hunter laughed.

‘The Ultra Violent Crimes Unit?’ From the way Tracy had phrased her words, Hunter wasn’t sure if it had been a question or a statement. He said nothing.

‘I must get you to come and talk to my students some day.’

‘I’m no teacher,’ Hunter replied.

‘You don’t need to be.’

The waitress came back with their drinks and, for the next fifteen minutes, they talked and laughed about different subjects, none of them related to their jobs. They were just about to order a second round when Hunter’s phone rang.

Tracy looked at him dumbfounded, failing to stop the disbelieving smile that came to her lips. She could barely believe that it was happening again.

Hunter took the call and listened for a moment.

‘I’m on my way,’ he said as he locked eyes with Tracy. The look in them explained more than words could ever do.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, getting up.

Tracy stood up with him, took a step closer and kissed his lips.

‘Call me, OK?’

Seventy-Five

Garcia had just arrived at the address he’d been given when he saw Hunter’s car appear at the top of the road. He waited for his partner to park before meeting him by the police perimeter.

‘Is this guy trying to break a record, or what?’ he said, lifting the yellow crime-scene tape for Hunter to stoop under it. ‘Three victims in five days?’

Garcia’s anger didn’t reflect off the killer’s actions. It reflected off their failure to advance their investigation. Hunter knew this because he felt the same anger inside him. While they barely had anything worth pursuing, the ‘video-call’ killer was claiming victims at the speed of light.

Suddenly, Garcia paused and frowned at Hunter.

‘What?’ Hunter asked.

‘Is that red lipstick on your lips?’

‘What?’ He wiped his lips with the back of his right hand. It came back red.

‘It is lipstick.’ Garcia gave his partner a cheeky smile. ‘Were you on a date?’ The surprise in Garcia’s voice was real. ‘You never told me you were going on a date.’

‘It wasn’t exactly a date.’ Hunter used a paper tissue to wipe his lips clean and quickly moved the subject away from him and Tracy. ‘So, what info do we have on the new victim?’

‘Her name was Gwen Barnes,’ Garcia said, reading from his cellphone. ‘Dr. Gwen Barnes – thirty-eight years old. Born and raised right here in Los Angeles – Hawthorne.’

‘Married?’

‘Divorced. No kids. Ex-husband, Kevin Malloy, lives in Pomona. We don’t have much on him yet.’

‘How long were they married for?’ Hunter asked.

‘Umm . . .’ Garcia thumb-scrolled the information on his cellphone screen. ‘Four and a half years. They got divorced just over two years ago.’ He thumb-scrolled back up before continuing. ‘Dr. Barnes ran her own small psychotherapy practice in downtown LA – West Ninth Street.’

‘How long had she been living at this address?’

‘Practically since her divorce.’ Garcia paused, made a face and shrugged at Hunter. ‘That’s it. That’s pretty much all we’ve got on her at the moment. Operations hadn’t had much time to dig things up. We’ll have a more comprehensive file on her by tomorrow afternoon.

‘Who did the killer call this time?’

‘The victim’s only sister,’ Garcia replied. ‘Erica Barnes.’

‘Is she local?’

‘Not that far. She lives in Carson.’

‘Are you guys with the UVC Unit?’ an LAPD sergeant asked, coming up to them. He was about five-foot-ten, with bony shoulders and skinny arms. His dark hair was cut short and neat. His eyes, which were just as dark as his hair, were shaped like sideways teardrops.

‘That’s us, yes,’ Garcia said, facing him and displaying his credentials. Hunter did the same.

‘I’m Sergeant Prado from the West Bureau, Wilshire Area Division.’ He spoke with a light Puerto Rican accent.

They all shook hands and began making their way towards the single-story, green-fronted house at the end of the street.

‘Two of my men were first response here tonight,’ the sergeant explained, pointing at two young and pallid-looking uniformed officers by a black and white unit. ‘I’ve got to tell you, this isn’t the quietest of neighborhoods, meaning that we get our fair share of violent homicides, but somebody did a job on that poor woman in there in a way I’ve never seen before. And I take it you’ve heard about the crazy nine-one-one call that came in, right? Apparently whoever did this called the victim’s sister and made her watch over a video-call. Is that sick enough for you guys at UV, or what?’

As they got to the front porch, two media vans rounded the corner at the top of the road.