Garcia took the bag and turned it over so they could see the image. The photograph was of Nicole Wilson.

‘What the hell?’ Garcia’s gaze paused on Hunter for a split second before moving back to his captain. ‘How did you get this?’

‘I didn’t.’ Captain Blake leaned against her desk. ‘The mayor did.’

There was a hesitant moment as both detectives exchanged another concerned look.

‘The mayor?’

‘Yes. He received it earlier this morning, via FedEx.’ She reached for plastic bag number two and handed it to Garcia again. ‘As you can see, it was marked as ‘‘urgent – private and confidential”.’

Hunter and Garcia checked the FedEx wrapper.

‘Tyler Jordan?’

‘Bogus name, as expected,’ the captain replied. ‘Bogus address as well. Apparently it’s a boarded-up shop – everything else still needs to be checked.’

‘Did the mayor know Nicole Wilson?’ Hunter asked.

Captain Blake shook her head. ‘According to him, he’s never seen her before. But we all know that public safety has always been at the forefront of Mayor Bailey’s campaign, so once he saw that picture he immediately got on the phone to Chief Bracco. Bracco left this office about five minutes before you got here. That’s how I have these. He wanted them to go to forensics ASAP, but I wanted you to see them first.’

‘Does the chief know that Nicole Wilson’s body was found in the early hours of this morning?’ Hunter asked.

‘He does now.’ Captain Blake paused and drew in a deep breath. ‘But that’s not all.’

Hunter and Garcia’s attention moved from the photo and the FedEx wrapper back to her. Once again, she reached for something that was on her desk – a third see-through plastic bag.

‘The photo came with a note,’ she said, handing the bag to Hunter.

The white piece of paper that sat inside the plastic bag had a crease down its center where it had been folded in half. Like the note found in Nicole Wilson’s throat, the words had been handwritten, but this time not in blood. The killer had used a red ballpoint pen.

People in this city put their trust in law enforcement agencies like the LAPD, and sometimes even the FBI, to keep them safe, to help those who can’t help themselves, to right them when they’re wronged, to protect them, and to seek justice no matter what.

Those agencies are supposed to be the best of the best. The experts when it comes to reading people and discerning good from evil. But the truth is that they only see what they want to see. And the problem with that is that when they play at being blind men, people suffer . . . people get tortured . . . and people die.

So now I have a question. If any of these so-called experts stood face to face with someone like me, if they looked straight into my eyes, would they see the truth inside me? Would they see what I have become, or would they falter?

The woman in the picture certainly saw it. She felt it on her flesh.

And before the sun rises tomorrow, someone else will see it and feel it too. And trust me, what she’s been through is nothing compared to what is still to come, unless these so-called experts are able to stop me.

Well, are they?

FOR I AM DEATH.

‘Jesus,’ Garcia said after reading the note a couple of times over.

‘And from what you’ve told me so far,’ the captain said, ‘I guess we can confidently say that he’s not bluffing.’

Silence filled the room for several seconds. Garcia was the first to break it.

‘What I don’t get is, why the mayor? This note refers to law enforcement agencies like the FBI, and ourselves, nothing really to do with the mayor’s office. If Mayor Bailey didn’t know Nicole Wilson, why send the picture and the note to his office? Why not send it directly here to the PAB or to Chief Bracco’s office?’

‘I’ve been asking myself that same question,’ Captain Blake said. ‘And with today’s technology, why post it instead of emailing it?’

‘Two reasons,’ Hunter replied, his full attention still on the note. ‘If the killer had emailed it, there’d be no guarantees that the mayor would’ve gotten it. Something like this could’ve easily been automatically flagged as spam or junk mail by some sort of firewall program, and have been completely discarded without anyone actually opening it. No way this killer would’ve run that risk.’

Captain Blake accepted it with a head nod. ‘And the second reason?’

‘The shock effect. The credibility. Seeing a handwritten, original note, and a Polaroid photograph, two tangible items, something that the mayor could actually handle, packs a much bigger punch then something the mayor could only see through his computer screen. It makes the threat a lot more real. That’s also the reason why the killer used a Polaroid, instead of a regular photo.’

Garcia nodded. ‘An attached photo could’ve been Photoshopped to the last pixel. A Polaroid is practically impossible to touch. As Robert said, it gives the killer credibility.’

‘OK,’ the captain agreed. ‘But why send it to the mayor?’

‘Urgency,’ Hunter replied. ‘If this package had come straight here to the PAB and to your office, would you have informed Chief Bracco, or the mayor?’

‘No, of course not.’

Hunter nodded once. ‘And if it had gone straight to Chief Bracco’s office, do you think he would’ve informed the mayor?’

Captain Blake caught up with Hunter’s logic.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘There’d be no need to worry the mayor. But send it directly to the mayor a couple of weeks before an election, and you start a hierarchical panic chain reaction – the mayor, who’s obsessed with citizen safety, takes it straight to the chief of police, who brings it straight to me.’

‘As I’ve said,’ Hunter added. ‘This guy’s got a big ego, and he wants to play, but he wants to make sure he’s playing against the right opponents. As he wrote on his note – the best of the best – because in his mind, he deserves nothing less. Getting the mayor involved would guarantee he got what he wanted.’

‘Well, so, he’s in luck,’ the captain said, walking back behind her desk. ‘Because you two are supposed to be the best I have.’

Twenty-Four

Night had already recolored the sky by the time Sharon Barnard opened the door to the house she shared with Tom Hobbs in Venice, in the Westside region of Los Angeles. Today she had worked a return flight from LAX to Kansas City, where for three and a half hours each way, she had endured a battery of cheesy pick-up lines and humorless anecdotes, all of them from overweight businessmen who smelled of cheap cologne and did a piss-poor job of hiding their wedding bands.

She smiled in relief as she finally closed the door behind her, put her cabin crew suitcase on the floor and began rubbing the back of her neck with both hands. Her neck and shoulder muscles felt a little stiff, but it was nothing that a long shower followed by a nice bottle of wine and some relaxing music couldn’t fix. And tonight she had the house to herself. Tom had flown to San Francisco that morning, where he’d spend the night, probably partying somewhere in the Castro, the largest gay neighborhood in the USA, before flying back tomorrow afternoon.

Both Sharon and Tom had been away for a day and a half. The house had been locked, all the windows shut and the curtains drawn. With the early August heat, the place felt like a sauna. Sharon opened one of the living room windows before crossing over to the kitchen and grabbing a cold bottle of beer from the fridge to cool her down.