‘Fantastic,’ she murmured. ‘This just isn’t my day.’

Suddenly, she felt her chest tighten around her heart. A burning heat took over her body with incredible speed as her throat knotted, making it hard for her to breathe. The station started to spin. Her vision was invaded by tiny circles of light, but they quickly got bigger and brighter until all she could see was a blinding white light. And then it happened.

The bright light was replaced by grainy black and white images, like a short segment from an old movie. But what she saw was no classic.

‘Oh God, no.’ Her voice was drowning on tears. ‘Please, not again.’

The images played for only a few seconds, but it was enough to fill her with terrifying fear.

Her nose started bleeding. Something pirouetted inside her stomach, and she gagged on the bile as it surged into her mouth. She desperately needed to get to the ladies’ room.

‘Someone please help me.’ Her lips moved but no sound came out. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell to her knees as something erupted from her stomach. Right there, in the middle of the main floor of Los Angeles Union Station, she lost control and vomited.

Thirty-One

Hunter lived alone. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had never really worked out. They’d always start well. The women he dated, at first, seemed very understanding of the pressures of his job and the commitment it demanded. But soon they wanted more. A lot more than he was prepared to give. And although he felt lonely sometimes, long-term relationships simply didn’t fit into his lifestyle. Hunter’s sexual life consisted exclusively of one-night encounters or short-term, no-strings-attached affairs.

He enjoyed spending time by himself. He felt comfortable in his sparsely decorated one-bedroom apartment. A good book and a double dose of one of the many single-malt Scotch whiskeys from a very well-accomplished collection always made him relax. But not tonight. This was only the second night since they’d found Father Fabian’s body, but the pressure was building up fast. He felt the need to go out and see other people talking, laughing and living life. The world of the dead had a habit of getting under his skin.

Los Angeles has one of the liveliest and most exciting nightlifes in the world. From luxurious and trendy clubs where A-list celebrities hang out, to dingy and sleazy underground venues. There are themed bars and lounges scattered all over the city. You can have a drink in a hospital ward where cocktail waitresses run around in skin-tight black nurses’ uniforms, or in the most traditional of Irish pubs, where the barman leaves the Guinness to settle before topping up the glass and drawing a shamrock in the froth.

Hunter wasn’t looking for anything crazy or loud, so live music venues and bars with dance DJs were out. He also decided to stay in Downtown Los Angeles instead of taking a drive to any of the many beach bars. He settled on the Golden Gopher on West Eighth Street. Its low-key and relaxed atmosphere was just what Hunter had in mind.

He got there at about 9:00 p.m. The place was busy but not crowded. He took a seat at the end of the old-West saloon-looking bar and ordered a single dose of single malt. The barman, a tall, short-haired Puerto Rican with a goatee trimmed to perfection, dropped two cubes of ice into the glass and Hunter stared at them as they cracked. His mind methodically going over the case. Two days and they had nothing so far.

He finished his Scotch and his stare fell on a small group huddled around an old Space Invaders game machine.

Without him noticing it, the barman poured another dose and slid the glass towards Hunter.

‘Wow, you’re quick,’ he said with a nod.

‘This one’s paid for, sir.’

Hunter frowned.

‘The lady at the far table to your right,’ the barman said with a slight head tilt.

Hunter turned to face the table the barman had indicated. A tall, attractive brunette was sitting by herself. Streaked hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders. She had olive-tanned skin and seductive brown eyes. The top two buttons of her cream blouse were strategically undone, revealing a jaw-dropping cleavage.

Hunter lifted his glass and accepted the drink with the most subtle of smiles.

She held his gaze, blinked and then smiled back, gesturing for him to join her.

‘You’re in luck,’ the barman said.

‘Does she do this often?’

‘I’ve never seen her in here before,’ he replied, running a hand over his goatee.

‘She looks like a maneater to me,’ Hunter said without breaking eye contact with the brunette.

The barman grabbed a glass and started polishing it. ‘She could eat me any time.’

Hunter gave the barman a friendly wink. ‘OK, here goes nothing.’ He made his way towards the brunette’s table.

Thirty-Two

‘Thanks for the drink. It’s very kind of you,’ Hunter said, taking the seat directly in front of her.

She gave him a dentist’s magazine smile. ‘It’s no problem. It’s good to find a man who appreciates a real drink.’

Hunter noticed she was drinking the same as he was.

‘You’re a Scotch drinker?’

‘I like my drink strong.’

She had a sip of her single malt under Hunter’s watchful eye.

‘I’m Robert,’ he said, extending his hand.

‘I’m Claire, Claire Anderson.’

They shook hands, and Hunter noticed how smooth her skin felt.

‘Do you come here often?’ she asked.

‘Not really. I needed a drink tonight, and I didn’t feel like going to a hip or noisy place. They serve good single malt in here, and the atmosphere is . . . sedated. How about you?’

‘I come in here every once in a while. My apartment’s just a block from here.’

‘Great location, but this isn’t really a reporter’s drinking joint, is it?’ he said casually.

Her smile didn’t disappear. It simply morphed into a more believable one. ‘I guess you’ve recognized me, then?’

‘Your hair is different. Curlier. But I remember you from the Seven Saints church. You asked me if I was attributing the murder to a serial killer even before I had a look at the crime scene.’

Claire arched her eyebrows, accepting it. ‘So, now that you’ve seen the crime scene, do you think it could be the work of a serial killer?’

‘You started so well,’ Hunter said, shaking his head disappointedly. ‘Buying me a drink and all. Wasn’t there supposed to be a little bit of sweet-talking, maybe even flirting, before the questions start?’

‘We can do that if you like.’

‘I think that would be better.’

‘So what would you like to sweet-talk about, Detective Hunter?’

‘You can call me Robert. It’s OK.’

‘So what would you like to sweet-talk about, Robert?’

‘Let’s start with this.’ He leaned forward, reached for her glass and poured its contents into his own. ‘What do you really drink?’

She regarded him for a second. ‘How do you know Scotch isn’t my drink?’ A tone of defiance in her voice.

Hunter cocked his eyebrows.

She held his gaze for a second before her lips broke into a new smile. ‘OK, you got me. Gin and tonic.’

A moment later Hunter came back to the table with a tall, icy glass of G&T.

‘Thanks,’ she said before sipping her drink. ‘Let’s try this again, shall we?’ She offered her hand. ‘I’m Claire.’

‘Oh, so you did give me your real name?’

She nodded.