DA Bradley was still looking at him with the same ‘I don’t get your point’ look on his face.

‘The perp had all of that equipment with him,’ Captain Blake explained. ‘He entered that house completely prepared to do what he did. Also, with the tremendous distribution of blood at the crime scene, there was no way the perp wasn’t completely covered in it when he finished. The lack of any blood traces anywhere else in the house suggests that the killer got changed before leaving the bedroom. Probably stuck his blood-soaked clothes into a plastic bag.’ She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. ‘Despite the chaotic state of the crime scene, there is nothing chaotic about our killer, Dwayne. It was all planned, to the last detail.’

Bradley took a deep breath and ran a hand over his mouth. ‘Derek was a friend as well as a colleague.’ His tone had changed in a flash. He now sounded like he was addressing a jury with his opening remarks. ‘I’d known him for over twenty years. I had dinner and drinks in his house many times, and he in mine. I knew his wife. I know his daughters. I’m the one who will accompany them to the morgue for the official identification.’ A muscle tensed in his jaw. ‘And they still don’t know all the sadistic details of their father’s murder. They don’t know about the sculpture. And I’m not sure if they should know. It would destroy them inside.’ His gazed moved around the room before returning to Hunter. ‘Derek was an excellent prosecutor and a devoted family man. We all felt saddened and robbed of an extraordinary person when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer of the lung just a few months ago, but this . . .’ His eyes stole a new peek at the file and photographs on Captain Blake’s desk. ‘This beggars belief.’

If DA Bradley was expecting anyone to make some sort of comment, he was disappointed.

‘Barbara told me that your first line of investigation is to check on all offenders Derek put away over the years,’ he said after a brief pause.

‘Something like that,’ Hunter agreed.

‘Well, that’s exactly where I would start, so maybe your brain isn’t the size of a pea after all.’ Bradley unbuttoned his suit jacket, reached inside his pocket for a card and handed it to Hunter. ‘That’s my best researcher.’

Hunter read the name on the card – Alice Beaumont, Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Bureau of Investigation.

‘She’s brilliant when it comes to digging into anyone’s life. A computer genius. She has access to all our archives, and then some. Alice can help you find whatever file you need regarding any of Derek’s prosecutions.’

Hunter slotted the card into his jacket pocket.

‘I hope you’re not one of those who feel intimidated by working with a female who’s brighter than you.’ DA Bradley smiled.

Hunter smiled back.

‘Now, what concerns me the most,’ Bradley said, back in his super-serious tone, ‘is that over the years Derek put a lot of trash away. Many of them dirtbags caught by you.’ His gaze moved from Hunter to Captain Blake. ‘Or by another detective from your division, Barbara. The process is simple. You catch them. We prepare the case. We take them to court. A judge presides, and a jury of twelve jurors convicts. Do you see where I’m going with this?’

Captain Blake said nothing.

Hunter nodded. ‘If Derek Nicholson’s murder was payback, then he’s only one link in a long chain.’

‘That’s correct.’ Beads of sweat were starting to form on the DA’s shiny forehead. ‘If what we have here is retaliation for Derek being the prosecutor in an old case, then you better catch this crazy fucker soon. Because if you don’t . . . we can expect more bodies.’

Twelve

While the sun baked the day in a cloudless blue sky, the AC blasted cold air into the cockpit of the metallic silver Honda Civic that had just turned into Interstate 105, heading west. The trip shouldn’t have taken them more than twenty-five minutes, but Hunter and Garcia had been sitting in stop-and-start traffic for thirty-five minutes, and they were still at least another twenty away from their destination.

Amy Dawson, Derek Nicholson’s weekdays nurse, lived in a single-story, three-bedroom house with her husband, two teenage daughters, and a noisy little dog called Screamer. The house was tucked away in a quiet street behind a row of shops in Lennox, southwest Los Angeles.

Amy had been hired as Nicholson’s nurse just a few days after he was diagnosed with his illness.

As Garcia finally turned into Amy’s road, the dashboard thermometer showed the outside temperature to be at 88ºF. He parked his car across the road from her place and both detectives stepped out into a humid and stuffy day, the sun stinging their faces.

The house looked old. Rain and sunlight had caused the paint to fade and crack around the windowsills and the front door. The iron-mesh fence that surrounded the property was rusty and bent out of shape in places. The small front yard could certainly have used a little attention.

Hunter knocked three times and was immediately greeted by a barrage of barks coming from deep within the house. Not the strong, ferocious kind of barks that would scare away a burglar, but the squeaky, annoying kind that could give anyone a headache in minutes. And Hunter already had one.

‘Shut up, Screamer,’ a female voice called from inside. The dog reluctantly stopped barking. The door was opened by a black woman with a round face, cat-like eyes and cornrows on her head. She was around five foot five, and her plump figure overstretched the thin fabric of her summer dress. Amy was fifty-two, but her kind face bore the signs of someone who’d lived longer and seen more than her share of suffering.

‘Mrs. Dawson?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yes?’ Her eyes squinted behind thin reading glasses. ‘Oh, you must be the policeman who called earlier?’ Her voice was hoarse but delicate.

‘I’m Detective Hunter and this is Detective Garcia.’

She checked their credentials, smiled politely, and pulled the door fully open. ‘Please come in.’

As they did, Screamer started barking again from under a table. ‘I’m not gonna tell you again, Screamer. Shut up and go inside.’ Amy pointed to a door on the far end of the living room and the tiny dog dashed through it and disappeared down a small corridor. A freshly baked cake smell came from the kitchen and perfumed the entire house. ‘Please make yourselves at home.’ She gestured towards the small and dark living room. Hunter and Garcia had a seat in the mint green tufted sofa, while Amy took the armchair directly in front of them.

‘Would you care for some iced tea?’ she offered. ‘It’s mighty warm out there.’

‘That would be great,’ Hunter replied. ‘Thank you very much.’

Amy walked into the kitchen and moments later returned carrying a tray with an aluminum jug and three glasses.

‘I can’t believe anyone would want to harm Mr. Nicholson,’ she said as she served the drinks. Sadness coated her words.

‘We’re very sorry about what happened, Mrs. Dawson.’

‘Please call me Amy.’ She gave both detectives a feeble smile.

Hunter smiled back. ‘We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us, Amy.’

She stared down at her drink. ‘Who would want to hurt a terminal-cancer patient? It just makes no sense.’ Her eyes found Hunter’s. ‘I was told it wasn’t a burglary.’

‘It wasn’t,’ he replied.

‘He was such a nice and kind man, who I know is now in much better hands.’ She looked up towards the ceiling. ‘May he rest in peace.’

Hunter wasn’t surprised that Amy didn’t seem distraught. She hadn’t been told about the sordid details of the crime. Hunter had also checked her background. Amy had been a nurse for twenty-seven years, eighteen of those dedicated to helping patients with some form of terminal cancer. She did her job to the best of her abilities, but inevitably all of her patients passed away. She was used to dealing with death, and she had learned long ago to keep her emotions in check.