Hunter knew that in the early stages after death, especially the first three days, if the body is kept in relatively normal environment conditions, cellular metabolism slows as the internal systems begin to break down. Lack of oxygen in the tissues triggers an explosive growth of bacteria, which feed on the body’s proteins, carbohydrates and fats, producing gases that cause the body to smell. That chemical reaction also causes the body to start to bloat and swell considerably, while secreting fluids from the mouth, nose, eyes, ears and lower body cavities. It had been exactly three days since they watched that woman die inside that glass coffin.

The forensics agent shook his head. ‘No. No bloating of the body, whatsoever. Actually the body was just entering rigor mortis. My guess is that she died sometime yesterday or overnight.’

Garcia looked at Hunter, but his gaze gave nothing away.

‘You’ll have to wait for the autopsy results for a more accurate time frame,’ the agent concluded.

‘Was the body sent to the coroners in North Mission Road?’ Hunter asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘Now, the really fucked-up thing is,’ Sanchez said, retrieving a clear plastic evidence bag from his pocket, ‘together with the wasps, they found this stuffed in her mouth.’ He handed the envelope to Hunter. Inside it was a yellow, square sticky note. Written in black ink, from what looked to have been a felt-tip pen, were the words Enjoy, Detective Hunter. I know I did.

Forty-Two

Hunter and Garcia read the note, and without saying a word returned it to the forensics agent. He would take it back to the lab for analysis.

‘I’m assuming that this case will now be transferred to the Homicide Special Section?’ the agent asked, as his stare flip-flopped between Hunter, Garcia and Sanchez.

Before Hunter or Garcia could answer, Sanchez lifted both of his hands, palms forward. ‘It’s all yours. Whoever did this asked for you by name, so, please, be my guest.’

‘As soon as we have any results from anything,’ the agent said, addressing Hunter and Garcia, ‘you’ll be the first to know.’ He turned and rejoined the rest of his team.

‘What the hell is going on?’ Sanchez asked, once Webb was out of earshot. ‘I’ve been observing the two of you since you got here. Checking your reactions while Webb revealed everything his team found so far, while he showed you the wasps they retrieved from inside the woman’s mouth, while you read that note and all . . . Nothing. No anger. No surprise. No disgust. Not even a wince. Fair enough, you didn’t get to see the state of that poor woman’s body up close, but even if you had I don’t think it would’ve surprised you.’ He was still studying both detectives’ faces. ‘I know you’re Homicide Special, and you’re supposed to have seen some pretty messed-up crap, but in my view, no matter how much experience you have, or how well trained you are, in a case like this something’s gotta give.’

Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.

‘Don’t fucking tell me that you’ve seen something like this before. It looks like that woman was killed by hundreds of big-ass wasps. The biggest I’ve ever seen. That’s already nuts in itself. But from that note, one can only conclude she was murdered. I might not be Homicide Special, but I’ve been to plenty of crime scenes, and I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. Twenty-two years’ worth of it. God knows I’ve seen some shit that would make anyone puke. But I’ll tell you now, I’ve never seen shit like this. When forensics pulled the first wasp from that woman’s mouth, my blood sugar hit the floor. I’m allergic to those things. When they pulled out that note, my balls shrunk.’ He paused and used the palm of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead and the nape of his neck. ‘What kind of psycho kills someone using wasps?’

Still silence from Hunter and Garcia.

‘But even after being told that hundreds of wasp stings deformed her entire body . . . even as you read that note, neither of you showed the slightest of reactions. So, you both are either the coldest motherfuckers I’ve ever met, or you were expecting this. So let me ask you again. What the hell is going on? Has this happened before?’

A tense moment passed.

‘Not exactly like this,’ Hunter finally replied. ‘But yes, it has happened before, and, yes, we were expecting it.’

Sanchez was clearly debating something in his head. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more details. The circumstances dictated that the case wouldn’t end up on his desk anymore, and truthfully he was glad. He ran his thumb and index finger over his mustache while staring back at the location where the body was found.

‘Do you know what?’ he said. ‘I can’t wait for retirement. I can’t wait to get the hell away from this city. Last week we arrested a father, who threw his own baby daughter out the window of his tenth-floor apartment just because she was crying too much. When, just seconds later, his girlfriend realized what had happened and started freaking out, he threw her as well. When we kicked his door down, he was sitting in his living room, watching a baseball game and eating cornflakes. The daughter died. The girlfriend is a vegetable in a hospital bed. Her brain is gone. She has no insurance, so they’re already talking about turning off the machines. The guy couldn’t give a damn either way.’

Sanchez straightened his white cuffs under his suit jacket, and then his tie. ‘This city has no conscience. It has no mercy. I wouldn’t be surprised if in the end you find out that whoever did this did it just for the fun of it.’

Forty-Three

California oaks shaded the road as Hunter turned into Loma Vista Drive from West 8th Street in Long Beach. The house they were looking for was almost at the end of the drive. Sat back from the street, it had a pale yellow front that contrasted nicely against the white door and window frames. A low wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. Behind it, a neatly mowed front lawn. The narrow driveway on the left led to the one-car garage at the back of the house. The driveway gates were open. A metallic-blue Toyota Matrix was parked just outside the garage. The license plate number matched the one they had for Christina Stevenson’s car.

According to the research team, Christina had left the LA Times headquarters on Thursday evening. She had taken Friday and Saturday off, but they were expecting to see her back on Sunday. She never turned up, but that wasn’t surprising. Reporters had a tendency of disappearing for days, depending on the story they were working on.

Hunter parked on the street, directly in front of the house. On a Monday afternoon the road was quiet. No kids playing. No one tending to their gardens or lawns. No one sitting out on their porches, enjoying the day.

They entered the property grounds via the driveway gates. Hunter knocked, and then tried the front door – locked. Both front windows were also locked, with their curtains drawn shut.

Garcia had carried on down the driveway in the direction of the blue Toyota. He gloved up and checked the car doors first, before moving onto the garage – all locked.

‘Everything up front is locked,’ Hunter said, joining Garcia. ‘Curtains are all shut.’

‘Same on this side of the house,’ Garcia replied. ‘Car and garage are locked too. But she obviously came back home on Thursday evening after she left the paper.’