Hunter disconnected from the call and faced her.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Tracy,’ he said, his voice low and constricted. He could see her disappointment. ‘I need to go.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘It’s OK, Robert. Go. I’ll explain it to everyone.’
As Hunter rushed off the stage, Professor Adams grabbed the microphone from the podium, let out a sad sigh and faced a very confused crowd.
Three
Hunter’s watch read 9:31 p.m. by the time he got to the address he’d been given over the phone. Even at that time on a Wednesday evening, it had taken him around three quarters of an hour to cover the almost nineteen miles between Westwood and Silver Lake — an ethnically highly diverse neighborhood, just east of Hollywood. As he joined Berkeley Avenue, heading west, he immediately saw the cluster of police vehicles surrounding the entrance to North Benton Way.
Hunter knew that in a city like Los Angeles, nothing could gather a crowd of curious onlookers faster than the combination of flashing police lights and black-and-yellow crime-scene tape. With that in mind, he wasn’t at all surprised to see the ever-growing mob of nearby residents that had already assembled by the perimeter — cellphones firmly in hand, hungry for a few seconds of video footage, or even just a decent picture so it could all be displayed on their social-media pages, like Pokémon trophies.
The press had also beaten Hunter to the punch. With tripods and cameras mounted onto their rooftops, two news vans had taken positions on the sidewalk, just across the road from the police cordoned-off area. A couple of reporters were trying their best to obtain whatever information they could out of anyone who would talk to them.
As he finally cleared the crowd, Hunter rolled down his window and presented his badge to one of the uniformed officers guarding the road’s entrance. The officer nodded before clearing the way for Hunter to drive through.
North Benton Way was a quiet residential street just south of the famous Silver Lake Reservoir. Fully grown sycamore trees flanked both sides of the road, shading it from the sun during the day, but casting ominous shadows just about everywhere come dusk. The house Hunter was after was the sixth one along the right-hand side. A red VW Beetle and a blue Tesla S occupied both spaces on the driveway. Parked on the street, a little to the right of the house, Hunter could see three more black-and-white units, together with an LA County Coroner’s forensics van.
Hunter pulled up in front of the van and stepped out of his car, his six-foot frame towering high above the sun-beaten roof of his old Buick LeSabre. He took a moment and allowed his gaze to run up and down the street. The neighboring houses were all lit up, with most of their residents either peering out their windows, or standing by the front door with a look of total shock and disbelief on their faces. As Hunter clipped his badge onto his belt, another car cleared the police barrier at the top of the road. Hunter immediately recognized the metallic blue Honda Civic. It belonged to his partner at the UVC Unit, Detective Carlos Garcia.
‘Just got here?’ Garcia asked as he parked next to one of the police cruisers and jumped out of his car.
‘Less than a minute ago,’ Hunter confirmed.
Garcia’s longish brown hair, still damp from a late shower, was pulled back into a tight ponytail.
Both detectives turned and faced the white-fronted house. Three solemn-faced officers were standing on the sidewalk across the road. Just behind them, a CSI agent, dressed in a hooded Tyvek coverall and armed with a ProTac flashlight, was meticulously scrutinizing the well-cared-for front lawn. At the house’s front porch, half sheltered by a blue forensics tent, a second agent was dusting the door handle and its frame for latent fingerprints.
Noticing them, the oldest of the three police officers on the sidewalk broke away from the group and crossed the road in the direction of the two detectives.
Hunter instantly noticed the single metal pin on the officer’s shirt collar, which identified him as a first lieutenant with the LAPD.
‘You guys must be UVC.’ The officer’s raspy voice sounded tired.
‘Yes, sir,’ Garcia replied. ‘That would be us.’
The lieutenant, who looked to be in his early fifties, was about three inches shorter than Hunter and at least forty-five pounds heavier, all of it around his waist.
‘I’m Lieutenant Frederick Jarvis with the Central Bureau,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Northeast Area Division.’
Hunter and Garcia introduced themselves.
‘Were you first at the scene?’ Garcia asked.
‘No,’ Lieutenant Jarvis replied, turning around and indicating the two policemen he had left behind on the sidewalk. ‘Officer Grabowski and Perez were. I’m the one who decided to escalate this whole mess up to you guys in Ultra Violent Crimes.’
‘So you’ve been inside?’ Hunter asked.
The lieutenant’s demeanor changed as he breathed out. ‘I have. Yes.’ He scratched his right cheek. ‘Thirty-one years in the force and in those years I have seen way more than my fair share of crazy, but if before I die I’m allowed to choose just one thing I could unsee...’ His chin jerked in the direction of the house. ‘That right in there would be it.’
Four
Hunter and Garcia signed the crime-scene manifest, collected a disposable forensics coverall each and began suiting up. Lieutenant Jarvis didn’t reach for one, clearly indicating that he had no intention of reentering that particular crime scene.
‘So what sort of information do we have on the victim so far?’ Garcia asked.
‘The very basic sort,’ the lieutenant replied, reaching for his notepad. ‘Her name was Linda Parker,’ he began. ‘Twenty-four years old from the Harbor, right here in LA. She made a living as a model. Her record was squeaky clean as far as we can tell — no arrests, no outstanding fines, no court orders... nothing. Her VW Beetle had only a few more months to go on finance before it was all paid off. Her taxes were also all paid on time and in full.’
‘Did she live here alone?’ Garcia again.
‘As far as we know — yes. No other names show on any of the utility bills or accounts.’
‘Any known boyfriends? Relationships?’
The lieutenant shrugged. ‘We’ve had no time to gather that sort of information. Sorry, guys, you’re going to have to do the digging work on that.’
Once again, Hunter allowed his stare to run up and down the street.
‘Anything at all from the neighbors?’ he asked. He knew the lieutenant would’ve already ordered a door-to-door of the neighboring houses.
‘Nothing. No one seems to have seen or heard anything, but my guys are still asking around, so maybe with a bit of luck—’
‘Unfortunately lady luck doesn’t seem to like us very much,’ Garcia said. There was no humor in his voice. ‘But who knows? Every day is a new day.’
‘It looks like the perp gained access to the house through the victim’s bedroom window at the back,’ Lieutenant Jarvis said. ‘It’s been smashed from the outside.’
‘How did he get access to the backyard?’ Garcia asked.
The lieutenant nodded at the wooden door on the left of the house. A third forensic agent was dusting it for prints. ‘No signs of forced entry, but it wouldn’t take an athlete to climb over that.’
‘Is that the person who found the body?’ Hunter asked the lieutenant, his head tilting in the direction of the official vehicles parked on the road just to the right of the house.
As soon as he’d stepped out of his car, Hunter had noticed a female officer kneeling by the opened passenger door of the black-and-white unit furthest from them. The officer wasn’t alone. A very distressed woman in her late forties, maybe early fifties, sat in the passenger seat in front of her.