‘I have to step back for a while.’ Mr. J’s tone was decisive but calm. ‘I can’t take any more contracts for the foreseeable future.’
There was a short, thoughtful pause.
‘How long is “a while”?’
Mr. J had been expecting that question. ‘At the moment — indefinitely.’
A much longer pause this time.
‘What’s this really about, Mr. J?’ Razor’s voice remained unaltered. ‘Are you calling me to tell me you’re retiring? You know better than anyone that, in this business, retirement comes in a very ugly and final manner.’
Mr. J stayed silent.
‘Is this about Fresno? Did something happen that you’re not telling me?’
‘No, Razor, this is not about Fresno.’
‘So talk to me straight, Mr. J, because right about now your request is sounding a lot like a getaway, like you’re changing sides, and you know we don’t take kindly to those.’
Mr. J had thought long and hard about this. There were very few people on this earth who he trusted completely. In the whole of California, Razor was the only one. He told him enough for Razor to appreciate his decision.
‘Wait a second,’ Razor said when Mr. J was done, this time sounding tremendously surprised. ‘Are you... punking me, Mr. J? At this hour of the morning?’
Mr. J could picture Razor shaking his shaved and shiny head like he always did when he found out that he had been tricked. The reason for Razor’s huge surprise was because Mr. J never joked.
‘I’d give anything for this to be a joke, Razor.’ Those words were delivered calmly, but full of sadness.
The long pause returned to the call.
‘So you mean to tell me that someone really did break into your house and not only murdered your wife, but he also made you watch it via a video-call?’
‘Yes.’
Mr. J could practically hear Razor’s thinking gears begin to spin faster.
‘Well, that’s just plain fucked up. No other way to put it. And you’re telling me that this isn’t payback for a job. This... masked freak didn’t somehow manage to track you down?’
‘It’s not payback,’ Mr. J confirmed decisively. ‘Whoever this guy is, on the phone, he had no idea of who I was. No idea of who I work for.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’
Right then, Mr. J’s memory took him back to the thought he’d had just hours ago, when the interview with the LAPD detectives was finally over.
Yes, he now knew exactly what his mistake had been, or better yet, he knew exactly what the detectives’ mistake had been. He now knew why that interview had sounded so wrong. Why he had not once got the impression that he was a suspect in his wife’s murder, when he knew he should’ve been.
What had betrayed the two LAPD detectives hadn’t been one of their questions or anything they’d said, on the contrary, it had been something left unsaid. A question left unasked.
Once Mr. J was done describing the killer’s mask, one of the detectives should’ve asked him if he minded talking to a police sketch artist so they could have a composite drawing of it. That was the only logical progression to the interview, but the request never came.
Why?
Had they not believed him?
They had no reason not to.
It was then that Mr. J had remembered the look Detective Garcia had given Detective Hunter. It had been a subtle shifting of the eye that had lasted a mere second. He had seen it, but his tired and fragmented brain had failed to interpret it properly. That had been his mistake.
The look shared between both detectives had been a confirmation look, not a doubtful one, as if his description of the mask had matched what the detectives were already expecting, and that could mean only one thing — that they already knew about the mask — and if they already knew about the mask, then they already knew about the killer, and the only way that that was possible was if he had killed before.
‘Trust me, Razor, I’m sure. This wasn’t about me or any job I’ve done.’
The confidence in Mr. J’s words made Razor abstain from asking any more questions. For a moment, he put himself in Mr. J’s shoes. He also had a wife and two daughters who he loved very much. Even the quick pretend scenario in his head made him shake with anger.
‘I’m... sincerely sorry for your loss, my friend.’
Mr. J stayed quiet.
Razor knew then that this wasn’t a getaway. If the roles were inverted, he would be doing the exact same thing.
‘Do you know how to find him?’
‘Not yet, but I will.’
‘Of that I have no doubt, my friend. Do what you need to do... and Mr. J?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know you can count on me, right? If you need anything, and I mean anything, all you need to do is call. I have contacts all over this fucking country. This motherfucker isn’t getting away with this.’
‘Thank you.’
Mr. J disconnected from the call and smashed the pre-paid phone.
Fifty-Eight
The main facility of the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner was located on North Mission Road, number 1104. The building was an outstanding piece of architecture with hints of Renaissance. Old-fashioned lampposts flanked the extravagant entry stairway, with terracotta bricks and gray lintels fronting the stunning old hospital-turned-morgue.
Hunter and Garcia made their way up the steps that led to the building’s main entrance and approached the reception counter.
‘Hello, Detectives,’ the attendant said. She was a petite woman, with deep-set eyes, a pointy nose, and gleaming white teeth behind a very gentle smile.
‘Good morning, Audrey,’ Hunter greeted her back.
‘Morning, Audrey.’ Garcia followed suit.
‘Dr. Hove is in Autopsy Theater Two,’ Audrey said. With her index finger she indicated the double swing doors to the right of the reception.
Hunter and Garcia pushed through them and moved on to a bright white corridor with shiny linoleum floors that smelled heavily of antiseptic detergent. An empty gurney was pushed up against one of its walls. They went through a new set of double doors at the end of the corridor before turning left into a shorter hallway. As soon as they cleared the doors, the antiseptic smell changed into something much, much punchier, an odor that seemed to claw at the back of the throat and slowly burn the inside of the nostrils.
Hunter immediately brought a hand up to his face, cupping his fingers over his nose. No matter how many times he’d been through those corridors, he had never gotten used to that smell. He didn’t believe he ever would either.
A final right turn at the end of this second hallway and they were finally at the door to Autopsy Theater Two. Through the two rectangular windows on the stainless-steel plated doors, the detectives could see Dr. Hove inside. She was sitting on a tall stool, completely absorbed by something on her computer screen.
Hunter knocked three times.
Dr. Hove looked up and as she recognized the detectives she turned and hit the round green button on the wall behind her. The doors unlocked with a pressure-seal-like hiss. With a hand gesture, she motioned them inside.
Hunter and Garcia pushed the doors open and finally stepped into the large and uncomfortably cold room. Its walls were tiled in brilliant white. Its floor, just like the corridors outside, were done in shiny, squeaky-clean linoleum. Two stainless-steel autopsy tables sprang out of a long and wide drainage counter that hugged the west wall. At the end of each table sat an oversized sink equipped with a powerful water jet. Cassandra Jenkinson’s body, half covered by a light-blue sheet, lay on the table closest to them. Her head had been clean-shaved. Her hair would now be at the forensics lab for analysis.