The Crucifix Killer Part 24

'Well, have a good time, I'll see you tomorrow.' Garcia started flipping through some files. Hunter stopped by the door, turned and watched Garcia. Hunter had seen that same scene before. It was like looking back in time, the only difference was he'd be sitting in Garcia's seat and Scott would be by the door. He sensed in Garcia the same pa.s.sion for success, the same hunger for the truth that still burned inside him, the same desire that had almost driven him to the brink of madness but unlike Garcia, he'd learned to control it.

'Go home, rookie, it's not worth it, we'll carry on tomorrow.'

'Ten minutes, that's all.' Garcia gave Hunter a friendly wink before turning his attention back to the computer.

Thirty-Five.

Hunter hated being late, but he knew he wouldn't make it in time from the moment he left his RHD office. He'd never been the type to pay much attention to his clothes, but today he tried all seven of his 'going out' shirts on at least twice and his indecision had cost him almost an hour. In the end he'd decided to go with a dark-blue cotton shirt, black Levi's jeans and his new leather blazer jacket. His main problem was choosing a pair of shoes. He had three and all of them were at least ten years old. He couldn't believe he'd spent so much time choosing what to wear. After splashing a handful of cologne on his face and neck he was ready to leave.

On the way to Isabella's apartment he stopped at a liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine. Hunter's alcohol knowledge was restricted to single malt whisky, so he accepted the salesman's advice and bought a 1992 bottle of Mas de Daumas Ga.s.sac, and hoped it would go with whatever she was cooking. For the price he paid, it'd better.

The entrance hall to her Glendale apartment block was pleasantly decorated. Authentic oil paintings adorned the walls. A beautifully arranged bouquet of colored flowers sat on a squared gla.s.s table in the center of the room. Hunter caught a glimpse of his reflection in a full-length mirror positioned to the right of the door and made sure his hair was all in place. He rearranged his blazer collar before making his way up to the second floor via the stairs. He paused in front of number 214 and stood still for a moment. There was music coming from inside. A suave beat with strong ba.s.s lines and softly played tenor sax contemporary jazz. She had good taste. Hunter liked that. He reached for the doorbell.

Isabella's hair was tied back in a loose style with several strands falling over her shoulders fully exposing her face. Her light-red lipstick and subtle eye make-up perfectly contrasted with her olive tanned skin and emphasized her European features. She was wearing a tight, red charmeuse satin top, a black pair of jeans and no shoes. Hunter didn't need X-ray vision to notice she was wearing no bra.

'Hi there, you're fashionably late,' she said as she leant forward to give Hunter a peck on the lips.

'I'm sorry about that. I had a bad hair day.'

'You too?' She laughed, pointing to her own hair. 'Come in.' She pulled him by the hand and led him into the living room. There was a pleasant and exotic smell in the apartment. The living room was illuminated by soft light courtesy of a table lamp in the corner next to a comfortable-looking leather armchair.

'I hope this goes with dinner, I'm not a wine expert so I followed a recommendation,' he said, handing her the wine bottle.

Isabella held it with both hands and tilted it towards the dim light so she could read the label. 'Ooh! Mas de Daumas Ga.s.sac . . . and a 1992 bottle, I'm impressed. I'm sure this goes well with anything. How about a small gla.s.s now?'

'That sounds good to me.'

'Great, the gla.s.ses are on the table and the corkscrew is just over there.' She pointed to a small drinks cabinet next to the window. 'Dinner will be ready soon. Make yourself comfortable.' She turned and walked back into the kitchen leaving Hunter to do the honors.

He took his jacket off, remembering to remove his Wildey pistol as well. He picked up the corkscrew from the drinks cabinet and opened the wine bottle, pouring the dense red liquid into two gla.s.ses on the table. Next to the drinks cabinet an elegant gla.s.s rack held a considerable number of CDs. Hunter couldn't help browsing through them. Her jazz collection was impressive, most of it contemporary with a few old school cla.s.sics thrown in. Everything immaculately arranged in alphabetical order. A handful of autographed Rock alb.u.ms disrupted the remarkable jazz compilation. Hunter quickly had a look at them. So she secretly listens to rock music, he thought with a smile. My kinda woman.

'Whatever it is that you're cooking smells great,' he said, walking into the kitchen with both gla.s.ses in hand. He handed one to Isabella who slowly swirled it around and brought it to her nose before having a small sip.

'Wow, as I expected . . . delicious.'

Hunter had no idea what difference it made but he copied Isabella's moves, swirling, sniffing and sipping.

'Yeah, not bad.' They both laughed.

She lifted her gla.s.s in Hunter's direction. 'To . . . a nice evening together. Hopefully with no phone interruptions.'

Hunter nodded and softly touched his gla.s.s against hers.

The evening proceeded better than Hunter could've hoped for. Isabella cooked veal parmesan with prosciutto and Mediterranean roasted vegetables, which came as a surprise. He was expecting some traditional Italian pasta dish. Most of the conversation over dinner revolved around her life, with Hunter revealing very little about his own.

She grew up in New York. Her parents were first-generation Italian immigrants who had come to the United States during the early seventies. They owned a restaurant in Little Italy where she spent most of her childhood and teenage years together with her brother. She'd moved to LA only five years ago when she accepted a research job with the University of California in Los Angeles. She still flew back to New York at least three times a year to visit her folks.

'Do you keep in touch with your brother?' Hunter asked.

Isabella took her time before pulling her stare away from her wine gla.s.s. 'My brother pa.s.sed away,' she said with sadness in her eyes.

'Oh! I'm so sorry.'

'It's OK,' she replied with a slight shake of the head. 'It was a while ago.'

'Were you still kids?'

Her stare went back to her wine gla.s.s. Hunter could tell she was searching for the right words. 'He was a Marine, sent to a war we didn't belong. In a country most Americans can't even spell the name of.'

Hunter wondered if he should ask any more about it, but Isabella made the decision for him. 'You know, this ain't fair,' she said, clearing the table and taking the dishes into the kitchen.

'What ain't fair?' Hunter followed her, carrying both gla.s.ses with what was left of the wine.

'You. I've basically told you my whole life story and every time I ask you about yours you give me some evasive answer. Is that a common thing among detectives?' She turned on the sink tap placing the plates under the running water.

'We're very good at asking questions, but not so hot at answering them.' Hunter had another sip of his wine and watched Isabella wash the first plate and place it on the dish rack. 'Wait. Let me do that for you.' He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently led her away from the sink. She smiled and picked up her wine gla.s.s.

'So you'll tell me nothing of your life.' She tried again.

Hunter finished washing the remainder of the dishes and turned to face her. 'I'm a detective for the Los Angeles Robbery-Homicide Division, a.s.signed to a section called Homicide Special 1. We only deal with serial killers, high-profile and other homicide cases that require extensive time. In other words, I'm a.s.signed mainly sick, overly brutal cases. The people I deal with on a day-to-day basis are either very evil or very dead. The things I see every day would make most people sick to the stomach. Talking about my life is, without a doubt, the biggest conversation killer anyone could come up with.' He paused for another sip of wine. 'Trust me, you don't really wanna know about my days or my job.'

'OK then. Don't tell me about your job. Tell me about your childhood, your family.'

'Not much to tell,' he said shortly.

She understood and decided not to push it. 'OK. I like mystery.' His boyish charm excited her. She stepped closer and took the gla.s.s from his hand placing it on the kitchen worktop. She slowly moved her face nearer until her mouth was less than an inch from Hunter's left ear.

'So what do you do to relax?' Her s.e.xy voice was now just a tender whisper. Her warm breath against his neck made him rigid. Hunter lent his face back just enough so they were looking into each other's eyes.

'Can I suggest something?' At that moment their lips touched. Hunter immediately felt her soft tongue against his and they exploded into a pa.s.sionate kiss. He pulled her closer and felt the stiffness of her nipples against his chest. He pushed her against the worktop and lifted her onto it. In an instant she'd lost her blouse, Hunter's mouth exploring every inch of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Isabella threw her head back and moaned with pleasure. Before Hunter had a chance to unb.u.t.ton his shirt she grabbed it with both hands and ripped it from his body, the b.u.t.tons bouncing over the worktop and floor. They embraced once again, leading to another ferocious kiss; this time Isabella plunged her long red nails into Hunter's back, her grip tight and tender at the same time.

They made love over the worktop, on the kitchen floor and then moved into the bedroom. By the time their s.e.xual desires were satisfied the first rays of sunlight had started to grace the sky.

'I'm exhausted,' she said, rolling over towards Hunter and resting her hand on his chest. 'You were good the first time we met, but boy, what an improvement.' A smile played around at the corners of her mouth.

'I really hope so.' Hunter turned to face her and gently moved a strand of hair away from her eyes.

She kissed him again. 'I'm starving, how about some food? It's almost breakfast time anyway.'

'Great idea.' They both got out of bed. Isabella searched one of her drawers for some clean clothes while Hunter went back into the kitchen where all of his were scattered around the floor.

'What happened to teddy-bear underwear?' Isabella had just walked back into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of white lace panties.

'You better put something else on or we're gonna go through everything we did last night all over again.' His eyes never leaving her body.

'Is that a promise?' she said, picking Hunter's shirt from the floor and putting it on. There were no b.u.t.tons left so she simply tied a knot around her waist. 'Is this better?' She gave him a quick wink.

Hunter swallowed dry. 'It actually turns me on even more.'

'Great, but let's have breakfast first.' She opened the fridge door and retrieved a few eggs, a carton of milk, a small bottle of orange juice and from the freezer some hash browns.

'Do you need any help?' Hunter asked.

'No, I'll be OK, besides, last time you offered to help in the kitchen you know what happened.' She poured two gla.s.ses of orange juice and handed him one.

'Yeah, you've gotta point. I'll just wait in the living room then,' he said, giving her a quick kiss.

'How do you like your eggs?'

'Umm . . . scrambled, I guess.'

'Scrambled it is.'

Hunter walked back into the living room and sat at the table. For the first time since the new killings began he'd managed to disconnect.

'You forgot these in the kitchen,' Isabella said, coming into the living room and handing him his very old-looking pair of shoes. 'How long have you had these?'

'Too long.'

'Yeah, it shows.'

'I've been meaning to get a new pair,' he lied.

'You should. In Italy it is a known fact that you can tell a man from the shoes he wears.'

'd.a.m.n. So I'm old and . . . dirty?'

She laughed a contagious laugh. 'Anyway, breakfast will be just a couple of minutes.'

Hunter had just finished his orange juice when Isabella walked back into the living room carrying a breakfast tray. Scrambled eggs, hash browns, brown toast and freshly made coffee.

'Coffee? I thought you'd said you only had tea.'

'I did, last week, but somehow I had a feeling you'd stay the night, so I bought some yesterday. I hope it's OK, I'm not really a coffee person. I'm not sure if this is a good brand or not.'

'I'm sure it will be just fine . . . it smells great,' he rea.s.sured her.

'What's that?' she said, pointing to the piece of paper in front of him.

Hunter had unconsciously started fiddling with a pen and paper while waiting for breakfast. Amongst the several meaningless doodles he'd drawn, he'd reflexively sketched the double-crucifix symbol.

'Oh, nothing really.'

'That's funny.'

'What's funny?'

'That thing you've drawn. I've seen it before, I thought it meant something.'

Thirty-Six.

Los Angeles is a great party town. Rock stars, movie stars, celebrities, politicians, super rich, it doesn't matter, one thing they all have in common is their love for parties, their desire to be seen.

Martin Young was a thirty-six-year-old entrepreneur who made all his millions in the property business. His company, Young Estates, specialized in properties for the super rich Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Malibu and Venice Beach mostly. He'd rubbed shoulders with famous people from all walks of life. Madonna had sold one of her LA properties through Martin's company before moving to London. It took Young Estates only six months to bring its owner his first million in profit. Two years after he started his company, Martin could've retired if he wanted to, but he'd been bitten by the money bug and the more he had, the more he wanted. He became a ruthless businessman with most of his life revolving around his company, except for the weekends. To Martin weekends were for partying, and he liked to party hard. Once a month he'd hire some extravagant-looking house on the outskirts of town, invite a few close friends, pay several prost.i.tutes and fill the place up with every kind of drug imaginable just like last night.

As Martin opened his eyes, it took him a while to realize where he was. The effect of whatever he'd taken the night before hadn't properly worn off yet and he still felt dazed. He looked around the room taking his time to absorb the strange medieval decoration. He blinked a few times trying to clear his vision and slowly his focus started to come back. Over on the far wall, above a magnificent marble fireplace he could see a knight's shield positioned over two crossed swords. To the right of the fireplace a full-size suit of armor. The floor had been lined with Persian rugs and the walls plastered with tapestries and paintings of English Dukes, Lords, Kings and Queens.

With great effort he sat up. His head felt heavy and a bitter taste lingered in his mouth. Only then he realized he'd been sleeping in a four-poster bed surrounded by silk sheets and pillows. d.a.m.n, I fell asleep on the set of King Arthur, he thought to himself with a little chuckle. Over on the bedside table, several pills lay scattered together with a small cellophane bag some sort of white powder inside it.

That's what I need before the comedown hits me, he thought. Without knowing or caring what they were, Martin picked up a couple of pills from the table and popped them into his mouth. He looked around searching for something to wash them down with. A half-full bottle of champagne was on the floor next to the bed. He took a large swig of it and shook his head, allowing the stale liquid to run down his throat. He waited a few minutes for the pills to start taking effect before getting up and slowly making his way out of the room.

From the landing Martin had a clear view of the living room downstairs. He could see another nine or ten people spread over the ancient-looking furniture and rug. One lonely body had fallen asleep over the grand piano. Two naked hookers on the floor next to it. Everyone seemed down and out. Martin stumbled over to the staircase pa.s.sing another empty room to his right. This is definitely the entertainment room, he thought as he peeked inside. Holding on to the bal.u.s.trade, he made his way down to the room below, one slow step at a time. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he realized how hungry he was.

'Where the h.e.l.l is the kitchen in this horrible place?' he said out loud, scanning the exotically decorated lounge. He heard noises coming from a room at the end of a small corridor to the left of the staircase. 'Someone is up.'

Staggering as if drunk, Martin made it to the door. He tried to push it open but it barely moved. He wasn't sure if it was stuck or his effort just hadn't been enough. He took a step back and tried again, this time throwing his right shoulder against the door and putting every last ounce of energy into it. The door swung open and Martin was catapulted onto the floor.

'Hey, man, are you OK?' Duane, Martin's best friend, was sitting at the kitchen table with a two-liter bottle of water in front of him.

Slowly Martin picked himself off the floor. The kitchen was very s.p.a.cious, and unlike the rest of the house, decorated in a pleasant modern style. The black Italian marble worktop contrasted beautifully with the gleaming, polished, stainless-steel double-door fridge positioned at the north end of the room. An overwhelming collection of pots and pans hung grandly above the table where Duane was sitting.

'Are you the only one up?' Duane asked, sounding a little too animated.

'I haven't seen anyone awake apart from you, but then again I only surfaced a little more than ten minutes ago.'

'Have you looked around this place? It's awesome. It's more like a museum than a house, except for this kitchen. Whoever owns this place is totally obsessed with medieval England, it's everywhere like a rash.' Duane's words came out fast and in a steady rhythm like a machine gun.

'And you think that's awesome?' Martin's expression clearly indicated that he didn't share Duane's thoughts.

'Well, it's very different.'

Martin wasn't very interested in Duane's house review. His eyes roamed the kitchen looking for something. 'Is there any food around?' he asked.

'Yeah, man, truck loads of it, just check the fridge.'

As Martin opened the fridge door he was greeted by an enormous variety of junk food. From donuts to marshmallows, hot dogs to fried chicken a hungry man's paradise. He quickly grabbed a jar of peanut b.u.t.ter and one of jelly together with two cans of soda and a bag of marshmallows. 'How about bread?' he asked, facing his friend once again.