The Crucifix Killer (32 page)

Despite Ian Tasker being an undeniable playboy and a self-proclaimed ladies’ man, his arrogance and self-confidence would disappear when Becky was around. She was different from all the other blood-sucking women he’d met. Her interest in his money seemed to be purely professional. It had taken him almost two weeks to gather enough courage to ask her out on their first date.

Becky had been asked out by bank clients many times before, most of them married men, and politely she’d rejected all their invitations. Even though Ian’s playboy ways were far from what she’d envisaged as dating material, she decided to break her own rule – ‘never date a client’.

That night had been as close to perfect as anyone could’ve dreamed of. Ian had chosen a small restaurant by the sea in Venice Beach, and, at first, Becky was unsure what to make of the fact that he’d hired out the entire place for the night. Was that just a trick to impress her or was it a sincere attempt at romanticism? As the night progressed she found herself sucked in, first by his boyish and lively personality, then by the surprising pleasure of his company. There was no doubt Ian loved himself, but he was also very witty, kind and entertaining.

Their first romantic night consequently ignited a string of new ones, and their relationship flourished with every new date. His irreverent manner swept her off her feet and when Ian popped the question live on national television during the interval of a Lakers game, Becky became the happiest woman in Los Angeles.

Against his will, she’d insisted on a prenuptial agreement saying she was in love with him, not his money.

Their marriage picked up from where their dating left off. Everything seemed perfect. Ian was a very attentive and caring husband and to Becky it all felt like a fairy-tale story. For two years Becky did live a dream. The dream of being happy, the dream of being with someone who cares, the dream of being loved. But things were about to take a drastic turn.

Just over two and a half years ago, by sheer bad luck, Ian had found himself in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time. On his way home from his usual Friday afternoon golf game, Becky had called and asked him to drop by a liquor store to pick up a bottle of red wine.

As he looked through the unimpressive selection he failed to notice the two new customers that had just come in wearing ice-hockey masks. The store he was in had been burgled several times – twice in the last month alone. Its owner had had enough of what he called ‘police incompetence
’
and if the police couldn’t protect his store, then he would.

Ian had finally chosen a bottle of Australian Shiraz when he heard loud shouts coming from the front of the store. At first he discarded it as a complaining customer having an argument with the store owner, but the argument heated up faster than usual. Sneakily he peeked around the aisle. The scene he saw was comically tragic. Both masked men were standing in front of the counter, guns drawn and aimed at the store owner who in turn had his double-barreled shotgun in hand and his aim moving back and forth from one masked man to another.

Instinctively Ian stepped backwards, trying to hide behind a brandy and whisky stand. Not able to contain his nervousness he stepped back too quickly, tripping, colliding with the stand and sending two bottles crashing to the floor. The unexpected noise caught everyone by surprise, spooking the two masked men who opened fire in Ian’s direction.

With both masked men’s attention diverted for a split second, the store owner saw his opportunity and quickly discharged his first shot at the man standing closer to the door. The powerful blast from the shotgun propelled its victim into the air, his head obliterated. Shards of glass from the now-demolished front door flew up like hailstones. Panic took over the second masked man as he saw the decapitated body of his partner hit the floor. Before the store owner had a chance to turn his weapon towards the second masked man, the man squeezed two quick shots in succession, both hitting their target in the stomach.

The store owner stumbled backwards, but he still had enough time and strength to pull his trigger.

The bullets that were fired earlier had somehow missed Ian completely smashing into brandy and whisky bottles behind him. In his panic he’d tripped, lost his balance and instinctively tried to grab on to something before falling to the ground. The only thing he was able to reach was the bottle stand itself. He came crashing down like a ton of bricks, the stand smashing against his legs, bottles exploding onto the floor. That would’ve been a very lucky escape for Ian if not for the fact that the bottle stand crashed into an insect repellent light on the wall, blowing it to pieces and producing a sparkle rain. The alcoholic cocktail bath that Ian found himself in lit up like gasoline.

The traffic light turned green and Becky drove on, trying desperately to keep herself from crying.

For almost two and a half years Becky had avoided dating, and she was still unsure if she could go ahead with it. The pain of losing Ian was still there.

Becky met Jeff in her local supermarket. The same supermarket she stopped by twice a week for groceries and wine after leaving her office. It had been a chance meeting. Becky had been struggling to choose a ripe melon for a new salad recipe. She’d been moving from fruit to fruit, holding it with both hands, giving it a tight squeeze and then shaking it close to her ear.

‘Are you searching for the one with the surprise gift inside?’ Those were the first words Jeff had said to her.

She smiled. ‘I’m a percussionist. Melons make great maracas.’

Jeff frowned. ‘Really?’

She laughed. ‘Sorry. It’s my sense of humor. Dry as a desert. I’m just trying to find a good melon . . . a ripe one.’

‘Well, shaking them won’t do the trick.’ Somehow his voice didn’t sound condescending. ‘The secret here is in the smell. You’ll notice that some will have a sweeter, more mature smell, those are the ripe ones,’ he said, bringing a melon to his nose and giving it a good sniff. ‘But you don’t want them to smell too sweet, those would be past their best.’ He extended his hand, offering her the melon he was holding. She tried his technique. A warm, sweet smell exuded as she brought the melon to her nose. Jeff gave her a quick wink and carried on with his shopping.

In the weeks that followed, they ended up bumping into each other several times. Becky was always very talkative and funny, while Jeff was content to listen and laugh. Her sense of humor shining through in every conversation.

Jeff finally gathered enough courage to ask Becky out for dinner after a few months of supermarket meetings. She was hesitant at first, but she’d decided to accept.

They’d arranged to meet the next Monday at the Belvedere restaurant in Santa Monica, at 8:30 p.m.

Washington Square is located at the beach end of Washington Boulevard, just across the road from Venice Beach. It’s home to several well-known bars and restaurants, including the Venice Whaler. Monday nights aren’t their busiest night, but the place looked full of activity with a colorful young crowd in shorts and beach shirts surrounding the large bar. The atmosphere was relaxed and pleasant. It was easy to see why Isabella would’ve enjoyed a drink or two at this bar.

Hunter and Garcia arrived at the Venice Whaler at five-thirty and by six-thirty they’d talked to every member of staff, including the two chefs and the kitchen porter, but the more people they talked to, the more frustrated they became. Long or short hair, beard or no beard, it didn’t matter. No one seemed to have ever laid eyes on anyone that resembled any of the computer-generated sketches.

After talking to the entire staff, Hunter and Garcia decided to ask a few of the customers, but their luck didn’t change and Hunter wasn’t surprised. This killer was too careful, too prepared, took no risks and Hunter had a strong suspicion that picking potential victims out of busy and popular bars wasn’t really his style – it was too dangerous – too exposed – there were too many factors he couldn’t control.

After leaving a copy of the sketches with the manager they moved on to the next bar on their list – Big Dean’s Café. The outcome was a carbon copy of what had happened at the Venice Whaler. No one remembered seeing anyone that looked like any of the images.

‘This is turning out to be another wild goose chase,’ Garcia commented, visibly bothered.

‘Welcome to the world of chasing psychopaths,’ Hunter said with a cheesy smile. ‘This is what it’s like. Frustration is a major part of the game. You’re gonna have to learn to deal with it.’

It had just gone eight o’clock when they came to the third and final bar on their list for the night – Rusty’s Surf Ranch where beech-colored wood was the main theme. Behind the small bar a single barman was happily serving the loud crowd of customers.

Hunter and Garcia approached the bar, grabbing the attention of the barman. Half an hour later and the entire staff had been asked the same questions and shown the same pictures – nothing. Garcia couldn’t hide his disappointment.

‘I was really hoping for some sort of a break tonight . . .’ He thought better of what he’d just said. ‘OK, maybe not a break, but some kind of development,’ he said, rubbing his tired eyes.

Hunter surveyed the restaurant floor for some seating space. Luckily a party of four were just leaving, vacating a table.

‘Are you hungry? I could do with some food – let’s grab a seat.’ He pointed to the empty table and they both made their way towards it.

They checked the menu in silence, Hunter struggling to make a decision. ‘I’m actually starving. I could have half of this menu.’

‘I bet you could. I’m not that hungry, I’ll just have a Caesar salad,’ Garcia said indifferently.

‘Salad!’ Surprise in Hunter’s voice. ‘You’re like a big girl. Order some proper food, will you?’ he demanded dryly.

Reluctantly, Garcia reopened the menu. ‘OK, I’ll have a chicken Caesar salad. Is that better, Mom?’

‘And some BBQ back ribs to go with it.’

‘Are you trying to make me fat? That’s way too much food.’

‘Trying to make you fat? You
are
a big girl,’ Hunter said laughing.

The waitress came up to take their order. Apart from the Caesar salad and the back ribs, Hunter also ordered a California burger and some fried calamari for himself together with two bottles of beer. They sat without saying a word, Hunter’s observant eyes moving from table to table, resting on each occupant for only a few seconds. Garcia regarded his partner for a minute and then placed both of his elbows on the table leaning forward, his voice low as if whispering a secret.

‘Is there anything wrong?’

Hunter moved his stare back to Garcia. ‘No, everything is fine,’ he said calmly.

‘You’re looking around like you’ve seen something or somebody.’

‘Oh that. I do that a lot when I’m in public places, it’s like an exercise that has carried on from my criminal psychology days.’

‘Really . . . like what?’

‘We used to play this game. We’d go out to restaurants, bars, clubs, places like that and we’d take turns picking a subject in the crowd, watching him or her for a few minutes and trying to profile them as best as we could.’

‘What, just by watching them for a minute or so?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Show me.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I just wanna see how it works.’

Hunter hesitated for a moment. ‘OK, pick someone.’

Garcia looked around the busy restaurant but his eyes were drawn to the bar. Two attractive women, one blond, one brunette, were having a drink together. The blond one was by far the more talkative of the two. Garcia had made his choice. ‘Right there, over at the bar. See the two girls by themselves? The blond one.’

Hunter’s gaze fell on his new subject. He observed her, her eye and body movements, her quirks, the way she spoke to her friend, the way she laughed. It took him only about a minute to start his assessment.

‘OK, she knows she’s attractive. She’s very confident and she loves the attention she gets, she works hard for it.’

Garcia lifted his right hand. ‘Wait up, how would you know that?’

‘She’s wearing very revealing clothes compared to her friend’s. So far she’s run her hand through her hair four times, the most common “notice me” gesture, and every so often she furtively checks herself against the mirror behind the bottle shelves at the bar.’

Garcia observed the blond girl for a while. ‘You’re right. She just checked herself again.’

Hunter smiled before carrying on. ‘Her parents are rich and she’s proud of that. She makes no effort to hide it from anyone and she knows how to spend their money.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She’s drinking champagne in a bar where ninety-five percent of the customers order beer.’

‘She could be celebrating.’

‘She isn’t,’ Hunter said confidently.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because she’s drinking champagne and her friend is drinking beer. If they were celebrating her friend would be sharing the bottle with her. And there was no toast. You always toast when you celebrate.’

Garcia smiled. Hunter continued. ‘Her clothes and handbag are all designer. She’s never placed her car keys back into her handbag, preferring to leave them on the bar in plain view, and the reason for that is probably because her key ring shows some prestigious car emblem, like a BMW or something. She’s got no wedding ring and anyway she’s too young to be married or have a well-paid job, so the money has to come from somewhere else.’