The Death Sculptor (38 page)

‘That’s right. She calls herself Nicole.’ Alice paused and lifted her right index finger. ‘Let me rephrase that . . . “Submissive Nicole”. She caters for a specific type of clientele.’

Garcia put down his coffee cup. ‘OK, I agree that finding out that Nashorn and Littlewood used the same call girl is something we definitely should look into, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they knew each other.’

‘She’s not a call girl,’ Alice corrected him. ‘She’s a submissive escort. She offers a very specialized service. Her words, not mine.’

‘You’ve talked to her?’ Garcia was genuinely surprised.

‘Last night.’ Alice nodded.

Neither detective was expecting that.

‘Look, I knew you were both out chasing new leads. I came across this information late yesterday, and decided to dig a little deeper instead of waiting. It so happened that I managed to meet up with her last night, and we talked.’

‘How did you manage to get her talking?’ Garcia knew from experience that getting anyone related to LA’s illegal sex trade to talk was no easy feat.

‘I proved to her I wasn’t a cop or a reporter, and guaranteed her that whatever information she gave me, it would never be detrimental to her.’

‘And that worked?’

‘Well, I also have different avenues open to me that you, as police officers, usually don’t.’

‘You paid her,’ Garcia concluded.

‘It works every time,’ Alice admitted. ‘How do you think the DA’s office keeps its informers, by giving them donuts and hot milk? She’s a
submissive escort
. She gets paid to do worse things than simply talk. Getting money in exchange for a conversation was probably her easiest ever job. Plus I gave her a free get-out-of-jail card. I told her to call me if she ever needed a lawyer, and in her profession that’s a very attractive proposition.’

Garcia couldn’t argue. ‘So what did you talk about?’

‘You can hear it for yourself.’ Alice took a Dictaphone out of her briefcase and placed it on Hunter’s desk. ‘I’ve done this kind of thing before.’ She gave both detectives a quick wink.

Surprised, Hunter and Garcia approached the desk.

‘It’s all cued up,’ Alice said. ‘I had just showed her Andrew Nashorn’s picture.’ She pressed the play button.

‘
Oh yes, Paul, he’s pretty much a regular. I see him about once a month. Sometimes more, sometimes less.
’

The voice that came through the tiny speaker was very feminine and sensual, the voice of someone who was probably in her mid-twenties; but there was a hard edge to it, the kind you’d expect from a streetwise person.

‘Paul?’ Alice’s questioning voice came through the speakers.

‘
That’s the name he uses. Look, I know that none of my clients use their real names. He told me his name was Paul, I call him Paul. That’s how it works, lady.
’ There was a short pause. ‘
He likes playing rough.
’

‘
Rough?
’

‘
Yep. He likes to tie me down, gag me, sometimes blindfold me, slap me about a little . . . you know, play the tough guy.
’ Nicole chuckled. ‘
It’s all right, I enjoy it too.
’

Hunter guessed that last comment was made because Alice had pulled a shocked face.

‘
Did he come to you?
’

‘
Sometimes. Sometimes I went to his boat. Sometimes he hired a professional dungeon. There are a few scattered around LA. The equipment is better.
’

‘
And how long has he been a . . . client?
’

‘
A few years.
’

‘
When was the last time you saw him?
’

‘
Not so long ago.
’

‘
Could you be more specific?
’

There was a new short pause, soundtracked by the sound of objects being shuffled. Hunter presumed that Nicole had reached into a handbag or a drawer.

‘
Just over five weeks ago, May 13th.
’

‘
OK, how about this guy?
’

Alice paused the recording. ‘Right then I showed her a picture of Nathan Littlewood,’ she clarified before letting it play on.

‘
Yeah, I see him too . . . from time to time. Not as often as I see Paul, though. This one calls himself Woods.
’ A more animated chuckle this time. ‘
I wouldn’t quite put it that way, if you know what I mean, but that’s the name he likes, that’s the name I call him.
’

‘
Was he also . . . “rough”?
’

Nicole gave a dirty, full-throated laugh that sounded too old for her. ‘
All my clients are rough in their own way, lady. That’s why they come to me and not some two-buck-an-hour ho from West Hollywood. They get what they pay for here.
’

In the office, Alice subtly shook her head, obviously failing to understand how any woman could subject herself to verbal and physical abuse and other humiliations for money.

‘
And when did you see him last?
’

Some more pages flipping. ‘
Right at the beginning of the month, June 2nd.
’

‘
Let me show you one more picture.
’ Looking at Hunter and Garcia, Alice mouthed the words ‘Derek Nicholson’.

‘
Umm, no. I’ve never seen him before.
’

‘
Are you sure?
’

Several silent seconds. ‘
Yep, positive.
’

‘
So he wasn’t a client?
’

‘
That’s what I just said, lady.
’

‘
OK, just one more thing. Do you know if Paul and Woods knew each other? Have they ever done a session together with you, or something like that?
’

‘
No, I don’t do group sessions. Way too intense. And my clients are too greedy. When they book me, they want me all for themselves.
’ Another throaty laugh. ‘
But yes, they knew each other. That’s how Woods became a client. When Paul first started seeing me years ago, he said that he had a friend who would probably love to see me too. I told him to pass his friend my number. A week later Woods called me.
’

When Alice turned the recording device off, Hunter brought her up to speed on what he’d found in Nathan Littlewood’s apartment the day before. She couldn’t hide her disappointment that her big discovery turned out to be not so big after all, but Hunter knew it was significant. What he’d found out from the picture he’d got from Littlewood’s apartment was that Andrew Nashorn and Nathan Littlewood knew each other about thirty years ago. What Alice had found out was that they had kept in touch ever since, which was a whole new discovery. Hunter knew it was easy to lose touch with old friends – people from school, college, neighborhood, or former workplace. Finding out that Nashorn and Littlewood spent an afternoon drinking beer in a park thirty years ago didn’t mean they were friends. Alice’s discovery had proved they had been and still were.

‘I went through all the phone records,’ Alice said. ‘There’s no direct contact between Nashorn and Littlewood. At least not through that phone. But as you know, many people have more than one cellphone, and sometimes their second phone is the untraceable kind.’

‘How about Derek Nicholson?’

‘I spent half of the night going over all the phone records we have for him,’ Alice said. ‘Going back six months prior to him being diagnosed with cancer. Neither Nashorn nor Littlewood’s cellphone numbers showed up. His number doesn’t show up on their bills either.’

Towards the end of the afternoon, Garcia received a preliminary report from his digging team. So far they’d managed to check school and college records for the victims, together with early addresses. They’d found nothing to suggest that any of the three knew each other from either their neighborhoods or their learning institutions. Garcia told them to keep on digging – gym memberships, social clubs, anything that would’ve left behind a paper trail; but he understood that even if that paper trail existed at one time, today it would be almost impossible to find it.

The sun had already set, and so had another day coated with frustration.

Sitting at his desk, Hunter let out a weary sigh, placed his elbows on the desktop, and rested his forehead on the palms of his hands. He’d been going over all his notes and the crime-scene photographs for the zillionth time, and right now the puzzle seemed harder than ever. His head was throbbing with a pain that he knew wouldn’t go away easily. Questions kept colliding with each other inside his mind, but the answers simply weren’t there.

What were they looking at? A coyote and a raven to signify a liar? A devil figure looking down at possible victims – four in total? Someone looking and pointing at someone else inside a box? Was that a coffin? Were those images supposed to represent a funeral? Was that why the next image they got looked like someone down on his knees, praying? Or was that a kid? And how in the world did they relate to each other?

‘Drink?’ Garcia said from his desk.

‘Umm?’ Hunter lifted his head and blinked a few times.

‘Let’s go for a drink.’ Garcia checked his watch, already getting up. ‘This office is claustrophobic, it’s hot as hell, and I swear I saw smoke coming out of your ears about two minutes ago. We both need a break. Let’s go get a drink, maybe some food, and definitely some rest. We can start again fresh tomorrow.’

Hunter had no argument against that. If he’d had fuses in his brain, some of them would’ve burned out a long time ago. He shrugged and started powering down his computer.

‘Yep, a drink sounds like a great idea.’

With probably the tackiest décor in downtown Los Angeles, Bar 107 sat just a block away from the PAB. Sporting walls redder than Communist Russia, vinyl booths, and a shabby-chic garage-sale theme, the place was a four-room retro drinking spot favored by many for its huge range of cocktails and Scotch whiskies.

Bar 107 was busy, but not excessively so. Hunter and Garcia sat at the far end of the long, varnished bar, and each ordered a shot of 10-year-old Aberlour.

‘Great choice,’ the female bartender said with an inviting smile. Her blonde hair was done up in a messy bun, but there was something very attractive about the way its edges fell down, caressing her naked neck.

Hunter had a sip of his Scotch and let the dark liquid swoosh around in his mouth, fully enjoying the hint of sherry that had been infused into the Aberlour’s taste, enhancing it, but without letting the wine palate take over.

In silence, Garcia watched a well-dressed couple come up to the bar and drink down two shots of tequila each in quick succession. The smile on their lips told him that they were celebrating something. The look on the man’s face told him that he really lusted after the woman, but she probably had never given in. Maybe tonight would be his lucky night.

‘How’s Anna?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia dragged his eyes away from the couple. ‘Yeah, she’s great. She started another crazy new diet. You know – no this, no that, no carbs after seven in the evening.’ He pulled a face.

‘She doesn’t need any of that.’

‘I know. I keep on telling her that. But she won’t listen to me.’ He chuckled. ‘She won’t listen to anyone.’ He paused and sipped his whisky. ‘She’s always asking about you, you know? How you’re doing and all.’

‘I had dinner with you guys at your place three weeks ago.’

‘I know, but that’s how she is. And she knows that if I’m not sleeping well, that means you probably aren’t sleeping at all. She cares, Robert. It’s in her nature.’

Hunter’s smile was full of tenderness. ‘Yes, I know. Tell her I’m OK.’

‘I do, but she knows better.’ Garcia started fidgeting with a paper napkin, folding its edges. ‘You know, she can’t understand how come you’re not with someone.’

Hunter scratched just under his right ear and felt a small, painful lump on his skin. A stress zit was just starting to come up. He left it alone. ‘Yeah, I know, she keeps on trying to introduce me to some of her friends.’

Garcia laughed. ‘And you keep on sneakily getting out of it. But, you know, maybe she’s got a point.’

Hunter looked at his partner funny.

Garcia matched his stare. ‘She really likes you, you know? Alice.’

‘What?’ Hunter had no idea where that came from.

‘You know she really likes you, don’t you?’

Hunter studied Garcia for an instant. ‘And you know this how?’

‘Because I’ve got eyes. Don’t even need to be a detective to pick that one up. Don’t play the blind man, Robert.’

Hunter said nothing and reached for his glass again.

‘Seriously, she likes you. It’s in the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. It’s in the way she looks at you when you
are
looking. It reminds me of school. You know, when you have a crush on someone, but you’re just too shy to say something. I know because I was that shy. It took me ages to finally ask Anna out.’ Garcia allowed the moment to breathe. ‘Maybe you should take her out for a drink, dinner even. She’s a nice girl. Attractive, intelligent, determined . . . I can’t think of a reason any single man wouldn’t like to take her out. And no offense, but Anna is right, you could do with a steady relationship.’

‘Thanks, Dr. Love, but I do fine the way I am.’

‘I know you do fine. I’ve seen the way women look at you.’ Every time the bartender walked past, her eyes lingered on Hunter for a moment. Hunter and Garcia had both noticed it.

‘Look, don’t get me wrong, I’m really not trying to play matchmaker here. I suck at it, and your personal life is none of my business. All I’m saying is, take Alice out for a friendly drink. Get to know her out of our work environment – which, I might add, is filled with pictures of dead people. Who knows? You guys might just click.’

Hunter swirled his whisky around in his glass. ‘Do you want to hear something funny?’ he said. ‘We knew each other from before.’

‘Who? You and Alice?’

Hunter nodded.

‘What? Really?’

Hunter nodded.

‘From where?’

Hunter told him.

‘Wow, that’s a coincidence. So she was a prodigy kid as well? Boy, do I feel like the dumb one in the box now.’