One by One (Роберт Хантер 5 Поодиночке) - Carter Chris (2) - Страница 31

Michelle picked up the chocolate bars, together with the packs of gum and the bottles of soda, and passed them over to Harry. ‘Let’s get these to the lab ASAP,’ she said, before looking back at Bobby. ‘I’m willing to bet your freedom that at least some of those are drugged.’

No answer. Bobby’s eyes went back to his knees.

Michelle smiled. ‘And what is this?’ She reached for the gift box. The tag on it said To Lucy, with love. She undid the ribbon and pulled the lid open.

Harry’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding me.’

Michelle stared at the gift inside with angry eyes. ‘Red lacy underwear?’ she finally said. ‘You thought Lucy was thirteen years old, and you bought her lacy panties?’ She looked at Harry. ‘Somebody give me a gun and I’ll shoot this barf-bag in the face, right now.’

Bobby shifted nervously in his seat.

‘You know, it doesn’t really matter that you don’t want to talk right now, or give us your real name, or anything. Because we’ve got this.’ Michelle held up the key and keychain that was inside Bobby’s backpack. The key ring simply said 103. ‘We now know that you got yourself a shitty hotel room somewhere not very far from here. It might take us a few hours, but we’ll find the hotel, and whatever else you left behind in that room. I bet we’ll find a wallet and an identity.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Actually, I bet we’ll find a laptop or a smartphone.’ Michelle leaned forward, her face just inches away from Bobby’s. She could smell his cheap cologne. His minty breath. She smiled at him. ‘You can’t even begin to imagine what we can extract out of a laptop or a smartphone’s hard drive. You see, Bobby, all those months in the chat rooms, and you had no idea you were chatting to me. I’m your Lucy.’ Michelle allowed the weight of those words to crash down on Bobby for a moment. ‘This is checkmate, buddy. Whichever way you play it, the game is over.’

Forty-One

The address they were given revealed a small, squared, two-story office building in Dewey Street, just behind Marine Park in Santa Monica. It took Hunter and Garcia forty-seven minutes to make the journey from the PAB. The outside of the old building was littered with For Sale and For Lease signs.

Hunter wondered who in their sane mind would want to buy or rent any office space in a building that looked to have been so terribly neglected in the past few years – tired and discolored bricks, ill-fitted windows and dark rainwater marks coming down from the roof like some sort of muddy icing on a cake.

The parking lot was hidden behind the property, away from the main street. Weeds were sprouting up through a web of cracks. Of the eight car spaces, only one was taken – a red Ford Fusion. Several wooden crates were pushed up against the wall, just a few yards from the car. The entrance to the parking lot had been sealed off by the Santa Monica Police Department with yellow crime-scene tape. A crowd had formed outside the perimeter, and though nothing could be seen from where they were standing, no one looked prepared to move an inch. Some were actually drinking coffee out of a thermos while they waited.

Hunter and Garcia parked in front of the building, next to the three police cars and the forensics van, before slowly weaving their way through the crowd.

As they reached the crime-scene tape and Hunter quickly chatted to the two officers guarding the entrance to the lot, a tall, lean and spare man dressed in a black hooded sweatshirt and dark blue jeans caught Garcia’s eyes. He was standing at the back of the crowd, hands tucked deep into his pockets. But contrary to everyone else’s tense and apprehensive body language, his was calm and relaxed. He looked up and his eyes met Garcia’s for a brief moment, before darting away.

‘Detective Sanchez is over there,’ the older of the officers said, indicating a short and round man, who was chatting to one of the forensics agents. The man was about five foot six, and had his hands clasped behind his back like an undertaker overseeing a funeral. There was something funereal about the way the man looked as well – a black suit with an inch of crisp white cuff protruding from each sleeve, polished black shoes and a black tie. He had dark brown hair, which had been combed back and plastered with hair gel, Dracula-style. His bushy mustache curved around his top lip like a horseshoe.

‘Detective Hunter?’ Sanchez said, as he noticed the two new arrivals.

Hunter shook hands and introduced Garcia.

‘This is Thomas Webb,’ Sanchez said, nodding at the forensics agent he’d been chatting to. Webb was a few inches taller than Sanchez, and several pounds lighter. The forensics team were already packing up, ready to leave.

Sanchez didn’t look like a man who would waste time, shooting the breeze. Introductions over, he readily reached into his inside pocket for his notebook. ‘OK, let me tell you what we’ve got,’ he addressed Hunter and Garcia. ‘At 8:52 a.m. dispatch received a call from a Mr. Andrews.’ He indicated the red Ford Fusion. ‘The owner of that car. He’s an accountant, and he has an office on the second floor of this building. The place is almost completely empty, as you can probably deduce from the number of real estate signs up front. An insurance company used to occupy the entire first floor, but they went under six months ago. The only other business in the building is a sole trader’s quantity surveying firm, also on the second floor. We haven’t established contact with him yet.’

Sanchez paused, maybe waiting for some sort of comment from Hunter or Garcia. He got none. ‘Anyway, a black and white was dispatched to this address. When they got here, they found the body of a white female on the ground over there, right by those crates.’ He indicated the location. ‘She could’ve been anywhere between early twenties and late thirties. No one could tell.’

‘The body was taken to the state coroners about an hour ago,’ the forensics agent offered, checking his watch. ‘Unfortunately, as far as studying the scene with the body in situ goes, you’ll have to do with pictures.’ He looked around himself for an instant. ‘But this isn’t a crime scene. It’s a disposal area. If this really is a homicide case, she sure as hell wasn’t murdered here.’

Sanchez observed Hunter and Garcia for a moment before moving on. ‘Anyway, Mr. Andrews parked his car in his usual space, and as he got out he noticed the body on the ground. From where he was, his first thought was that it was probably some homeless soul, but according to him he never saw a homeless person sleeping out here before. He moved a little closer to check, and that’s when he freaked out. He called for help straightaway. He swears he didn’t touch a thing.’

‘Where is he?’ Hunter asked.

‘Up in his office. There’s an officer with him. You can interview him again if you like.’

‘The entire body was severely deformed by hundreds of different-sized lumps,’ the forensics agent explained. ‘They were inflammations and swellings, probably caused by wasp stings, more specifically tarantula hawks.’

Hunter and Garcia said nothing.

‘We recovered three wasps from inside her mouth,’ the agent continued, producing a small, tubular, plastic container with three dead tarantula hawks inside. ‘One was lodged in her throat.’

‘Was she dressed?’ Garcia asked.

‘Not completely. Underwear only. Purple in color, lacy in type.’

‘Any belongings found?’

‘Nothing. We’ve already checked the dumpster. It’s empty. As Detective Sanchez said, the building is virtually unoccupied.’

‘If you were able to identify lumps all over her body,’ Hunter said, ‘I’m assuming the body wasn’t bloated.’