Текст книги "One by One (Роберт Хантер 5 Поодиночке)"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

What the killer had decided to do this time in order to demonstrate his cleverness over the police was to control everything remotely, but not just from anywhere – from literally outside the LAPD headquarters’ front door. He had allowedthe LAPD to trace his call and even waited until the voting was finally over before writing his message onto a camcorder’s view screen and stashing it inside a trashcan in City Hall Park. And just to add insult to injury, the killer had timed everything perfectly to coincide with the rush hour. That way, he could stay within eyesight distance, but still remain anonymous among the high flux of people. So close, yet they couldn’t touch him.

‘This killer has been playing you from the start.’The words rang out in his head again.

What else had the killer thrown at them just for fun? The abbreviation – SSV? The two different number sequences – 678 and 0123? The words – The Devil Inside? The camcorder? Did any of it mean anything at all, or was it all just to keep the police guessing and running around in circles?

Well, if that was the intention, it sure was working.

Maybe even the IV stand reflected onto the glass coffin lid hadn’t been a mistake. Maybe the killer did it on purpose. One more twist added to the tale.

Hunter brought both hands to his face and massaged his exhausted eyes with his palms. The more he thought about it, the more it made his head hurt. How could he come up with answers when he didn’t even know what questions to ask anymore?

‘Did you see that thing on the Internet today?’ Hunter overheard the barman ask a brunette and a redheaded woman at the bar, while he poured them a couple of cocktails.

Hunter’s gaze subtly moved to them.

‘I did,’ the redhead replied. ‘Absolutely awful. And everyone is saying that was no hoax.’

‘It isn’t,’ the brunette one agreed. ‘It was in the papers. He broadcast the murder of an LA Timesreporter just a few days ago.’

‘Did you watch it today?’ the redhead asked.

The brunette woman shook her head. ‘Everyone in the office was glued to their screens, watching it. I just couldn’t. It would make me sick. I can’t believe something like this is now happening on the Internet.’

‘You watched it?’ the barman asked the redhead.

She nodded.

‘Now the big question is – did you vote?’ he asked.

She pushed her hair behind her ear and shook her head. ‘No. Never. Did you?’

The barman’s gaze flicked to the brunette and then back to the redhead. ‘Um . . . no, I didn’t. I watched it, though.’

Even from where Hunter was sitting, it was easy to pick up their tell signs. They were both lying.

His cellphone lit up and rattled against the tabletop before him. He frowned at the name displayed on the caller screen before answering it. ‘Michelle?’

‘Robert, I’m sorry to be calling you this late and out of office hours.’

Hunter checked his watch. ‘It’s not that late, and I haven’t worked office hours since . . . ever.’

Michelle started saying something else, but stopped midword. ‘Um . . . is that Black Stone Cherry playing in the background?’

Hunter paused and listened to the music for a moment. The song was called ‘Blame it on the Boom Boom’. ‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘Do you know the band?’

Michelle almost choked on the question. ‘Do Iknow Black Stone Cherry? Are you kidding? I’ve seen them live five times. Where areyou?’

‘At the Rainbow Bar and Grill on Sunset Strip.’

‘For real? That’s one of my favorite bars in LA.’ She hesitated for a beat. ‘I’m not that far from Sunset. Do you mind if I join you?’

Hunter looked at his almost empty glass. ‘Not at all. I’m just starting here.’

Eighty-Four

The Rainbow Bar and Grill was a famous old-school casual restaurant and dive bar located on Sunset Boulevard. The décor was simple but effective – big red-vinyl booths and dark wood. Every inch of wall space was crammed with rock star snapshots. Since the 1980s the Rainbow had been known as the hangout hot spot for rock musicians and fans alike, with one of the most laid-back atmospheres in the whole of West Hollywood. The food and their great selection of single-malt whiskies weren’t bad either.

The place had gotten relatively busier by the time Michelle got there, twenty-five minutes after she came off the phone with Hunter. She was wearing skintight, stone-washed blue jeans with a natural wear-and-tear over her right knee, black boots and an old MotÖrhead vest under a thin black-leather jacket with silver details. Her hair was loose and tousled in a ‘rock chick’ style. Her smoky-eyed makeup added to the look perfectly, and as she crossed the bar floor to where Hunter was sitting it was hard not to notice a few heads turning.

Hunter stood up to greet her, and her lips cracked into something that he wasn’t sure if it was a smile or not.

‘I would’ve never guessed you drank here,’ she said, taking off her jacket. Strangely, under the dim bar lights, the bright colors of the tattoos on her arms appeared more vivid.

‘Sometimes,’ Hunter replied, indicating the seat across the small table from him. ‘I ordered you a Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke. I hope you don’t mind.’ The drink was already on the table.

Michelle half looked, half squinted at him. ‘How did you know I drank JD and Diet Coke?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘I guessed.’

More of a squint this time as she studied his face. ‘No, you didn’t. You knew. How did you know?’

Hunter took a seat and sipped his drink.

‘How did you know I drink Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke?’ Michelle’s voice was more demanding this time, but not aggressively so.

Hunter put his drink down. ‘Just simple observation.’

His answer didn’t suffice.

Her stare didn’t soften.

‘You have a picture frame on your desk,’ Hunter finally explained.

Michelle thought about it for a moment.

Almost hidden behind one of the computer monitors on her desk was a photograph of Michelle with the vocalist and the guitarist of an American rock band called Hinder. They were all smiling and raising their glasses toward the camera in a toastinggesture. The band members were clearly drinking whiskey shots, while Michelle’s glass was filled with what look liked Coke, though the look in her eyes betrayed a sober state. The picture frame the photograph was in was a novelty Jack Daniel’s bottle-shaped frame.

Michelle’s smile was sincere. ‘That’s not bad,’ she said. ‘But how did you know I drank Diet Coke and not regular Coke, or Pepsi, or Tab, or something similar?’

‘The wastebasket by your desk,’ Hunter replied.

A new smile. Michelle knew that at any given time there would be at least one can of Diet Coke in her wastebasket or on her desk. She much preferred it to coffee, and drank several cans of it a day. ‘That’s not bad at all.’ She reached for her drink and touched glasses with Hunter. ‘Here’s to observation and simple deduction. No wonder you’re a detective. And yes, JD and Diet Coke ismy favorite drink. Thank you.’ She had a quick sip before her eyes darted over Hunter’s left shoulder, lingering there for a few seconds.

‘Everything OK?’ Hunter asked without turning around.

‘There was a guy sitting behind you at the bar, right at the very end by the entrance. He just left, but I think I know him from somewhere.’

‘Short blond hair, nose ring, a two-day-old stubble, about one hundred and forty pounds . . . Was wearing a jeans jacket over a black T-shirt and drinking beer with tequila chasers?’ Hunter asked. Still he didn’t turn around.

‘That’s him,’ Michelle replied. ‘Do you know him?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘I saw him sitting there when I came in. Looked like he’d been there for a while.’

Michelle chuckled. ‘You saw him when you came in, probably for a couple of seconds, and you remember all that about him?’

Hunter half nodded, half shrugged.

‘You do that observation thing without even knowing that you’re doing it anymore, don’t you? A good detective is never off duty, always watchful, always prepared.’

Hunter said nothing.

Her eyes circled the bar area for a quick instant before she leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. ‘OK. Test. Group of four over your left shoulder by the bar counter, about halfway up. Hair color?’

Hunter sat back, having another sip of his Scotch, his eyes studying Michelle.

‘C’mon, humor me, Robert. Hair color?’

‘Both women are blonde,’ Hunter finally said, without looking over his shoulder. ‘Though neither of them is natural. One has shoulder-length hair; the other one’s is slightly longer, pulled back into a ponytail. One of the men has light brown curly hair; the other guy has dyed black wavy hair with pronounced sideburns.’

‘Age group?’

‘All four in their early thirties.’

‘Drinks?’

‘The women are drinking white wine, the men are both having beer – curly hair is drinking Mexican with a lemon slice down the bottle’s neck. Wavy hair is drinking Bud.’

‘Anything else you can tell me?’ Michelle asked.

‘It’s probably their first double date, because all four of them seem a little tense. Body language indicated that wavy hair and ponytail blonde will hit it on, probably tonight, but the other two, I’m not so sure. She doesn’t look very impressed. She’s probably there more to help her friend.’

Michelle looked at Hunter with a faint smile on her lips but said nothing for a moment or two, obviously weighing up something in her mind. ‘You certainly are a very interesting and intriguing man, Robert.’

Hunter wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

Michelle had another sip of her drink and drew in a long, heavy breath. ‘We came across a new piece of information today.’ Her tone went serious. Playtime was definitely over.

‘About this afternoon’s broadcast?’

Hunter already knew that the video had gone viral. Snippets, snapshots and even the full nineteen minutes and thirty-four seconds of it had been uploaded to so many different Internet sites no one could keep track anymore. If there were someone out there who hadn’t seen it yet, they would soon.

‘Actually, we think it might have affected the previous one too, but there’s no way we can be sure.’

It was Hunter’s turn to lean forward and place his elbows on the table.

‘I’ve told you this before,’ Michelle proceeded. ‘But we don’t really come across offenders who can shield themselves so proficiently from a FBI Cybercrime Division counterattack. And though I’m sure that we would eventually find a way through his defense system, I’m aware that we just don’t have the time, because every time he transmits, someone else gets tortured and murdered.’ She paused and finished the rest of her drink in one large gulp, her hands just a little unsteady. It wasn’t hard for Hunter to guess that images of the killer’s third victim being dismembered on the rack were popping into her head as she spoke.

‘During today’s broadcast,’ Michelle carried on, ‘we again threw everything we had at it, and we got exactly the same result as before – nothing. Every time we got past one of his defense layers, there was a thicker one waiting for us just behind it.’

Hunter could see the frustration building up in her eyes.

‘But this time we weren’t the only ones who tried launching a counterattack.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I had already contacted the head of the FBI Cybercrime Division in Washington. Their office deals mainly with cyber terrorism, which is great, because I knew they would approach the killer’s transmission in a different way.’ She tilted her head slightly to one side in an almost coy gesture. ‘I had also got in touch with a very good friend of mine who lives in Michigan. Someone I knew before I joined the FBI. He’s not part of any law-enforcement agency, but apart from Harry he’s the best programmer and cyber hacker I know. I thought that maybe he could help, especially because I know he wouldn’t look at the transmission from a law-enforcer’s point of view.’

She paused, maybe waiting for some sort of disapproving look or words to come from Hunter for failing to consult him first. There were neither.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Did they have better luck than you?’

‘That’s the problem, Robert,’ Michelle said. ‘Neither could even see the site.’

‘What? Why?’

‘They were blocked out.’

Hunter’s frown deepened.

‘The killer used the same kind of “IP address exclusion” program that blocked us out from Carlos’ wife’s transmission yesterday.’

Hunter was trying to process this new piece of information in silence.

‘As I told you before,’ Michelle said, ‘a computer’s IP address works in the same way a telephone number does. It also has a prefix that identifies the country, the state and even the city where the computer is located.’

Hunter acknowledged it.

‘Well, that’s exactly how the killer did it. He blocked off every IP address from outside California.’

‘The rest of the world too?’

Michelle nodded. ‘California, that’s it. No one else was allowed to watch it.’

Hunter breathed out slowly. The new question now banging a gong inside his head was: why would the killer do such a thing?Since day one, Hunter feared that all this killer wanted to do was to broadcast a morbid and brutal ‘killing show’. Something that would mimic the hundreds of reality TV and cable programs fighting for viewing space inside people’s homes. Hunter figured that maybe what the killer wanted was to prove how messed-up the world really was. How a celebrity– and ‘reality contest’-obsessed society would take part and vote on absolutely anything, even murder, if dressed up and presented to them in the right way. And the onething all these game shows fight for is audience. The more the better, the more successful the show. So why restrict it only to California, when through the Internet he could’ve broadcast to the world?

As if reading Hunter’s thoughts, Michelle said, ‘No, I can’t come up with a single reason why he would do that either.’

They both went silent for a while.

‘I haven’t had the time to reanalyze the footage from this afternoon yet,’ Michelle finally said. Paused. Looked down at her glass, and then back at Hunter. ‘No. I’m lying. I haven’t had the stomach to reanalyze it yet. And I’m dreading the fact that I will have to. I’m dreading the fact that we can’t get to him, and sooner or later he’ll broadcast again.’

For the first time Hunter saw a hint of fear creep into Michelle’s eyes. The kind of fear that takes shape during the day and then re-forms much stronger in nightmares. Tonight, Michelle would do anything not to go to sleep.

Eighty-Five

Hunter and Michelle stayed at the Rainbow until closing time, but soon after Michelle’s revelation that the killer had blocked out every IP address from outside California, it became clear that both of their brains needed a break from the case, even if only for a few hours. Hunter did his best to lighten the mood and distance the subject from their investigation.

Alcohol had started to relax them, and they talked about music, films, hobbies, drinks, food, even sports. Hunter found out that Michelle could ballroom-dance, and had once knocked an FBI instructor out with a kick to the groin after he tried to grope her during a hand-to-hand combat class. In turn, Michelle found out that Hunter had never been outside the USA, couldn’t stand cauliflower, and when he was a kid he had taught himself how to play keyboards and joined a band just to impress a girl. It didn’t work. She fell for the guitar player.

After the Rainbow shut for the night, Hunter put Michelle in a cab and took one himself.

Hunter must have nodded off sometime during the early hours of the morning, because, when he awakened, the day was just breaking outside his living-room window. His neck muscles were stiff, and every joint in his body ached with the irritation of falling asleep in an uncomfortable chair.

He had a quick shower and an even quicker breakfast before calling Garcia and telling him that he was through with the waiting game and had decided to pay Thomas Paulsen a visit that morning. True, he had nothing to really warrant an interview with the software millionaire other than the fact that Christina Stevenson, their second victim, had written a very damaging exposé on how he had sexually harassed many of his employees over a very long period of time. An exposé that had cost Paulsen millions, wrecked his twenty-seven-year marriage and severely damaged his relationship with his only daughter. Though Hunter also knew that they had nothing to link Paulsen to their first or third victim, experience had taught him that a face-to-face could reveal much more in a few minutes than days of research sitting behind a desk.

PaulsenSystems was located just off Ventura Freeway, in the very affluent San Fernando Valley neighborhood of Woodland Hills, in northwest Los Angeles. Hunter had called the company just to make sure Thomas Paulsen would be in that morning. His secretary said he would be. Hunter made no appointment.

The drive from the PAB took Hunter and Garcia just over an hour. Traffic was as heavy as any other weekday morning, and Hunter used the time to tell his partner the news Michelle had told him the night before. Garcia also couldn’t make any sense of it. He too believed that this killer would’ve wanted as much exposure as he could get, so why restrict his viewers to California only?

The only conclusion they could draw was that whatever the reason behind it was, it had to be something very personal to the killer.

PaulsenSystems’ headquarters was a grand L-shaped, mirrored-glass and dark granite-fronted building on the corner of Burbank and Topanga Canyon Boulevards. The main entrance was hidden away from the street, through the large private car park at the back. An elegant staircase, flanked by two colorful mini gardens, led up to the heavily air-conditioned and brightly lit entrance lobby. The air inside it was lightly perfumed with the subtle fragrance of sweet alyssum and a hint of wisteria.

‘Nice,’ Garcia said, as they stepped through the automatic sliding doors. ‘Makes a difference from the stale sweat scent you get when you enter the PAB.’

A circular reception counter occupied the center of the spacious lobby like an island. Behind it, the petite, Asian receptionist with long and sleek black hair smiled at both detectives. Her dark eyes shone like two polished marbles.

‘Welcome to PaulsenSystems,’ she said. Her voice was velvety and warm. ‘How can I help you today, gentlemen?’

‘Hello,’ Hunter replied. As much as he would like to, his smile didn’t carry the same level of enthusiasm as hers. ‘We were wondering if we could have a few moments of Mr. Paulsen’s time.’

The receptionist glanced down at her computer, where she would no doubt have a list of Thomas Paulsen’s appointments for the day, but Hunter quickly got her attention back to him.

‘We do not have an appointment,’ he clarified, displaying his credentials. ‘Nevertheless, this matter carries a certain urgency, and we would really appreciate if Mr. Paulsen could give us a few minutes this morning.’

The receptionist smiled again and nodded once, reaching for the phone behind the counter. She spoke quickly and discreetly. Hunter could tell that she wasn’t speaking directly with Thomas Paulsen but with a secretary or PA.

Seconds later, sitting behind his handcrafted oak desk, Thomas Paulsen answered the ringing phone and listened for a few seconds. A dry grin came to his lips, and he sat back, gently rocking in his high-backed leather chair for a moment.

‘Do I have anything scheduled for now?’ he asked.

‘You are actually free for the next hour, Mr. Paulsen,’ his PA confirmed. ‘Your next appointment is at 12:45.’

‘OK,’ Paulsen said, considering his thoughts. ‘You can tell the detectives that I’ll be able to spare a few minutes, but make them wait. I’ll see them when I’m good and ready. Oh, and Joanne . . .’

‘Yes, Mr. Paulsen?’

‘Let’s make them wait downstairs in the lobby, not in my anteroom. They might smell the place up.’

‘Of course, Mr. Paulsen.’

He put the phone down, stood up and walked over to the large panoramic window that faced the Santa Monica Mountains. He felt like laughing out loud, but instead he allowed himself only a proud smile.

About time they came talk to me.

Eighty-Six

And wait they did . . .

Even the petite receptionist had started to look embarrassed after the first ten minutes or so. She went over to where Hunter and Garcia were sitting several times and offered them water, coffee, cookies, juice . . . When they said no to all, she suggested that she could send someone out for some donuts if they preferred. That made both detectives laugh.

Twenty-nine long and frustrating minutes after they had arrived at PaulsenSystems, the receptionist was finally told to allow both detectives to go up. She apologized yet again, and told them to take the elevator to the top floor. Someone would meet them there.

The elevator doors rolled back on a new, very elegantly furnished lobby. Three sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Persian rugs, surrounded by several modern American sculpture pieces. The walls were adorned with an impressive collection of original paintings.

Waiting for them just outside the elevator doors, and standing beneath a halogen spotlight, was Joanne, Thomas Paulsen’s PA. Her long red hair sparkled under the light. As Hunter and Garcia stepped out of the elevator, Joanne smiled.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said in the most professional of tones. ‘I’m Joanne Saunders, Mr. Paulsen’s personal assistant.’ She offered them her manicured hand. Both detectives shook it, introducing themselves. ‘If you’d like to follow me, please, Mr. Paulsen is waiting for you in his office.’

They crossed the anteroom and followed the PA down a softly lit hallway that terminated in a highly polished wood set of double doors. She knocked twice, paused for a second and pushed the doors open, which led them into a sprawling and luxuriously decorated corner office.

‘Mr. Paulsen,’ Joanne announced. ‘This is Detective Robert Hunter and Detective Carlos Garcia from the Los Angeles Police Department.’

Standing with his back toward them, facing the window, Thomas Paulsen nodded at the view but didn’t bother turning around. ‘Thank you, Joanne.’

The PA swiftly stepped out of the room, soundlessly closing the doors behind her.

Hunter and Garcia stood by the entrance, quickly assessing the office: more black leather and sumptuous rugs. Two recessed bookcases containing books on computer programming languages, Internet security and finance shared the north wall with even more expensive-looking works of art. Hunter knew that the south wall was what was known as the Ego Wall – a potpourri of framed photos showing Thomas Paulsen grinning and shaking hands with well-known and not-so-well-known celebrities, certificates attesting that he was highly skilled and qualified, and a few shiny plaques producing clear proof that he had been justly recognized over the years.

‘This is indeed a beautiful city, isn’t it, gentlemen?’ Paulsen said, still facing the window. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a physique that even under his elegant pin-striped suit was easy to tell was lean and strong. His voice was dry and authoritative, clearly belonging to someone who was used to giving orders and getting things done his way.

Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.

Paulsen finally spun around and faced them. He had a thin and remarkably youthful face for a man who was in his early fifties. His short peppered hair was combed slickly back from his forehead, giving him a boyish charm. His light blue eyes seemed full of knowledge, like a university professor’s, glowing with an intensity that was unsettling. There was no denying he was an attractive man, despite the crooked nose that had certainly been broken once or twice. He had a squared jaw, strong cheekbones and full lips. A small scar graced the tip of his chin. Everything about him suggested tremendous self-confidence, but his presence was almost menacing. He didn’t so much as smile, but smirked at them.

‘Would you please have a seat?’ he asked, indicating the two armchairs in front of his desk.

Hunter took the one on the left, Garcia the one on the right. There were no handshakes. Paulsen remained as he was, standing by the window.

‘We’re very sorry for barging in unannounced like this, Mr. Paulsen. We do understand that you are a busy man . . .’ Garcia said in his best, polite voice, but Paulsen interrupted him with a brisk hand gesture.

‘You didn’t barge in, Detective Garcia. If you had, especially without some sort of warrant, I’d have my lawyer here, you removed from the premises and a complaint made to your captain and the Chief of Police so fast you’d probably experience time travel.’ None of it was delivered with anger, or even sarcasm. ‘You’re here because I’ve allowed you to be here. But as you’ve said, I am a very busy man, and I have an important meeting in a few minutes, so I suggest you use this time wisely.’

Garcia paused, surprised by the retort.

Paulsen sensed his hesitation and took the opportunity.

‘Actually, there’s no need for pleasantries, or even beating around the bush, so we can speed things up. I know why you’re here, so let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

Hunter could clearly see that Paulsen’s tactics were to take control of their meeting. He had kept them waiting – not because he was busy, but because waiting time irritates and frustrates even the most calm of individuals. He had assumed the textbook interviewer’s position of power – standing, while everyone else sat. There had been no physical contact, and Paulsen was keeping a reasonable distance between him and both detectives, making the meeting impersonal, as if he was interviewing someone for an entry-level job. Paulsen was also careful to keep his voice as calm as Garcia’s, but just a notch louder and firmer, stamping authority. Thomas Paulsen was a very experienced man, and the kind who wouldn’t be easily intimidated. Hunter was keen to allow Paulsen to play his game . . . for the time being.

‘You already know why we’re here?’ Hunter asked, his voice calm, its decibel level deliberately not matching his host’s.

‘Detective Hunter, please. Look around you.’ Paulsen lifted both of his hands, palms facing up. ‘I didn’t achieve all this by sheer luck, as I’m sure your file on me would’ve told you already. Sure, I could play dumb with you gentlemen and pretend that I don’t know what this is all about.’ Paulsen looked bored as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt under his suit jacket. ‘Then act offended and insulted when the real reason finally transpires, but hey . . .’ The smirk came back to his lips. ‘I don’t have that much time to throw away. And I’m sure you could use yours to run around in circles some more.’

Garcia’s eyebrows arched, and his eyes stole a peek at Hunter, who had sat back and comfortably crossed his legs.

‘Why do you think we’re running around in circles?’ Hunter asked.

Paulsen threw his head back and laughed a full-bodied laugh. ‘Detective, please . . . This isn’t a psychoanalysis session. Your “double-meaning” questions will get you nowhere, and—’ he checked his watch ‘—tick-tock, tick-tock, time’s a wasting . . . for you at least.’

Paulsen spoke and carried himself like a man with zero worries in life. He placed both hands inside his trouser pockets and walked around to the front of his desk. Before Hunter or Garcia could formulate the next question, he spoke again.

‘But OK, let me indulge you, just this once. The reason why you’re here is because of your investigation into this . . . shall I say . . . “Internet show murderer”? And because Christina Stevenson was one of the victims.’ He allowed his eyes to move from Hunter’s face, to Garcia’s, and then back to Hunter’s before nodding confidently. ‘Yes, I watched the broadcast too. Superb, wasn’t it?’ He tagged the question with a chuckle.

No reply.

Paulsen moved on.

‘And you’re running around in circles because you’re here, in my office. And the only reason why you’re here is because you’ve got nothing . . . not a thing. I’m the only “person of interest” you’ve got on your list, isn’t that what you cops call someone like me?’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘And the only reason I am a “person-of-interest” is because an article written by Miss Stevenson months ago has set off the most negligible of bleeps on your radar. If you had anyone else of more substance on your list, any other “person of interest”, you would be talking to him, her or them, not me. Thisis a panic visit. You know it, and I know it.’

‘And what makes you think that we haven’t talked to others already?’ Garcia asked.

Another laugh from Paulsen. ‘The desperate look on your faces is a pretty good giveaway.’ He paused. Checked his watch again. ‘The evasive words in your press conference last night.’ An unconcerned shrug. ‘You look and sound defeated . . . out of options. Everyone can see it. And you’re here now to try to assess me.’ He adjusted his tie. ‘So let me help you with that. Am I glad that Christina Stevenson is dead? Delighted. Do I feel bad because she was tortured before being murdered? Not even a little bit. Do I have the knowledge, the IQ, the means and the nerve to do something like that, and then vanish into cyberspace before you even knew what hit you? You bet your bottom dollar I do. Did I know yesterday’s victim? Maybe, maybe not. What difference would it make? Could I be behind these murders? Possibly. Did I ever threaten Christina Stevenson after her article came out? Perhaps. Did I want to make her life hell, like she did mine? Absolutely. Did I succeed? Who cares? She’s dead. Thank you very much.’ He winked at them. ‘Would that be all?’

‘Not quite,’ Garcia said.

Paulsen’s egotism was setting Garcia’s teeth on edge, and he had to take a moment to contain his anger.

‘Could you tell us where you were yesterday in between five and six in the afternoon?’

‘Ah!’ Paulsen lifted a finger in the air. ‘The all-important placement question at the time of the murder. And this is where it gets good, Detective.’ He returned his hands to his pockets. ‘I wasn’t feeling too well, so I left the office early. At that specific time I was at home, alone, in front of my computer, logged into pickadeath.com, and watching the show, like so many others.’ A new grin. ‘And before you ask, no, I don’t have an alibi. Would you like to arrest me?’