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

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

A black pair of male shoes with their heels pushed tight against the glass door.

Shock and fear caused her eyes to slowly glide up the curtains, and she noticed that at that exact spot the folds didn’t sit right. For Christina, the next few seconds passed in slow motion. Her gaze moved up a little more before stopping dead.

From inside her room, through the break in the curtains, someone was staring straight back at her.

Sixteen

After managing four and a half consecutive hours of sleep, fantastic by his standards, Hunter got to his office at 8:10 a.m. Garcia was already at his desk reading through all the overnight emails – nothing interesting.

Hunter had taken off his jacket and powered up his computer when the phone on his desk rang.

‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special.’

‘Robert, it’s Mike Brindle. I’ve got the result from that partial tire print we got in the alleyway.’

‘Anything good?’

‘Well, we’ve got a match.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘The print came from a Goodyear Wrangler ATS tire. Specifically, a P265/70R17.’

‘And that means . . .?’

‘That we’ve got a common pickup truck tire,’ Brindle explained. ‘The ATS range is used by several truck manufacturers as the original equipment tire on new vehicles. The one in question has been used by Ford for their F-150 and F-250 trucks for the past four years, and by Chevrolet for their Silverado for the past three.’

‘Damn!’

‘Yep, I’ve asked someone to check. Even with the recession, in the whole of the USA Ford sold about 120,000 F-150 and F-250 trucks in the past year alone. Chevrolet sold around 140,000 Silverados. What percentage of those is dark in color, or has been purchased in California, is something you and your team will have to find out.’

‘We’ll get on to it,’ Hunter said. ‘I’m guessing that those tires aren’t very hard to come by either.’

‘That’s problem number two,’ Brindle told him. ‘They’re readily available, which means that anybody with an older or even a different brand of truck could drive into a shop and equip their trucks with those specific tires. But they’re an expensive option, so chances are most people would go for a cheaper make if they are buying new tires for an older truck.’

Hunter nodded in silence.

‘Now, as you will remember, the back alley was a blacktop,’ Brindle carried on. ‘Which makes finding things like footprints a lot harder, but with the help of some special lighting we managed to find a few. They belong to at least eight different people.’

‘Not surprising,’Hunter thought, given that that alleyway serviced several different shops.

‘But a couple of them were very interesting.’

‘In what way?’ Hunter asked.

‘They were found just by the space between the third and fourth dumpster, where the body was found. The prints came from a size eleven shoe. Keon Lewis, the only other person we know who had walked around that same area, is a size thirteen. The left shoeprint seems to be more prominent than the right shoe one. That could indicate that the person walked with a slight abnormality, like a limp, depositing more of his weight onto his left leg.’

‘Or that he was carrying something heavy,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘Probably over his left shoulder. Not in his arms.’

‘Precisely,’ Brindle agreed. ‘He gets the body out of the car, throws it over his left shoulder and carries it to the space between the dumpsters.’ Brindle breathed out. ‘Now, the victim was quite a large man.’

‘216 pounds,’ Hunter said.

‘Well, carrying 216 pounds over one of your shoulders isn’t for just anyone, Robert,’ Brindle said. ‘The guy you’re looking for is big and strong.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘In the alleyway he was also very careful,’ Brindle continued. ‘Though we found footprints, we got nothing from the sole. No kind of imprint whatsoever.’

‘He covered his shoe,’ Hunter concluded.

‘Yep. Probably with a plastic bag. I’ve also got toxicology for you.’

‘Wow, that was fast.’

‘Nothing but the best, my friend.’

‘Was the victim drugged?’

‘Anesthetized,’ Brindle said. ‘Traces of an intravenous anesthetic – phenoperidine – were found. It’s a strong opioid, and with a little research you would find several illegal drugstores willing to sell it to you over the Internet.’

‘The wonders of the modern age,’Hunter thought. ‘You said traces?’ he queried.

‘Yep, almost negligible. If I had to guess, I’d say the killer used it only to subdue the victim for a short period of time. Probably during the abduction process. After the killer had the victim in a safe location, the anesthetic wasn’t re-administered.’

He scribbled something down on a notepad.

‘We’ve also got the results from the voice analysis done on your telephone conversation with the killer,’ Brindle said, moving on. ‘It seems that he was filtering and refiltering his voice several times over, only slightly altering the pitch each time. Sometimes higher, sometimes lower. That’s why, even with the electronic variation, the voice still sounds so normal, so human, but nevertheless unrecognizable if you were to unknowingly have a conversation with him out on the streets.’

Hunter said nothing in reply. From the corner of his eye Hunter saw Garcia’s face light up as he read something on his computer screen.

‘Anyway, I’m emailing you all the results we’ve got so far,’ Brindle said. ‘If anything more comes up from the fibers and hairs, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks, Mike.’ Hunter put the phone down.

Garcia hit the ‘print’ button.

‘What’s up, Carlos?’

Garcia collected the printout and showed it to Hunter. It was a black and white portrait of a white male in his mid to late twenties. His light brown hair was short and messy. His face was round with chubby cheeks, a prominent forehead and thin eyebrows. His eyes were dark and almond shaped. On the portrait he had a bit of a spaced-out look on his face.

Hunter’s eyes widened. He would’ve recognized that face anywhere. He’d stared at it for hours on end. He watched him die again and again. There was no doubt in his mind. He was staring at a photograph of their victim.

Seventeen

Hunter finally blinked.

‘Where did you get this?’

Garcia had handed the printout to Hunter and was already back at his computer, reading the email he’d just received.

‘Missing Persons. They just sent it over.’

Hunter’s eyes returned to the photograph.

‘He was reported missing on Wednesday,’ Garcia said. ‘It took the Missing Persons’ face recognition program until this morning to partially match that picture to the snapshot we sent them.’

‘Who was he?’

‘His name was Kevin Lee Parker, twenty-eight years old, from Stanton, in Orange County. He was currently residing in Jefferson Park with his wife, Anita Lee Parker. She was the one who reported him missing. He worked as a manager in a videogames shop in Hyde Park.’

‘How long was he missing for?’

Garcia scrolled down on the attached file that had come with the email. ‘Since Monday. That was the last time his wife saw him. Monday morning, when he left for work. He didn’t go back home that evening.’

‘But she only reported him missing on Wednesday,’ Hunter said. ‘Two days ago.’

Garcia nodded. ‘That’s what it says here.’

‘Do we know if he turned up for work on Monday?’

A little more scrolling. ‘According to his wife, yes. She called the shop on Tuesday morning and they said that he did turn up for work the day before.’

‘But not on Tuesday?’

‘No.’

‘Does he have a cellphone?’

‘Yes. Ms. Lee Parker has been calling it since Monday evening. No answer.’

Hunter checked his watch. ‘OK, let’s get the research team to run a check on Mr. Lee Parker’s name. Usual stuff: all the background they can get.’

‘They’re already on it,’ Garcia said.

‘Great,’ Hunter said, reaching for his jacket. ‘Let’s go talk to Mrs. Lee Parker.’

Eighteen

Jefferson Park, with its single-story homes and low-rise apartment buildings, was a small district in southwestern Los Angeles. It had begun as one of the city’s wealthiest areas at the turn of the twentieth century. As the city grew, and newer, more modern neighborhoods were created, wealth started to abandon the area. A century on and Jefferson Park had become just one of many lower-middle-class neighborhoods in a city that never seemed to stop growing.

At that time in the morning the traffic on Harbor Freeway was a bumper-to-bumper snail procession, and what should’ve been a ten to fifteen-minute drive took the best part of forty-five minutes.

Kevin Lee Parker’s street looked like a suburban postcard. Set back, single-story houses lined both sides of a road where tall trees shadowed the sidewalks. His house was white with blue windows, a blue door and a two-way pitched terracotta roof. The white picket-style fence that surrounded the property looked like it had received a new coat of paint recently. The front lawn, though, could’ve done with a trim. Two young kids were riding their bicycles up and down the street, incessantly ringing their handlebar bells. As he stepped out of the car, Hunter noticed a neighbor from the next house along studying them over her pristine hedge.

The short walkway from the wooden gate to the front door of Kevin Lee Parker’s house was old and paved with cement-colored blocks. Several of them were cracked. Some were missing one or two corners.

They got to the porch and Garcia knocked three times – nothing for a long moment. He was about to knock again when the door was finally opened by a plump woman in her early twenties. Her disheveled hair was dark and short, her face round and meaty. She had a baby propped on her hip. She looked exhausted, and her eyes had the gritty red tint of someone who’d been crying, or had had very little sleep, or both. She just looked at the two detectives without saying a word.

‘Ms. Lee Parker?’ Hunter asked.

She nodded.

‘My name is Robert Hunter. I’m with the LAPD. We spoke earlier on the phone.’

Anita Lee Parker nodded again.

‘This is my partner, Detective Carlos Garcia.’ They both showed her their credentials.

The baby girl in her arms smiled at them and moved her right hand, as if wanting to greet both detectives. Looking at the tiny baby, Hunter smiled back, but inside him his heart sank.

‘You find Kevin?’ Anita asked in an anxious voice. She had a strong Puerto Rican accent.

‘Could we maybe talk inside, Ms. Lee Parker?’ Hunter suggested.

For a moment she seemed confused, as if she hadn’t understood him. Then she took a step to her left and showed them inside.

The front door led them straight into a small living room. On one corner, a portable fan stirred the air, which was heavy with the smell of baby stuff. A three-seat sofa and two armchairs were draped with multicolored sheets that looked like patchwork quilts straight out of the Deep South. A large picture of Jesus decorated one of the walls, and family portraits were scattered around the room. Anita was so nervous she didn’t offer anyone a seat.

‘You find Kevin?’ she asked again. Her voice almost faltering. ‘Where is he? Why he no call me?’

Anita already seemed on the verge of a breakdown. Hunter had been in that situation too many times before to know that he needed to extract whatever information he could out of her before she went hysterical.

The baby in her arms was starting to sense her mother’s anxiety. She had gone from smiling to frowning, on the verge of crying.

‘Anita,’ Hunter said warmly, indicating the sofa. ‘Why don’t we all have a seat?’

Again, she looked at him as if confused. ‘Don’t want no seat. Where’s Kevin?’

The baby girl started kicking her legs and flapping her arms. Hunter smiled at her again. ‘What’s her name?’

Anita looked down at her daughter with tender eyes and started rocking her. ‘Lilia.’

Another smile. ‘That’s a beautiful name. And she’s a beautiful baby, but because you’re upset she’s getting upset, see? Babies can sense these things better than anyone, especially from their mothers. If you have a seat, it will help Lilia feel more comfortable. And so will you.’

Anita hesitated.

‘Please.’ Hunter indicated the sofa again. ‘Just try it. You’ll see.’

Anita placed Lilia’s dummy in her mouth. ‘No llores, mi amor. Todo va a estar bien.’The baby took the dummy and Anita finally took a seat. Hunter and Garcia took the armchairs.

Lilia settled into a comfortable position in her mother’s arms and closed her eyes.

Hunter took that opportunity to fire a question before Anita could fire hers again.

‘You said that the last time you saw Kevin was on Monday, is that right?’

Anita nodded. ‘In the morning. He ate breakfast and left for work, like every morning.’

‘And he didn’t come home that night?’

‘No. That was not so strange before, but since Lilia was born he no play late no more.’

‘Play late?’ Garcia asked.

Anita chuckled nervously. ‘Kevin is a big niño.He works in games shop because he love games. He always playing games like a child. Before Lilia was born, many nights he stay in shop after work, playing games on Internet until morning with work friends. But he always called me to say he be playing. But now that we have Lilia, he doesn’t play late no more. He’s a good father.’

Garcia nodded his understanding.

‘He didn’t call you on Monday night?’ Hunter asked.

‘No.’

‘Did you call him?’

‘Yes, but he no answer phone. Message said phone not ’vailable.’

‘What time was that, can you remember? What time did you call your husband?’

Anita didn’t have to think about it. ‘Not late. Around eight thirty. Kevin is never late home. He is usually back from work by eight o’clock.’

Hunter wrote that down.

‘Did you talk to any of his work colleagues from the shop? Was he at work on Monday?’

‘Yes. I call the shop Monday night. After I tried calling Kevin. No answer. Nobody there. I call the policiaat eleven, but they didn’t care. A cop came by at around one in the morning, but he just said I had to wait. Maybe Kevin would be back home in the morning. Morning came and Kevin not home. Then I call shop again. Talk to Emilio. Emilio is a good friend. Old friend. He said Kevin worked on Monday, but no stay after work to play Internet games. He said they closed the shop at seven and Kevin left. I called police again, but they still didn’t care. They say Kevin was not a child. They had to wait one or two days before they could do anything.’

Hunter and Garcia knew that to be true. In America, any adult has the right to go missing if he or she wants to. Maybe they don’t want to see their wife or husband for a day or two. Maybe they just need a break from everything. It was their prerogative. California’s Missing Persons’ protocol dictated that they should wait between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before filing a missing persons’ complaint for anyone over the age of eighteen.

Hunter took some more notes. ‘Does Kevin drive to work?’

‘No, he takes bus.’

‘Did you, as a family, have any financial problems?’ Garcia asked.

‘Financial?’

‘Money problems,’ Garcia clarified.

Anita shook her head vigorously. ‘No. We pay everything on time. We don’t owe nobody no money.’

‘Did Kevin?’ Garcia pursued it. ‘Did he gamble?’ He noticed her confused look and clarified again before she could ask. ‘Bet . . . apuesta.Did he bet . . . on horses, or Internet poker or anything?’

The face Anita pulled was as if Garcia had bad-mouthed her entire family. ‘No. Kevin is a good man. A good father. He’s a good husband. We go to church every Sunday.’ She indicated the portrait of Jesus on the wall. ‘Kevin likes videogames, like boom, boom, boom, shoot monsters.’ She used her thumb and index finger to create an imaginary gun. ‘Shoot soldiers in war, you know? But he’s no betting chico. Él no apuesta.Just like to play. We save all the money we can – for Lilia.’ She looked down at her daughter, who was still happily sucking on her dummy. ‘His heart is not so good, you know? He takes medicine. Doctor said he has to be careful. He is scared he won’t see Lilia grow up, so he saves for her future.’ Anita’s eyes started to fill with tears. ‘Something is wrong. I know it. Kevin always call. There was no bus accident. I checked. This neighborhood very dangerous. This city very dangerous. People think LA is all about Hollywood and big life, you know? It’s not.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘I’m scared. Kevin and Lilia is all I have. My family is in Puerto Rico. You have to find Kevin for me. You have to.’

Hunter’s heart sank for the second time, and he felt something tighten inside his chest because he knew there was nothing he could do. It was time to tell Anita the truth.

Nineteen

Hunter and Garcia sat in silence inside Garcia’s car for a long moment. Having to break the news to somebody as vulnerable as Anita that her husband had been taken by a psychopath, that his body had been almost dissolved in an alkali bath, and that baby Lilia would never see her father again had a way of rattling even the most experienced of detectives.

At first Anita just stared at them, as if not a single word they’d said had registered. Then she started laughing. Loud, hysterical laughs, as if she’d heard the world’s funniest joke. Tears streamed down her face, but the laughter carried on. Then she told them that they had to leave because her husband was due home at any minute. She had things to do before he got back. She wanted to prepare him his favorite meal, and then he would sit and play with his daughter like he did every night. Anita was shaking as if feverish when she closed the door on them.

Hunter left without saying another word. In his career he had seen the most diverse grief reactions: a mother who sincerely believed her son had been abducted by aliens rather than accept the fact that he’d been stabbed thirty-three times simply for walking down a neighborhood wearing the wrong colors; a new doctor, fresh out of med school, who lost all memory of his young wife rather than recall the night their house was broken into by four men, who tied him up and made him watch as they showed her absolutely no mercy. When reality becomes too senseless to make sense, the human mind will sometimes create its own.

Hunter would immediately request that a city psychologist got in touch with Anita. She would need all the help she could get.

Someone from the forensics office would also visit Anita in the next day or so. They would need a mouth swab, or a hair sample from her baby daughter. Hunter and Garcia were certain the victim was Kevin Lee Parker, but protocol required positive identification. With the body’s grotesque disfigurement, Anita would never be able to identify it down at the County Coroner’s. Positive identification would have to be made by DNA analyses.

‘Shit!’ Garcia said, resting his head against the steering wheel. ‘We’re looking for another I-don’t-care-who-the-fuck-I-kill murderer.’

Hunter just looked at him.

‘You just saw the victim’s house. There’s no wealth. You met his wife and daughter – simple everyday people. OK, we have to wait for whatever the research team can dig out on Kevin Lee Parker, but does any of what we know or have seen about his life so far strike you as anything other than ordinary?’

Hunter said nothing.

‘I’ll be surprised if the team finds even a parking ticket on him. He was just a young family man trying to get by, trying to build some sort of a future for his wife and daughter before his faulty heart gave up.’ Garcia shook his head. ‘I don’t think Kevin Lee Parker became a victim because of money, or debt, or drugs, or revenge, or anything. He was just picked at random out of the general public by a sadistic maniac. It could’ve been anyone, Robert. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘You know we can’t be sure of that at this point, Carlos.’

‘Well, that’s my gut feeling, Robert. This isn’t about the victim. It’s about the killer showing off on a God power trip. Why build that torture chamber? Why call us and stream the execution live over the Internet for us to watch, as if it were a goddamn killing show? You said so yourself, the whole setup behind this is too bold, too complex – a phone call that bounces all around LA, not the world or even America, just LA, but an Internet transmission that seemed to have originated in Taiwan?’

Hunter had no reply.

‘This guy just wants to kill. Period. Who he kills makes no fucking difference to him.’

Hunter still said nothing.

‘You were right in your assessment,’ Garcia continued. ‘If we don’t stop this guy soon, Kevin Lee Parker won’t be the only victim we’re going to find. He’s just going to pick someone else at random off the streets, put him in that torture chamber and start the nightmare again. Maybe Baxter is right. Maybe this psycho is playing a game. Showing off how sick and creative he can be at the same time. You’re the psychologist here, what do you think? I must say that when he was talking to you on the phone, I had never heard anyone sound so cold and without emotion. The victim’s life meant absolutely nothing to him.’

Garcia had picked up the exact same apathy in the caller’s voice as Hunter had. There was no anger, no revenge tone, no satisfaction, no amusement, nothing. The caller had dealt with taking a life in the same way a person would deal with opening a tap and filling a glass with water. Hunter and Garcia both knew that that was the worst type of killer any detective could be faced with. The one to whom it seemed that nothing mattered. Killing was just a game.

Twenty

Hunter and Garcia drove straight to the Next-Gen Games Shop in Hyde Park where Kevin Lee Parker used to work. According to Anita, Kevin’s best friend was another employee of the same store – Emilio Mendoza.

The videogames shop occupied a double corner unit in a small shopping mall in Crenshaw Boulevard. At that time in the morning business was slow, with only a handful of kids browsing the shelves.

‘Excuse me,’ Hunter said, grabbing the attention of a shop assistant who was reorganizing a couple of displays at the front of the shop. ‘Could you tell me if Emilio is working today?’

The man’s stare slowly zigzagged between both detectives for a brief moment.

‘I’m Emilio,’ he said, placing one last game on the shelf and offering them a cheesy smile. ‘How can I help you today?’ His Puerto Rican accent was subtle, charming.

Emilio looked to be in his early thirties, with a heavy and oddly shaped body – round and bulbous around the shoulders and stomach, a little like a child’s party balloon that had been squeezed into shape. He had short dark hair and a thin, perfectly groomed mustache.

‘We’re with the LAPD,’ Hunter said, displaying his credentials. Garcia did the same. ‘Is there a place where we could talk with a little more privacy?’

Emilio shifted on his feet uncomfortably. His quizzical gaze started bouncing between both detectives again.

‘It’s about Kevin Lee Parker,’ Hunter clarified, but Emilio seemed to become even more confused.

‘Is Kev OK?’

Hunter’s eyes circled the shop before returning to Emilio. ‘Maybe we should talk back at the parking lot?’ he suggested, jerking his head to one side.

‘Yeah, sure.’ Emilio nodded and turned to address the tall and skinny assistant behind the counter. ‘Frank, I’ve gotta take a ten-minute break. Will you be OK?’

Frank’s eyes lingered on the two men with Emilio for a quick moment. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine.’ He nodded. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yeah, we’re all good. I’ll be back in ten.’

Emilio followed Hunter and Garcia back to the parking lot. ‘Kevin isn’t OK, is he?’ he asked once they reached Garcia’s car. Hunter detected real fear in his voice.

‘When was the last time you saw Kevin?’ Garcia asked.

‘Monday,’ Emilio replied. ‘He was working Monday. He was supposed to be working every day this week, but he didn’t turn up on Tuesday morning, or any day after that. Anita, his wife, called me on Tuesday morning. Kev didn’t go home on Monday night. She said that she had called the police, but they didn’t pay her much attention.’

‘What time did he leave work on Monday, do you know?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yes, same time as always,’ Emilio said. ‘He closed the shop at around 7:00 p.m., as he does daily. We usually walk up to the bus stop on Hyde Park Boulevard and 10th Avenue together, but on Monday evening I decided to grab dinner at Chico’s, just around the corner.’ Emilio pointed east. ‘I asked Kev if he wanted to come along, but he said that he just wanted to go home and play with his daughter.’

‘Do you know if he made it to the bus stop?’

‘I don’t.’ Emilio’s response was followed by a headshake.

‘On Monday, did Kevin look or sound different in any way?’ Garcia asked. ‘Nervous, anxious, agitated, worried, scared . . . anything?’

Emilio pulled a face as if that was the strangest question in the world.

‘No. Kev was . . . ’ He shrugged. ‘Kev. Always smiling. Always happy. Nothing different about him at all.’

‘Was he a gambler of some sort?’

Emilio’s eyes widened and he chuckled nervously. ‘Kevin, a gambler? No way. He was into videogames and online gaming, more specifically “Call of Duty – Modern Warfare, Black Ops 2” and “Ghost Recon”, but that was it. No casino games. Kev wouldn’t throw money away like that.’

‘How long have you known each other?’ Hunter asked.

Emilio gave them an uncertain headshake. ‘A long time. Over fifteen years. We met in lower school back in Gardena. Kev is the one who got me this job two years ago, after he became shop manager. I was struggling, you know? I was laid off a few years back and couldn’t get a job nowhere. Kev is a real friend . . . my best friend.’

‘So you don’t think that he was in any sort of trouble?’ Garcia asked.

‘I don’t think so. Look, if Kev is in any kind of trouble . . . anything, really, he would’ve told me, I’m sure of it; if not, I would’ve picked it up anyway. He isn’t very good at hiding things. He’s a very average guy, quite shy sometimes. He loves his family, and he loves his job. There really isn’t that much more to him. Something must’ve happened. And I mean something bad, you know what I’m saying? I’m telling you, he wouldn’t just take off. He has no reason to. He’s not a heavy drinker or anything, and I know he doesn’t sleep around.’ Emilio paused and looked back at both detectives, now visibly shaken. ‘Something did happen to Kevin, didn’t it? That’s why you’re here. You’re not from Missing Persons.’

‘No, I’m afraid we’re not,’ Garcia replied.

Twenty-One

It was twenty-eight minutes past five in the afternoon when Hunter finished going through the road camera footage he was sent by the Valley Bureau’s Traffic Division. The closest, constant recording traffic camera to the alleyway in Mission Hills, where the victim’s body had been found, was just shy of a mile away, on the intersection of two major freeways – San Diego and Ronald Reagan – an escaping man’s dream. The problem was the killer didn’t have to take any of those freeways at that junction. He didn’t have to take a freeway at all. He could’ve easily gone from one side of LA to the other via city streets, where the largest majority of traffic cameras were activated only if you broke the speed limit or drove through a red light. He could’ve dropped the body in that back alley and driven all the way across town without a single camera ever picking him up.

Nevertheless, Hunter sped through four hours of traffic footage, spotting thirty-seven pickup trucks joining one of the two freeways at that junction. Twenty-one of them were dark in color, but none of them seemed to have a dented back fender. Hunter passed the license plate number of all thirty-seven vehicles to his team, just in case Keon had been wrong. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

‘I told you we wouldn’t get anything out of the ordinary,’ Garcia said, walking back into the office. He had a file in his hands. ‘Kevin Lee Parker was your everyday John Doe. A simple guy, with a simple life. He’s never been arrested. Always paid his taxes on time. He’s not a homeowner; he rents. We contacted his landlord. Only once, about two years ago, Kevin wasn’t able to pay his rent on time. It was just after his wedding and he was a little low on his finances. Anyway, he was only late by a couple of weeks. The landlord said that he was an upstanding guy.’

Hunter nodded and leaned back in his chair.

‘Kevin grew up in Westlake, where he went to school. His school records were average. Not the best of students, but not the worst either. He never went to university. Kevin had a series of odd jobs all over the place – waiter, supermarket attendant, warehouse clerk . . . ’ Garcia made a hand gesture indicating that the list went on and on. ‘He started working for Next-Gen Games Shop in Hyde Park five years ago, and took the manager’s position three years later. He married Anita around the same time. They’d been going out together for five years then. His daughter, Lilia, was born six months ago.’

Garcia had to clear his throat as the memory of the smiling baby in her mother’s arms came back to him.

‘It sounds like he was a very careful person too.’ He moved on. ‘As we found out, he had a heart condition – mitral stenosis. He was conscientious enough never to abuse it. No strenuous exercise, never smoked, apparently no drugs either. He was part of a healthcare plan, but it doesn’t look like it was a great one. He still had to cough up a little more money every time he saw a doctor. And that’s why in the last five years he’d been to see a cardiologist only twice – Doctor Mel Gooding. His practice is in South Robertson. We can drop by tomorrow morning.’

Hunter nodded.

‘As Emilio told us earlier today, Kevin didn’t have a vast circle of friends. His life was centered around his family and his job; that was it. Emilio was his best friend.’ Garcia flipped a page on the report before carrying on. ‘We should have a statement on his latest bank transactions by tomorrow morning. Nothing yet from his cellphone or web provider, but hopefully we’ll get something in a day or two.’

‘Any news on the bus?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia nodded. ‘Kevin used to take a bus on route 207 back home. It goes from Athens to Hollywood. There were six drivers driving that route for the LA Metro on Monday evening. I’ve got all their names here. Four are working tonight. The other two will be in tomorrow morning.’ He quickly consulted his watch and handed the report to Hunter. ‘It’s your call. But we can be at the depot in an hour or so and check with the four drivers working tonight if any of them remember seeing Kevin on their bus on Monday evening.’