Written in Blood Read online

  Angela shook her head, banishing the thought.

  ‘So what’s it gonna be, lady?’ the cab driver insisted. ‘Do you want me to drop you off at North Hollywood Police Station?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ Angela looked out the window to see if she recognized where they were. The driver had just turned right on West Magnolia Boulevard. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been there before and there isn’t much that they can do.’ She checked the meter – $21.25. ‘Actually, I have a friend who lives just around the corner,’ she lied. ‘So you can drop me right here, if that’s OK.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ The driver pulled up by a Target. ‘Are you sure you gonna be OK, lady?’

  Angela paid the driver. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine, thank you.’

  As the cab drove off, Angela zipped up her hoodie against the cold wind and looked around.

  ‘So what now?’ she asked herself.

  As Angela tried to think, her cellphone rang in her back pocket. She reached for it and checked the display screen: ‘unknown number’.

  She took the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Angela?’ a rasping male voice asked. Angela didn’t recognize it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got something that belongs to me.’

  Angela’s breath caught in her throat and she felt her heart go from resting rate to supersonic in less than a second.

  ‘And I want it back.’ The man’s voice sounded calm and controlled, not angry.

  How can this be happening? Angela thought. How does he know my name? How come he has my cellphone number?

  ‘Have you heard what I’ve said?’

  No reply.

  ‘I know you’re there, Angela. I can hear your breathing.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘If you want to continue doing that – breathing, I mean – I suggest you answer me. Where’s my diary?’

  Angela could feel her legs starting to weaken under her.

  ‘Is it in your apartment?’

  Angela wanted to reply, but she was so scared, her vocal cords failed to produce even a measly ‘no’.

  ‘Let me make this easier for you, Angela. I’m standing in your living room right now, staring at your three-seater sofa with the ugly leopard-print throw.’

  Angela’s heart played hopscotch for a second. She couldn’t believe that the man had gone back to her apartment and broken in.

  ‘Tell me where my diary is and I won’t make a mess, I’ll just take it and you won’t ever hear from me again.’

  Angela had no idea of what to do. She thought about calling the police and reporting a break-in in progress, but she didn’t expect the man to just sit there and wait. It would take the cops at least eight to ten minutes to respond to her call and the man had probably anticipated such a move from her anyway. She drew strength from every corner of her body to finally be able to speak.

  ‘It’s not in my apartment.’ Her voice was so weak, it was barely audible.

  The man went completely silent for a moment.

  ‘So where is it then? Do you have it with you?’

  ‘No . . .’

  The man waited.

  ‘I don’t have it. I don’t have it anymore.’ Angela leaned against a wall for support.

  A long pause this time, as if the man was waiting for Angela to develop on what she’d just said.

  ‘I . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘I sent it to the police.’

  ‘I wouldn’t really recommend lying to me.’ Even after Angela’s revelation, the man’s voice lost none of its composure. Mentioning the police didn’t seem to faze him at all.

  ‘I’m not.’ Angela’s voice, on the other hand, was strangled by tears. ‘I . . . t sgocared and sent it to the cops.’

  ‘Can you get it back?’

  The question surprised Angela. The man didn’t really sound concerned that the LAPD had his diary. ‘Get it back?’ She shook her head at the Los Angeles night. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so, or you know so?’

  Angela allowed her back to slowly slide down against the wall until she was sitting on the ground, her legs bent at the knees.

  ‘I know so. I can’t get it back. I can’t.’

  Several silent seconds went by.

  ‘In that case,’ the man said at last. ‘May I suggest that you enjoy the little time you have left on this earth, Angela. And trust me – you really don’t have that long left.’

  The line went dead.

  Thirty

  Wednesday, December 9th

  It was almost 1:00 a.m. when Hunter managed to finally get away from the Ball. If it had been up to him, he would’ve left a lot earlier; he was dying to get back to the killer’s diary and the rest of the entries, but Captain Blake was adamant that he was not to leave the ball before Governor Gordon had given his speech, which was scheduled for midnight. Speech done, Hunter still had to sit for another twenty minutes or so before the captain at last gave him the all-clear.

  Next year, he thought, as he got back into his car and turned on the engine, I’m definitely joining the Santa group.

  The Santa group was a band of ten police officers and detectives that dressed up as Santa and walked around the ball handing out silly gifts and cards, some of them as pranks. Garcia had joined the group this year and his ‘Zombie Santa’ outfit had been the talk of the ball. If not for Garcia, Hunter truly believed that he could’ve died of boredom.

  At that time of night, the drive from the Globe Theatre in Downtown LA to Huntington Park took Hunter twenty-eight minutes. Once home, he changed into something more comfortable, poured himself a double dose of Kilchoman Sanaig single-malt scotch whisky and took a seat at the small dining table in his living room that doubled as a desk. He switched on his laptop and called up his email application. Hunter couldn’t wait to get back to the diary entries, but as his attention settled on his computer screen, he felt his eyelids become heavy and his concentration wander.

  Hunter had been an insomniac for most of his life and, as he left the ball, he had fully expected to experience another sleepless night. All the telltale signs were in place – the unresolved thoughts, the frustration, the avalanche of questions he had no answers to – everything he needed to keep his brain working at top speed without a sliver of a chance for some rest. Knowing that, Hunter was more than prepared for it, but one thing that he had also learned very early on was that though it didn’t happen often, occasionally, without any warning, insomnia would take a break and simply leave him be.

  Hunter had barely touched his whisky, so he knew straight away that the heavy eyelids and his wandering concentration wasn’t the alcohol talking. He sat back, closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax. Within seconds, he had identified it for what it really was – pure and simple exhaustion. His body was begging him to go to sleep.

  Hunter’s life of insomnia had taught him many things, and the most important of them all was to never turn his back on such a request. In the rare occasions when insomnia allowed him to go to sleep easily, Hunter would grab at it with everything he had. He powered down his laptop, drained his whisky tumbler and went to bed.

  Thirty-One

  Wednesday, December 9th

  The longitude and latitude coordinates linked to the second burial site took Hunter to an isolated dirt road that led up to Deer Canyon in the Verdugo Mountain Range.

  The excavation operation was set to begin at 07:30 sharp, but due to how difficult the actual location was to access from Skyline Mountain Way, everything was running late . . . very late.

  Garcia was talking to a forensics agent when he saw Hunter park next to one of the two FSD vans by the side of the road.

  ‘It’s going to take them at least an hour just to get all the equipment from the vans to the actual site,’ Garcia told Hunter, as he stepped out of his old Buick LeSabre.

  Hunter nodded. ‘What time did you get here?’

  ‘A few minutes ago,’ Garcia replied. ‘I was just asking th
e forensics agent if they had already started when you arrived.’

  ‘What time did you leave last night?’

  Garcia chuckled. ‘This morning, you mean.’ He gave Hunter a shake of the head. ‘Not that long after you. Around one-thirty, I think.’ That was when he noticed something unusual. ‘You look . . . rested,’ he said, his tone a little uncertain.

  ‘I am,’ Hunter agreed and simply left it at that. He looked around and saw the agent that Garcia had been talking to disappear behind some thick bushes to the right of the dirt road. He checked his smartphone. According to the map application, the burial site was around fifteen to seventeen yards off-road and into the chaparral. Hunter nodded at one of the FSD vans. ‘Let’s give them a hand with the equipment.’

  As he and Garcia reached inside the van, Hunter’s cellphone rang in his pocket. The call was coming from the Police Administration Building. Hunter took the call and listened for about ten seconds.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘She’s there?’

  Garcia looked at his partner, intrigued. ‘What’s going on, Robert?’

  Hunter gestured for Garcia to give him a minute. ‘Yes, sure,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘Tell her that I’m calling her back right now.’ He disconnected from the call.

  Garcia asked the same question again, this time with a simple look instead of words.

  ‘Angela is at the PAB,’ Hunter said, searching his phone contacts for her number.

  ‘Right now?’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘We’re just about to find out.’

  Hunter found the number and made the call. Angela answered it almost before her phone started ringing.

  ‘Angela, it’s Detective Robert Hunter. I just got a call saying that you are at the PA . . .’ He listened for just a beat. ‘Whoa, whoa . . . hold on. Take a breath and start at the beginning again. What happened?

  . . .

  ‘When was that?’

  . . .

  ‘Why didn’t you . . .?’ Hunter paused, knowing that the ‘whys’ and ‘ifs’ didn’t matter anymore. ‘OK, stay exactly where you are. I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere, you hear me? I’ll be with you in about half an hour. Stay put.’ He ended the call.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ Garcia asked.

  Hunter quickly explained the little that Angela had told him.

  ‘This freak went to her apartment?’ Garcia’s eyes grew to the size of two quarters. ‘How the hell did he—’

  ‘Carlos,’ Hunter cut him short. ‘All I know is what she told me over the phone, which wasn’t much, but I’m going to go pick her up right now. You stay here with the digging team. That way we can keep each other updated.’

  Garcia nodded and watched as Hunter jumped back into his car and drove away.

  Thirty-Two

  Hunter wasn’t far off with his time assessment, because it took him just under twenty-nine minutes to get to the Police Administration Building. In the building’s underground garage, he parked at one of the reserved spaces and ran up the stairs to the main entry lobby. As he got there, he spotted Angela straight away, sitting at the large waiting area to the right of the reception counter. She was wearing the same outfit she had worn the day before. Her arms were crossed, defensively. Her eyes were half shut, with her head slumped back against the chair’s backrest. She was clearly struggling to stay awake.

  ‘Angela,’ Hunter called, as he approached the young woman.

  The sound of his voice, though not threatening, startled her, making her jump on her seat. She looked up at him and blinked a couple of times to do away with the stupor of tiredness. That was when Hunter noticed how exhausted she looked – the white of her eyes were strawberry red and the circles under them made it look like Goth makeup gone wrong.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Hunter asked.

  It took her eyes a second to be able to focus properly on the detective in front of her. She gave him a not very convincing nod.

  ‘Physically I’m fine,’ she explained. ‘Just tired. I haven’t slept at all, I’ve been sitting up for most of the night.’ She stretched her arms above her head. ‘Emotionally, I’m pretty screwed up.’

  ‘Have you been here all night?’

  Angela shook her head while she cleaned some crust from her eyes. ‘I couldn’t go back to my apartment and I couldn’t think of anywhere else that would be open all night other than Denny’s diner, so I’ve been sitting inside the one in North Hollywood since about one o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Hunter asked.

  Angela explained about leaving his card back at her apartment.

  ‘Why didn’t you come here and do what you did this morning – ask the officer at reception to get hold of me?’

  Angela shrugged dismissively. She was way too tired to go into any more details.

  Hunter didn’t push. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Angela replied. ‘That’s all I could afford to drink at Denny’s – coffee and water. I’m all coffeed out.’

  ‘Are you hungry? Do you want me to get you some breakfast?’

  ‘No, I’m OK, thank you. I had enough for an order of pancakes before heading here.’

  ‘OK,’ Hunter said, extending a hand to help Angela up. ‘Why don’t we go up to my office and you can tell me exactly what happened last night?’ They took the elevator to the fifth floor.

  ‘Nice,’ Angela said sarcastically, as soon as she and Hunter entered the small and crammed office. ‘Two of you work in this shoebox?’

  Probably due to how tired she was, her attention settled on how crammed the room was, instead of the photos that had been pinned to the pictures board.

  Hunter quickly rotated it around, before pulling Garcia’s chair from behind his desk so Angela could have a seat.

  ‘This place is so crowded,’ she said, adding insult to injury. ‘You probably need to step outside just to change your mind.’

  ‘We can go somewhere else if you like. We can use the same room we used yesterday.’

  ‘No.’ Angela lifted her hands in acceptance. ‘This is fine. I just needed to make a joke about it.’ She took a seat.

  ‘So what actually happened last night?’ Hunter asked, leaning against the edge of his desk. ‘Start from the beginning, please.’

  Angela rubbed her eyes once again, before telling Hunter everything that had happened from when she had decided to go out for a cigarette.

  Hunter listened without interrupting her.

  ‘How?’ she asked at the end of her account. ‘How in God’s fucked-up world has this psycho managed to find out where I live? And how the hell did he get hold of my cellphone number?’

  Those questions also worried Hunter because it proved that whoever this killer was, he was a lot more resourceful than they had given him credit for. All Hunter could offer in reply was a shake of the head.

  ‘I don’t know, but you saw him this time?’

  ‘For the briefest of moments,’ Angela replied. ‘He was at one end of the corridor and I was at the other . . . and then I was running. If you’re looking for a description, I’ve got none. All I can tell you is that he’s fast. And big.’

  ‘How about the phone call? You’ve said that “unknown number” showed up on your display screen, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have a look at your phone?’

  Angela unlocked her smartphone and passed it over to Hunter.

  ‘Was his the last call you received prior to mine?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  Hunter checked the recent-call list. The unknown number call had come in at 9:39 p.m. last night.

  ‘Give me a second.’ He reached for the phone on his desk and called Shannon Hatcher, the leader of the UVC Unit research team. He didn’t hold out much hope, but he gave her Angela’s phone number and asked her to try to find out anything she could about that c
all.

  ‘You’ve said that during the call he told you that he was inside your apartment?’ Hunter asked, handing Angela her cellphone back.

  ‘Are you surprised?’ Angela volleyed back. ‘My front door doesn’t have a lock, thanks to you.’

  ‘I apologize again for that. I take it that you haven’t been back there since.’

  Angela replied with a snort and a shrug. ‘Sorry, but I’m not that brave.’

  ‘It’s not about being brave, Angela. It’s about being smart, and that was definitely the smart thing to do.’

  Once again, Hunter reached for the phone on his desk. This time he called the forensics unit and requested that a team be sent to Angela’s apartment ASAP. If this killer had been inside her flat searching for his diary, then chances were that he had left some sort of forensics evidence behind. That’s the magic of forensics. Every person leaves a trail, wherever they go. They’re just unaware that they are doing it.

  Despite the UVC Unit having unofficial priority over most other LAPD units or divisions, forensics told Hunter that they had no agents available at that time. Every agent on duty was attending a crime scene somewhere in LA. Availability would depend on how long those agents would take to process those scenes.

  Hunter knew there was nothing that he could do to speed up that process. When it came to law enforcement in the USA, the lack of personnel due to budget cuts was a very real problem just about everywhere.

  ‘I’m going to go check out your apartment,’ Hunter told Angela. ‘You’re welcome to come along, or if you prefer you can stay here.’

  ‘There’s no way that I’m waiting around,’ Angela said, getting to her feet. ‘I’m definitely coming with you.’

  Thirty-Three

  ‘Wow,’ Angela said, as Hunter held the passenger door to his car open for her. ‘This is one hell of a rust bucket, if I’ve ever seen one.’

  Hunter was used to such comments. His Buick LeSabre was well over twenty years old. Its original silver paintwork had long ago bleached into something that resembled a sort of psychedelic-style, tie-dye pattern. The inside smelled of old, sun-beaten leather, courtesy of the once raven-black leather seats, but Hunter kept it clean – no food wrappers on the floor or seats, no old coffee cups on the dashboard, no half-eaten donuts anywhere.