All of a sudden Bobby broke out of his trance and reached for his gun.

‘No one move,’ he yelled out. His shaky aim kept jumping from person to person. ‘Sheriff,’ he called in an unsteady voice. ‘You better come have a look at this.’

Two

Five days later.

Huntington Park, Los Angeles, California.

The petite, dark-haired checkout girl rang the last item through and looked up at the young man standing at her register.

‘That’ll be $34.62, please,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

The man finished packing his groceries into plastic bags before handing her his credit card. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one.

The checkout girl swiped the card through the machine, waited a few seconds, bit her bottom lip, and with doubtful eyes looked up at the man.

‘I’m sorry, sir, this card’s been declined,’ she said, offering the card back.

The man stared back at her as if she’d spoken to him in a different language.

‘What?’ His eyes moved to the card, paused, and then returned to the checkout girl. ‘There’s gotta be some sort of mistake. I’m sure I still have some credit left on that card. Could you try it again, please?’

The checkout girl gave him a tiny shrug and swiped the card through one more time.

A tense couple of seconds went by.

‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s been declined again,’ she said, handing the card back to him. ‘Would you like to try another one?’

Embarrassed, he took the card from her and faintly shook his head. ‘I don’t have another one,’ he said shyly.

‘Food coupons?’ she asked.

Another sad shake of the head.

The girl waited as the man started searching through his pockets for whatever money he could find. He managed to come up with a few dollar bills, and a bunch of quarters and dimes. After quickly adding up all his change, he paused and looked back at the checkout girl, apologetically.

‘I’m sorry. I’m about twenty-six dollars short. I’ll have to leave a few things behind.’

Most of his shopping consisted of baby stuff – diapers, a couple of pots of baby food, a can of powdered milk, a bag of baby wipes, and a small tube of diaper rash ointment. The rest was just everyday essentials – bread, milk, eggs, some vegetables, a few pieces of fruit, and a can of soup – all of it from the budget range. The man didn’t touch any of the baby stuff, but returned everything else.

‘Could you see how much that comes to now, please?’ he asked the girl.

‘It’s OK,’ the man standing behind him in the checkout line said. He was tall and athletically built, with sharp, chiseled, attractive features and kind eyes. He handed the checkout girl two twenty-dollar bills.

She looked up at him and frowned.

‘I’ll get this,’ he said, nodding at her before addressing the young man. ‘You can put your groceries back in the bags. It’s my treat.’

The young man stared back at him, confused, and unable to find any words.

‘It’s OK,’ the tall man said again, giving him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Still stunned, the young man’s gaze moved to the checkout girl, and then back to the tall man.

‘Thank you so much, sir,’ he finally said, extending his hand, his voice catching in his throat, his eyes becoming just a little glassy.

The man shook his hand and gave him a reassuring head nod.

‘That was the kindest thing I’ve ever seen happen in here,’ the checkout girl said once the young man had collected his groceries and left. Tears had also welled up in her eyes.

The tall man simply smiled back at her.

‘I’m serious,’ she reiterated. ‘I’ve been working at the checkout in this supermarket for almost three years. I’ve seen plenty of people come up short when it comes to paying, plenty of people having to return items, but I’ve never seen anybody do what you just did.’

‘Everybody needs a little help every now and then,’ the man replied. ‘There’s no shame in that. Today, I helped him, maybe someday he’ll help someone else.’

The girl smiled as her eyes filled with tears again. ‘It’s true that we all need a little help every once in a while, but the problem is, very few are ever willing to help. Especially when they need to reach into their pockets to do so.’

The man silently agreed with her.

‘I’ve seen you in here before,’ the checkout girl said, ringing through the few items the man had with him. It came to $9.49.

‘I live in the neighborhood,’ he said, handing her a ten-dollar bill.

She paused for a moment and locked eyes with him. ‘I’m Linda,’ she said, nodding at her nametag, and extending her hand.

‘Robert,’ the man replied, shaking it. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Listen,’ she said, returning his change. ‘I was wondering. My shift ends at six this evening. Since you live in the neighborhood, maybe we could go for a coffee somewhere?’

The man hesitated for a brief moment. ‘That would be really nice,’ he finally said. ‘But unfortunately, I’m flying out tonight. My first vacation in . . .’ He paused and narrowed his eyes at nothing for an instant. ‘I don’t even remember when I last had a vacation.’

‘I know the feeling,’ she said, sounding a little disappointed.

The man collected his groceries and looked back at the checkout girl.

‘How about if I call you when I get back, in about ten days? Maybe we can have a coffee then.’

She looked up at him and her lips stretched into a thin smile. ‘I’d like that,’ she replied, quickly jotting down her number.

As the man stepped outside the supermarket, his cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.

‘Detective Robert Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he answered it.

‘Robert, are you still in LA?’

It was the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division’s captain, Barbara Blake. She was the one who, just a couple of days ago, had ordered Hunter and his partner, Detective Carlos Garcia, to take a two-week break after a very demanding and exhausting serial killer investigation.

‘Right now, yes,’ Hunter replied, skeptically. ‘I’m flying out tonight, Captain. Why?’

‘I really hate to do this to you, Robert,’ the captain replied, sounding sincerely sorry. ‘But I need to see you in my office.’

‘When?’

‘Right now.’

Three

In lunchtime traffic, the 7.5-mile drive from Huntington Park to the LAPD headquarters in downtown Los Angeles took Hunter a little over forty-five minutes.

The Robbery Homicide Division (RHD), located on the fifth floor of the famous Police Administration Building on West 1st Street, was a simple, large, open-plan area crammed with detectives’ desks – no flimsy partitions to separate them or silly floor lines to delimit workspace. The place sounded and looked like a street market on a Sunday morning, alive with movement, murmurs and shouts that came from every corner.

Captain Blake’s office was at the far end of the main detectives’ floor. The door was shut – not that unusual due to the noise – but so were the blinds on the oversized internal window that faced the floor, and that was undoubtedly a bad sign.

Hunter slowly started zigzagging his way around people and desks.

‘Hey, what the hell are you doing here, Robert?’ Detective Perez asked, looking up from his computer screen as Hunter squeezed past Perez and Henderson’s desks. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on vacation?’

Hunter nodded. ‘I am. I’m flying out tonight. Just having a quick chat with the captain first.’

‘Flying?’ Perez looked surprised. ‘That sounds rich. Where are you going?’