Hunter was making his way up to the large reception counter at the back when a slim woman of about five foot five caught his eye as she walked across the busy lobby. She was walking slowly, her head low, her demeanor sad and drained. He immediately recognized her from a picture on the LA Times website – Pamela Hays.

Hunter caught up with her just as she was approaching one of the four elevator doors in the empty corridor to the left and past the reception counter.

Pamela pressed the button, took a step back and waited. Her head still low.

‘Ms. Hays?’ Hunter said.

It took her a moment to look up. Her eyes moved to Hunter’s face, but they lacked focus. She was wearing a well-fitted dark suit that almost made her fade into the black and gray granite walls around her.

Hunter waited a couple of seconds, and as her stare intensified he saw the moment her absent mind reentered reality. Her eyes were steel blue, her hair caramel blonde, worn just off her shoulders. There was an angular quality to her jaw, cheekbones and nose that made her look as though she was concentrating very hard. Pamela smiled for an instant, but it did nothing to soften her.

‘Ms. Hays,’ Hunter said again, this time displaying his credentials. ‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter with the LAPD Homicide Division. I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes of your time?’

Pamela Hays didn’t reply. Things were still slotting into place inside her head.

‘Ms. Hays, I could really use your help . . . and so could Christina Stevenson.’

Fifty-Six

Pamela guided Hunter back out onto West 1st Street and around the corner to The Edison Lounge, just across the road from the Police Administration Building. She didn’t feel like sitting in a conference room, or anywhere else inside the LA Times headquarters at the moment.

The Edison was an elegant and sophisticated bar located in the basement of the famous Higgins Building in downtown LA. At the beginning of the twentieth century, that same basement housed the city’s first privately owned power plant. As homage to the plant’s place in history, The Edison retained many of its original architectural and mechanical artifacts.

In an area to the left of the main bar, they found two high-backed leather armchairs, arranged around a knee-high, varnished, marble-effect coffee table. The dim lights and soft 1930s music, together with the period features and detailed decoration, created such a nostalgic atmosphere that could almost take you back in time.

Hunter waited for Pamela to have a seat before he took his.

She gave him another weak smile, acknowledging the gesture.

‘Before you start asking questions,’ Pamela said. ‘Please answer me this: has Christina’s body been found?’

It wasn’t hard for Hunter to read Pamela’s thoughts. Right at that moment she wasn’t being a reporter. She wasn’t asking questions because she wanted information for a possible story. Right at that moment she was still holding onto a sliver of hope that all of what she’d seen had been some crazy hoax – some big misunderstanding.

Hunter had been in this position countless times. And it only got harder.

His stomach tightened.

‘Yes.’

He saw a light turn off inside her eyes. Something he’d seen many times before. Not like a parent who’d just lost a son or a daughter, but like someone who’d not just lost a close friend, but now also realizes that danger and evil are closer than what they had once believed. If it had happened to someone like Christina, it could happen to her. It could happen to her family. It could happen to anyone.

Pamela took a deep breath as tears welled up in her eyes.

‘When?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Where?’

‘Not far from her house.’

A waitress, who could easily have run for Miss California, approached them.

‘Hello, and welcome to The Edison,’ she said with the same smile Hunter was sure she gave every guest. ‘Would you like to see our cocktail menu?’

‘Um . . . no, that’s OK,’ Pamela said, shaking her head. ‘Can I just have a vodka martini, please?’

‘Absolutely.’ The waitress looked at Hunter, ready for his order.

‘I’ll just have a black coffee, please.’

‘Coming right up.’ The waitress turned and walked away.

‘Who is capable of something like that?’ Pamela asked. Her voice had gone dry, as if she had something stuck in her throat. She took a moment and swallowed down her tears. ‘We were able to find some snippets of the original Internet broadcast. Did you see it?’

Hunter held her gaze for an instant before nodding once.

‘What the hell was that she was in? A handmade glass coffin?’

Hunter didn’t reply.

‘And those buttons on the Internet. People were voting on how Christina was going to die?’

Still no reply.

‘They did, didn’t they?’ Pamela looked disgusted. ‘People actually voted. Why? They didn’t even know who she was. Did they think it was funny? Did they think it was some kind of game? Or did they simply believe that because the word GUILTY was written at the bottom of the screen, she was actually guilty of something?’

This time the intensity in Pamela’s eyes demanded an answer.

‘I can’t tell you what people were thinking when they clicked one of those two buttons, Ms. Hays,’ Hunter said, his voice even. ‘But all the reasons you’ve just put forward are valid. People could’ve believed that it was some sort of game, that it wasn’t real . . . or maybe they believed the GUILTY headline.’

Hunter’s words made Pamela pause, holding her breath. She quickly read between the lines. Headlines were what she used on a daily basis . . . what the press used to catch people’s attention. She knew that the more sensational the headline, the more attention it would grab, so to maximize the impact of what was said, words were chosen very carefully. Sometimes a single word was all that was needed. She also knew very well that, psychologically, headlines served different purposes. Sometimes they were geared toward grabbing people’s attention, while at the same time attempting to stamp a preconceived opinion onto one’s subconscious. And its power was much greater than what people gave it credit for. It worked. She knew it did.

‘The killer used Christina’s trade trick against her,’ Pamela thought, and that made her shiver.

The waitress came back with their drinks. She handed Pamela her martini, and even before she had placed Hunter’s coffee on the table Pamela knocked her drink back, emptying the glass in three large gulps.

The waitress looked at her, trying her best to hide her surprise.

‘Could I have another one, please,’ Pamela said, handing the glass back to the waitress.

‘Um . . . of course.’ The waitress moved back toward the bar.

‘Is it OK if I ask you a few questions now, Ms. Hays?’

The drink had settled her nerves a little. Her attention refocused on Hunter and she nodded. ‘Yes, and stop calling me Ms. Hays. It makes me feel like I’m back in Catholic school again, and I hated that place. Call me Pamela, or Pam. Everybody does.’

Hunter began with simple questions, just to establish what sort of relationship Pamela and Christina had. It was soon clear that Pamela wasn’t just Christina’s boss, but that over the years they had also become very good friends. She told him that as far as she knew Christina wasn’t seeing anyone. Her last relationship, if anyone could’ve called it that, ended about four months ago. It had lasted only a few weeks. Pamela told Hunter that it had been doomed from the start. The guy was a lot younger than Christina, a total womanizer, and a drummer in an up-and-coming rock band called Screaming Toyz.