Hunter was already typing it into his browser’s address bar.

The web page loaded in less than three seconds. But what Hunter saw forced him to do a double take. This time the picture wasn’t dominated by the green tint of a night-vision lens. Neither was it being broadcast from a dingy, dark dungeon-looking room somewhere. The caller was broadcasting in broad daylight from a busy city street. And this time the camera wasn’t static either. It was moving with the crowd, walking along leisurely, as if handheld by a tourist filming his LA vacation.

Hunter’s eyes narrowed.

There were people all around. Men and women dressed in a variety of different attires, from casual jeans, T-shirts, shorts and dresses to business suits. Some seemed in a hurry, with their cellphones glued to their ears. Some were casually walking around, maybe window-shopping. It was hard to tell, as the camera lens angle was straight and narrow, like tunnel vision. Hunter could see people coming toward the camera and walking past it, but the peripheral vision was blurred.

Hunter quickly used the palm of his hand to cover the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘Call Michelle at the FBI Cybercrime Division,’ he whispered to Garcia. ‘The website is back online.’

Garcia’s desk was probably the best-organized desk inside the entire PAB. Everything had its designated place, and always seemed to be symmetrically positioned. Michelle Kelly’s card was the first of three arranged side by side to the right of his telephone. He dialed the number, and Michelle answered within two rings.

‘Michelle, it’s Carlos.’

Instantly Michelle picked up on Garcia’s serious tone.

‘Hey, Carlos. What’s wrong?’

Garcia typed into his browser’s address bar as he spoke. ‘He’s back online. The website is back online.’

‘What?’

‘He’s on the phone to us right now.’

He heard frantic keyboard clicks from the other end.

The page loaded on Garcia’s screen and he cocked his head back, frowning at the street images before looking at Hunter. ‘What the hell?’

Hunter gave him a subtle headshake.

‘What do you mean – the website is back online, Carlos?’ Michelle said over the phone. ‘I’ve got nothing here.’

‘What?’

‘I’m looking at an Error 404 page. File not found.’

‘Recheck the web address you typed,’ Garcia replied, instinctively rereading the one on his address bar. ‘The images are playing live on my screen. I’m looking at them right now.’

‘I’ve already rechecked it. You sure it’s the same address?’

‘Positive.’

More keyboard clicks.

‘Damn, he’s blocking us out,’ she ultimately said.

‘He’s what . . .? How can he block you out, but not us?’

‘There are a few methods, but I’m not going to get technical with you right now.’

Garcia shook his head at Hunter. ‘They can’t see it,’ he whispered. ‘Somehow he’s blocking them out, but not us.’

Hunter wrinkled his nose at the information, but he knew he didn’t have time for an explanation. He switched the call to loudspeaker.

‘Are you watching?’ the caller asked.

‘We’re watching,’ Hunter replied, his voice calm but firm.

‘Where the hell is that?’ Garcia mouthed the words at Hunter, pointing at his computer screen. ‘Rodeo Drive?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’

Rodeo Drive was Los Angeles’ best-known shopping district, situated in Beverly Hills, famous for its designer labels and haute couture fashion. It attracted a multitude of people every day. But Hunter was right. What they were looking at didn’t look like Rodeo Drive. Right now, those images could be coming from any regular shopping street – in a city with thousands of them.

‘Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?’ the caller commented. There was a distinct lilt in his tone.

‘Indeed,’ Hunter agreed. ‘In fact, if you tell me where you are, I’ll come and walk with you.’

The caller laughed. ‘Appreciated, but I think I’ve got enough company for the moment. Can’t you see?’

People were walking by in all directions.

Hunter and Garcia were glued to their computer monitors, looking for something, anything that could give them some sort of clue to where the caller was broadcasting from. So far they’d seen nothing.

‘Isn’t it great that we live in a city so full of people?’ the caller carried on. ‘So vibrant and full of life?’

Hunter said nothing.

‘The downside is that Los Angeles is also a very busy city, where people are always rushing somewhere, too busy with their own thoughts, their own problems, their own obsessions. Too busy to notice others.’ The caller laughed, as if what he’d just said amused him immensely. ‘I could be wearing a Batman outfit out here, and no one would look at me twice.’

The caller carried on walking as he talked, but still neither Hunter nor Garcia had seen anything they’d recognized yet.

Suddenly the caller had to quickly shuffle left to avoid colliding with a man whose eyes were locked on his cellphone’s screen while typing a text message. As the man whizzed past the caller, missing bumping into him by an inch, the caller turned around, his camera following the man’s walk. A few yards ahead, the man slammed into a dark-haired woman who was going in the opposite direction. The man never stopped. His eyes didn’t even leave his cellphone’s screen.

‘Wow, did you see that?’ the caller asked. ‘That guy just shouldered that woman to one side without giving a shit. No “I’m sorry”, no apologetic smile . . . He didn’t even miss a step. People out here just don’t care, Detective.’ Another laugh. This one with a hint of contempt. ‘No one cares for anyone else but themselves.’ A short pause. ‘The good old American way, huh? Always look out for number one. The rest can go fuck themselves.’

Despite his harsh words, there was no anger in his voice.

Garcia was through with this one-sided conversation. ‘You’ve got something against the American way?’

Hunter’s eyes moved to him.

‘Ah, Detective Carlos Garcia, I presume,’ the caller said. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. No, I’ve got nothing against the American way. On the contrary. But your question strikes me as a little odd, coming from a person who wasn’t actually born here.’ He paused again. ‘Brazil, isn’t that right?’

Carlos Garcia was born in Brazil. São Paulo, in fact. The son of a Brazilian federal agent and an American history teacher, he moved with his mother to Los Angeles when Garcia was only ten years old, after his parents’ marriage collapsed.

‘How the hell . . .’ Garcia began, but Hunter gave him the most subtle of headshakes, suggesting that he didn’t engage in a verbal confrontation with the caller.

A laugh came through the phone. ‘Information is easy to obtain when you know how to get it, Detective Garcia.’

Garcia took Hunter’s advice and bit his lip.

The caller took the silence as a cue and moved on. ‘There are so many people out here, walking around, just getting on with their own lives. You know, being out here makes me feel like a kid in a candy shop. So many choices. Anyone could become my next guest, if you know what I mean.’

Unconsciously, Hunter held his breath. Was this the reason for this call? The killer had shown them how he tortured and killed people. He had shown them how he chose the death method. Was he now showing them his selection process?

‘But I think I already have someone in mind,’ the caller said before Hunter could say anything back. ‘Can you guess who it is?’

Hunter and Garcia craned their necks, moving closer to their monitors, but the camera didn’t zoom in to anyone in particular.

Just ahead and a little to the left, a blond woman had stopped. She was searching for something inside her handbag. Was she the one the caller had chosen?

An odd-looking man with thin lips and a pointy nose, separated by a thick mustache that looked designed to offset both, was walking slowly, coming straight toward the camera. Maybe the caller had picked him.