Jenny pulled a disgusted face. ‘You guys, this is sick. You gonna watch some poor dude get killed live over the Internet?’

‘Hell yeah,’ Spinner said. ‘And I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You watch all those crap reality shows on TV.’

‘That doesn’t even compare, Spinner,’ Jenny spat back.

‘You bet your ass it doesn’t. This beats them all hands down. They should call this American Dead Idol.’

‘I like that,’ Tim said.

‘Well, I’m not watching it,’ Jenny said, annoyed, jumping onto her board and riding back into the pool.

‘Have you voted?’ Spinner asked, not really concerned about Jenny.

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, give me a sec,’ Spinner said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. ‘OK, gimme the address, and let’s get this sucker cooked.’

Seventy-Six

Even though the window in Hunter and Garcia’s office looked out over South Spring Street on the west side of the Police Administration Building, everyone inside the room instinctively turned toward it.

‘You’ve got to be shitting me,’ Captain Blake said. ‘How can that be possible when he’s broadcasting all this right now?’

‘Because he’s controlling the camera and everything else remotely,’ Hunter replied. ‘That’s how.’

The captain thought about it for a beat. ‘Sonofabitch,’ she mumbled. ‘Is he in the park?’ she asked Seth.

City Hall Park, or South Lawn, as it was called by many, is a 1.7-acre green park area shaded by a dense canopy of trees that fronted the famous Los Angeles City Hall building. It sits on West 1st Street directly across the road from the entrance to the PAB.

‘He could be,’ Seth admitted. ‘We had to use triangula-tion,’ he explained, ‘which is not as accurate as if the phone he was using carried a GPS chip. But even then, because we’re talking about downtown Los Angeles, the triangulation accuracy is much better than if he was calling from out of town somewhere – we narrowed it down to an area of only fifty to a hundred meters.’

‘And that area is right outside the PAB?’ Captain Blake asked again, still doubtful.

‘That’s correct,’ Seth confirmed one more time.

‘OK, thank you,’ the captain said and hastily reached for the phone on Garcia’s desk again.

‘What are you going to do, Captain?’ Hunter asked.

‘Get everyone I can out there. What do you think?’

‘And ask them to do what?’ Garcia this time. ‘Arrest every male carrying a cellphone?’

She paused, her eyes rolling from Garcia to Hunter. ‘The psycho who is responsible for this is just outside our front door.’ She pointed to the computer screen. ‘You want me to sit here and do nothing?’

CLOCK: 4:41, 4:40, 4:39 . . .

CRUSH: 8155.

STRETCH: 8146.

‘He probably was there during the call,’ Garcia admitted. ‘He’s arrogant enough, and playing these kinds of games empowers him, but I’m sure he’s long gone now, Captain. He knew we would be tracing the call. And the only reason we’ve got a hit is because he wanted us to. This is all planned.’

‘Carlos is right, Captain,’ Hunter agreed. ‘He wanted us to know that he was calling from just outside the PAB, and I’m sure he knew exactly how long it would take us to triangulate his call.’

‘It’s been almost six minutes since he disconnected,’ Garcia announced. ‘He’s probably miles away from here now.’

‘I don’t think he will be,’ Hunter countered. ‘I don’t think he’ll be far at all.’

Captain Blake just glared at him.

‘As Carlos said,’ he explained, ‘he’s too arrogant, and this game of cat and mouse excites him too much. He came all the way to our doorstep to tease us and to make his game a little more challenging and fun . . . at least for him. He’ll want to see how we react to his little joke. He’ll be observing West 1st Street and the South Lawn from somewhere close . . .’ Hunter paused, considering something. The memory of the second victim’s bedroom and what they found on the glass wall behind the curtains coming back to him. ‘No, wait, I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘He won’t be observing just to see how we react. He’ll be observing to see if we find it.’

Captain Blake’s forehead creased. ‘Find what?’

‘Some sort of clue,’ Hunter said. ‘Because that’s how he likes to play.’

Captain Blake picked up the phone on Garcia’s desk once again, dialed an internal extension and started barking commands down the line.

‘Tell them to check out the park and the roads immediately surrounding the PAB, Captain,’ Hunter said. ‘Tell them to look everywhere – trashcans, park benches, flowerbeds, street gutters, everything.’

CLOCK: 3:15, 3:14, 3:13 . . .

CRUSH: 9199.

STRETCH: 9180.

On the screen the camera zoomed in on the man tied to the wooden table. The fear etched on his face had intensified ten-fold, as if he’d received some kind of warning or had simply sensed his time was about to run out.

It was a proven fact that if a human being is deprived of one of his/her senses, the remaining ones compensate by over-sensitizing. Maybe it was that, together with a super flow of adrenaline, that gave him a new surge of strength, and all of a sudden he sprang to life, fighting against his restraints once again, tugging, pulling, shaking and kicking as hard as he could. It was all for nothing. The leather straps were too well secured, the chains too strong. No one, no matter how physically fit or strong they were, would’ve been powerful enough to escape that torture table.

Just as suddenly as the man’s new fight had begun, it ended. The little strength he had left had now been completely drained from his body. All his hopes and prayers had abandoned him.

No one was coming. There would be no last-minute miracle.

‘Why the hell are people still voting?’ Captain Blake spat the question out, truly dumbfounded. ‘Everyone knows this isn’t a game anymore, or a publicity stunt for a movie. This is real. The papers made sure everyone out there knows that.’ She pointed to the screen. ‘He’s going to die. No fake. No tricks. They all know it, and they’re still voting . . . Why?’

‘Because this is the crazy reality we live in today, Captain,’ Hunter said. ‘No one cares. People upload their happy slapping, or gang fight videos to YouTube, and it gets hundreds of thousands of hits. The more violent the better. And people are begging for more. You give them real violence – not staged, no actors, no fake – and you will have people out there jumping for joy. You turn it into a “reality show” and give people the chance to participate by voting, and you will have millions tuning in, itching to click that button just for the hell of it. The killer knows that. He knows the psychology behind it. He knows the mad society we live in. That’s why he’s so confident. It’s a game he knows he can’t lose – a winning formula we see every day on TV.’

The camera zoomed in on the man’s face. His teary eyes saddened even further. There was nothing else in them. He knew it was over.

The captain’s cellphone vibrated inside her pocket once again. This time she didn’t even look at it, letting it ring out.

CLOCK: 2:04, 2:03, 2:02 . . .

CRUSH: 9969.

STRETCH: 9965.

Total silence.

CLOCK: 1:49, 1:48, 1:47 . . .

CRUSH: 9995.

STRETCH: 9995.

Everyone held their breath.

. . . 10,000.

Seventy-Seven

On their computer monitors, the entire picture faded to black, as if the broadcasting camera had been turned off. A second later the word STRETCH reappeared, larger, blood-red, blinking at the center of the dark screen, quickly followed by the number 10,000.