‘Farnborough isn’t a very common name, but it’s common enough to make things difficult,’ Garcia carried on. ‘D-King couldn’t tell us for certain where she was from. He mentioned Idaho and Utah, so I used that as the starting point. My initial check has returned thirty-six Farnboroughs in both states. I’m getting in touch with the sheriffs in every town I found a Farnborough, but so far, no luck.’

‘And if D-King was wrong about Idaho or Utah?’ Hunter asked.

‘Well, then we’re in for a very long search. She probably ran away from wherever she came from looking to become the newest Hollywood star.’

‘Don’t they all?’ Hunter said matter-of-factly.

‘That didn’t work out, so she ended up becoming a pro, working for our scumbag friend D-King.’

‘Welcome to the Hollywood dream.’

Garcia nodded.

‘No easy identification via DNA then?’

‘Not until we locate her family.’

‘And we’ll obviously have no joy with dental records.’

‘Not after the job the killer’s done on her.’

They spent a minute in silence. Their eyes back on the photographs. Hunter finished the rest of his coffee before glancing at his watch – 5:15 p.m. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and checked the pockets as always.

‘You’re leaving?’ Garcia asked half surprised.

‘I’m already late for a dinner appointment, and anyway I think we need to try and disconnect from this case even if just for a few hours. You should go home to your wife, have some dinner, take her out, get laid… poor woman.’

Garcia laughed. ‘I will, I just wanna go over a few more things before I leave. Dinner plans huh? Is she nice?’

‘She’s pretty. Very sexy,’ Hunter said with a matter-of-fact shrug.

‘Well, have a good time, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Garcia started flipping through some files. Hunter stopped by the door, turned and watched Garcia. Hunter had seen that same scene before. It was like looking back in time, the only difference was he’d be sitting in Garcia’s seat and Scott would be by the door. He sensed in Garcia the same passion for success, the same hunger for the truth that still burned inside him, the same desire that had almost driven him to the brink of madness but unlike Garcia, he’d learned to control it.

‘Go home, rookie, it’s not worth it, we’ll carry on tomorrow.’

‘Ten minutes, that’s all.’ Garcia gave Hunter a friendly wink before turning his attention back to the computer.

Thirty-Five

Hunter hated being late, but he knew he wouldn’t make it in time from the moment he left his RHD office. He’d never been the type to pay much attention to his clothes, but today he tried all seven of his ‘going out’ shirts on at least twice and his indecision had cost him almost an hour. In the end he’d decided to go with a dark-blue cotton shirt, black Levi’s jeans and his new leather blazer jacket. His main problem was choosing a pair of shoes. He had three and all of them were at least ten years old. He couldn’t believe he’d spent so much time choosing what to wear. After splashing a handful of cologne on his face and neck he was ready to leave.

On the way to Isabella’s apartment he stopped at a liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine. Hunter’s alcohol knowledge was restricted to single malt whisky, so he accepted the salesman’s advice and bought a 1992 bottle of Mas de Daumas Gassac, and hoped it would go with whatever she was cooking. For the price he paid, it’d better.

The entrance hall to her Glendale apartment block was pleasantly decorated. Authentic oil paintings adorned the walls. A beautifully arranged bouquet of colored flowers sat on a squared glass table in the center of the room. Hunter caught a glimpse of his reflection in a full-length mirror positioned to the right of the door and made sure his hair was all in place. He rearranged his blazer collar before making his way up to the second floor via the stairs. He paused in front of number 214 and stood still for a moment. There was music coming from inside. A suave beat with strong bass lines and softly played tenor sax – contemporary jazz. She had good taste. Hunter liked that. He reached for the doorbell.

Isabella’s hair was tied back in a loose style with several strands falling over her shoulders fully exposing her face. Her light-red lipstick and subtle eye make-up perfectly contrasted with her olive tanned skin and emphasized her European features. She was wearing a tight, red charmeuse satin top, a black pair of jeans and no shoes. Hunter didn’t need X-ray vision to notice she was wearing no bra.

‘Hi there, you’re fashionably late,’ she said as she leant forward to give Hunter a peck on the lips.

‘I’m sorry about that. I had a bad hair day.’

‘You too?’ She laughed, pointing to her own hair. ‘Come in.’ She pulled him by the hand and led him into the living room. There was a pleasant and exotic smell in the apartment. The living room was illuminated by soft light courtesy of a table lamp in the corner next to a comfortable-looking leather armchair.

‘I hope this goes with dinner, I’m not a wine expert so I followed a recommendation,’ he said, handing her the wine bottle.

Isabella held it with both hands and tilted it towards the dim light so she could read the label. ‘Ooh! Mas de Daumas Gassac… and a 1992 bottle, I’m impressed. I’m sure this goes well with anything. How about a small glass now?’

‘That sounds good to me.’

‘Great, the glasses are on the table and the corkscrew is just over there.’ She pointed to a small drinks cabinet next to the window. ‘Dinner will be ready soon. Make yourself comfortable.’ She turned and walked back into the kitchen leaving Hunter to do the honors.

He took his jacket off, remembering to remove his Wildey pistol as well. He picked up the corkscrew from the drinks cabinet and opened the wine bottle, pouring the dense red liquid into two glasses on the table. Next to the drinks cabinet an elegant glass rack held a considerable number of CDs. Hunter couldn’t help browsing through them. Her jazz collection was impressive, most of it contemporary with a few old school classics thrown in. Everything immaculately arranged in alphabetical order. A handful of autographed Rock albums disrupted the remarkable jazz compilation. Hunter quickly had a look at them. So she secretly listens to rock music, he thought with a smile. My kinda woman.

‘Whatever it is that you’re cooking smells great,’ he said, walking into the kitchen with both glasses in hand. He handed one to Isabella who slowly swirled it around and brought it to her nose before having a small sip.

‘Wow, as I expected… delicious.’

Hunter had no idea what difference it made but he copied Isabella’s moves, swirling, sniffing and sipping.

‘Yeah, not bad.’ They both laughed.

She lifted her glass in Hunter’s direction. ‘To… a nice evening together. Hopefully with no phone interruptions.’

Hunter nodded and softly touched his glass against hers.

The evening proceeded better than Hunter could’ve hoped for. Isabella cooked veal parmesan with prosciutto and Mediterranean roasted vegetables, which came as a surprise. He was expecting some traditional Italian pasta dish. Most of the conversation over dinner revolved around her life, with Hunter revealing very little about his own.

She grew up in New York. Her parents were first-generation Italian immigrants who had come to the United States during the early seventies. They owned a restaurant in Little Italy where she spent most of her childhood and teenage years together with her brother. She’d moved to LA only five years ago when she accepted a research job with the University of California in Los Angeles. She still flew back to New York at least three times a year to visit her folks.

‘Do you keep in touch with your brother?’ Hunter asked.