Officially, summer had started yesterday, and Nashorn had planned to set sail this afternoon, but when he tried engaging his 29 h.p. diesel engine, the motor coughed and rattled a few times before stalling. He tried it again, but the engine just wouldn’t start. Some sailors might’ve considered taking off with a dead engine – after all, it was a sailboat – but that would’ve been careless, and careless was something Nashorn was not.

He was lucky, though. He was about to call Warren Donnelly, his usual mechanic, when another mechanic, who had just finished servicing the boat right next to his, heard the engine coughing like a dying dog and asked if Nashorn needed any help. That saved Nashorn at least a couple of hours, maybe more.

The mechanic had been looking over the small engine for just over five minutes now.

‘So,’ Nashorn said again, ‘how bad is it? Can it be fixed today?’

Without looking up, the mechanic lifted a finger, asking for one more minute.

Nashorn moved closer, trying to look over the mechanic’s shoulder.

‘There’s a crack in your lube-oil pump,’ the mechanic finally said, in the calmest of voices. ‘You’ve been leaking oil for a day, maybe two. Some of it has dripped onto the fuel-injection nozzle and clogged it.’

Nashorn looked at the mechanic with a blank stare. He knew very little about engines. ‘Can you fix it?’

‘The oil pump can’t be mended, the crack is too big. You need a new one.’

‘Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding.’

The mechanic smiled. ‘Fortunately, that’s one of the most common oil pumps around. They don’t crack that easy, but it happens. I think I might have a spare one somewhere in my bag.’

‘Oh, that’d be awesome.’ Nashorn lips broke into a half smile. ‘Could you check?’

‘Not a problem.’ The mechanic moved back from the engine pit and checked the large toolbox by the steps. ‘I guess it’s your lucky day. I’ve got one. It’s not brand new, but it’s in good condition and it will certainly do the trick.’

Nashorn’s half smile turned into a full one.

‘But before changing the pump, I need to clean the oil mess and unblock the fuel-injection nozzle. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, fifteen tops.’

Nashorn checked his watch. ‘That’d be just awesome. I can set off before sundown.’

The mechanic returned to the engine pit, and using an already-stained cloth, started cleaning away some of the oil that had dripped onto the fuel line.

‘So, are you sailing far?’

Nashorn walked over to the fridge and grabbed two beers. ‘I don’t know yet. I don’t really plan anything. I just try to go with the wind. Beer?’

‘No thanks. I had too many of those over the weekend.’

Nashorn twisted the cap off one of the bottles, had a sip and returned the other one to the fridge. ‘This is the only vacation I take in the year. Two weeks away from everything.’

‘And you can’t wait to get started, right? I know exactly what you mean. Me, I can say that I haven’t had a vacation for . . .’ The mechanic paused for a second and then laughed, sadly. ‘Wow, I can’t even remember the last time I had a vacation.’

‘You see, I couldn’t do that. It would drive me nuts. I need these two weeks to myself.’

‘Oh shit!’ the mechanic interrupted, jerking backwards. Liquid squirted up from the engine and onto the floor.

‘What happened?’ Nashorn moved forward, looking worried.

‘One of the high-pressure fuel-injection lines disconnected.’

‘That doesn’t sound good.’

The mechanic looked around quickly as if searching for something. ‘I need to get a clamp to fix it back in place. Can you do me a favor and hold this hose just like this while I grab a pressure clamp.’

‘Sure.’ Nashorn put his beer down and held the hose in place as the mechanic showed him.

‘Don’t let go of that, I’ll be right back.’

Nashorn kept his finger and his attention firmly on the thin dark rubber pipe. He could hear the mechanic rummaging through the toolbox behind him. ‘This isn’t gonna delay you fixing the engine is it?’

No reply.

‘I’d really love to set sail before nightfall.’

Silence. The rummaging had stopped.

‘Hello . . . ?’ Nashorn twisted his body awkwardly to look back.

At that exact moment the mechanic swung a metal wrench around as if it were a baseball bat. Time went into slow motion for Nashorn. The wrench collided with his face with a chilling cracking sound. His jaw fractured in one, two, three places. The skin started to rupture at the base of the jaw, and did so all the way to his chin, exposing flesh and bone. Blood splattered high into the air in all directions. Three of Nashorn’s teeth shattered and were violently projected against the wall. A large bone splinter broke loose from his fractured jaw and perforated his gum, just under the now-missing first molar, its tip touching the exposed nerve left there by the missing tooth. Pain darkened his eyes. The hit was so powerful and well placed that Nashorn’s body was catapulted backwards; his back slammed against the engine, his head against the wooden panel above it.

Nashorn’s vision blurred instantly. Blood flooded his mouth and trickled down into his throat, blocking his airways and making him gasp for air. He tried to speak but the only sound he could muster was a pitiful, gurgling noise. Just before he lost consciousness, he saw the mechanic standing high above him, still holding the wrench.

‘You . . .’ the mechanic said with an evil smile. ‘I’ll take my time with.’

Seventeen

Hunter got to the PAB at 8:33 a.m., just minutes after Garcia.

‘Goddamn, did they get you too?’ Garcia asked.

‘The reporters outside, you mean?’

Garcia nodded. ‘Are they camping outside or what? I got out of my car and instantly had three of them shouting questions at me.’

‘Our victim was a prosecutor, who was dismembered in his own house, on his deathbed three days ago. That’s the stuff TV series are made of, Carlos. They could kill each other to be the first to get an insight from someone working the case. It will only get worse.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Garcia poured Hunter and himself a large cup of coffee each from the machine on the corner. ‘Any luck with those?’ he asked, handing his partner a cup and nodding at the books under Hunter’s arm.

Hunter had taken all the modern art and sculpture books he could find in Derek Nicholson’s study home with him last night.

‘Nothing.’ Hunter put the books down on his desk and took the cup. ‘Thanks. I also spent half of the night searching the net, reading about any and every Los Angeles sculptor I could find. Nothing there either. I don’t think our killer is trying to reproduce an already-existing piece.’

Garcia returned to his desk. ‘Me neither.’

‘I’ll drop by DA Bradley’s office today,’ Hunter continued. ‘I want to ask him if he knows anything about Nicholson wanting to make his peace with someone before dying, and if he has any idea who the other man who visited him was.’

‘Isn’t it easier to call?’

Hunter made a ‘maybe’ face, but he hated having to ask questions over the phone, regardless of who was on the other end. Face-to-face meetings allowed him to observe the movements, reactions and facial expressions of the person he was talking to, and to a homicide detective, that was invaluable.

The phone on Hunter’s desk rang. He checked his watch before picking up the receiver.

‘Detective Hunter.’

‘Robert, I just got the first batch of results back from the lab,’ Doctor Hove said. Her voice sounded a little heavier than usual.

Hunter fired up his computer. ‘I’m listening, doc.’

‘First let me tell you that the lab has done a great job with the replica you asked for.’