Hunter nodded. ‘Also Laura Mitchell and Kelly Jensen’s resemblance to each other isn’t just a coincidence, Captain. His victims mean more to him than just a vehicle for revenge.’

‘The killer also used the same MO, but inserted a different killing device into each of his victims,’ Garcia added. ‘I don’t think that was random. I think there’s a meaning behind it.’

‘What?’ Captain Blake asked. A speck of irritation crept into her tone as she crossed to the window. ‘What kind of relation could a bomb and a knife that didn’t even exist on this earth until a few days ago have with two painters?’

No one replied. The silence that followed held a different meaning for each of them.

‘So this new victim fucks up our lead on the James Smith guy, right?’ the captain blurted. ‘Everything we found in his apartment was about Laura Mitchell, not Kelly Jensen.’

‘Maybe not,’ Garcia argued. He started fidgeting with a paper clip.

‘And how’s that?’

‘Maybe he’s got another room somewhere else. Another apartment maybe,’ Garcia offered.

‘What?’ Captain Blake glared at him.

‘Maybe he’s that smart, Captain. He knows that with two victims, if he gets caught and only one of the rooms is found, he has a good chance of walking.’ He placed the paper clip, now bent out of shape, down on his desk. ‘As we already know, he adopted the name James Smith because he knew if anything happened, his name alone would hide him under a mist of people.’ He showed the captain his right index finger. ‘He pays his rent up front.’ Now the middle finger. ‘He pays his bills up front. If he is our guy, we know for sure he’s got at least one more place somewhere else: the place where he keeps his victims, ’cause we know he didn’t keep them in that apartment. If that’s the case, he could easily have another rented apartment somewhere else. Maybe under a complete different name. That’s why we can’t find him.’

Captain Blake leaned against the windowsill. ‘It’s an unlikely possibility.’

Garcia cracked his knuckles. ‘It’s also unlikely that anyone would create his own bomb, his own crazy knife, his own trigger mechanism and place it inside a victim before stitching her body shut.’ He paused for effect. ‘C’mon, Captain, the evidence says this guy is everything but predictable. He’s smart, very slick and very patient. Would it really surprise you if he did have another collage room somewhere else? It gives him deniability.’

‘Garcia is right, Captain,’ Hunter said, sitting at the edge of his desk. ‘We can’t discard James Smith simply because the room we found didn’t have anything about Kelly Jensen.’

‘And has he been sighted anywhere yet? Have the phone lines produced any useful tips?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s just great, isn’t it?’ She pointed to the street outside. ‘Over four million people in this city and no one seems to know who this James Smith really is. The guy has simply vanished.’ She crossed to the door and opened it. ‘We’re chasing a fucking ghost.’

Fifty

When Hunter got back to his office, he found an email from Mike Brindle in Forensics – the lab results from the fibers found on the wall behind the large canvas in Laura Mitchell’s apartment were in. They had been right in their assumption. The fibers had come from a common wool skullcap. That meant that whoever had hid behind that canvas was somewhere between six foot and six four.

The results for the faint footprints were also in, but because they were set on house dust, and therefore smudged, they weren’t 100 per cent accurate. The conclusion was that they’d probably come from size eleven or twelve shoes, which was consistent with the height theory. The interesting fact was that they had found no sole marks. No trademark imprints, or grooves, or anything. A completely flat sole. Mike Brindle’s take on it was that whoever had waited in Laura’s apartment had used some sort of shoe cover. Probably handmade. Probably soft rubber or even synthetic foam. That would have no doubt also muffled the perpetrator’s footsteps.

After analyzing the entire studio floor for any more size eleven or twelve foot imprints, Brindle arrived at the same conclusion as Hunter and Garcia had. After hiding behind the large canvas resting against the back wall, Laura Mitchell’s attacker had somehow diverted her attention and very quickly gotten to her with a strong sedative, probably an intravenous one.

‘I’ve got the personal info on Kelly Jensen from research,’ Garcia said as he walked through the door, carrying a green plastic folder.

‘What do we have?’ Hunter asked looking up from his computer.

Garcia took a seat behind his desk and flipped open the folder. ‘OK, Kelly Jensen, born in Great Falls, Montana, thirty years ago. Her parents haven’t been notified yet.’

Hunter nodded.

Garcia continued. ‘She started painting in high school . . . At the age of twenty, against her parents’ wishes, she relocated here to Los Angeles . . . She spent several years struggling and being rejected by every agent and art gallery in the business . . . blah, blah, blah, your typical LA story, except she was a painter, not an actress.’

‘How did she get noticed?’ Hunter asked.

‘She used to sell her work on the oceanfront – a street stall. Got noticed by none other than Julie Glenn, New York’s top art critic. A week later, Kelly got an art agent, a guy called Lucas Laurent. He was the one who reported her as missing.’ He paused and stretched his arms high above his head. ‘Kelly’s career took off quickly after that. Julie Glenn wrote a piece about her in the New York Times, and within a month, the canvases Kelly couldn’t give away at the beach were selling for thousands.’

Hunter checked his watch before grabbing his jacket. ‘OK, let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘To see the person who reported her missing.’

Fifty-One

The traffic was like a religious procession and it took Garcia almost two hours to cover the twenty-three miles between Parker Center and Long Beach.

Lucas Laurent, Kelly Jensen’s agent, had his office on the fifth floor of number 246 East Broadway Street.

Laurent was in his thirties, with olive skin, dark brown eyes and neatly cut hair that was starting to gray. The wrinkles that already surrounded his lips came from heavy smoking, Hunter guessed. His navy blue suit was well fitting, but his tie was a masterpiece of bad taste. A Picasso-style monstrosity of chunky color pieces that only someone with enormous amounts of confidence could wear. And confidence Laurent certainly had – the quiet kind that came with wealth and success.

He stood up from behind his twin pedestal desk and greeted Hunter and Garcia by the door. His handshake was as firm as a businessman’s ready to close a large deal.

‘Joan told me you’re detectives with the LAPD?’ he said as he eyed Hunter. ‘I hope you’re not actually artists and this was just a trick to get you into my office without an appointment.’ He smiled and deep crinkles appeared at the edges of his eyes. ‘But if it was, it certainly shows you’ve both got creativity and ambition.’