Fifty-Six

Kelly Jensen’s art studio was a refurbished mechanic’s garage behind a row of shops in Culver City. The street was narrow and hidden away from the main roads, at the top of a small hill. To the right of her studio was a small parking lot, where all the shop owners kept their vehicles during the day. At that time at night it was completely empty. The only light came from a lamppost on the corner, its bulb old and yellowing. Hunter looked around for security cameras. Nothing.

The studio was spacious and well organized. There were shelves and drawers for every different paint color, type of brush, palette, and canvas sizes. All finished paintings were placed on a large wooden rack that occupied the entirety of the north wall. There was only one canvas stand, positioned just a few feet from the large window that faced west. Kelly liked watching the sunset while working, Hunter guessed. A paint-splattered cloth covered the painting on the stand. Unlike Laura Mitchell, Kelly seemed to only work on one canvas at a time.

Hunter lifted the stained cloth and checked the painting underneath it. Dark, shadowy skies against a placid lake that surrounded the ruins of an old building on top of a steep sloping hill. Hunter stepped back to get a better view.

Kelly was a realist painter, and the effect she achieved with that particular canvas was so vivid it was like standing at the shore, looking out into the horizon. But she’d done something Hunter had never seen before. It was as though the whole scenery was seen through a smoky glass. Everything had a sad, gray tint to it, as if the weather was about to close in on you with a vengeance. The painting looked so real it made Hunter feel cold. He pulled the collar of his jacket tighter against his neck.

Kelly’s ample working space was uncluttered. The only furniture around the place were the shelves and drawer units against the walls, the storing rack, and an old, beat-up armchair several feet away from the window, facing the canvas stand. There were no six-foot canvases, partitions, or anything else for that matter. No place for anyone to hide behind. There was an improvised kitchen area in one corner, and a small bathroom in the opposite one. Hunter checked everywhere. There was no way the killer could’ve waited and then sneaked up on Kelly in there without her noticing it.

Hunter walked back up to the window and stared out into the night. Because her studio was at the top of a hill, the view was unobstructed and quite astonishing. No wonder Kelly used to paint facing that view. He checked the locks. All quite new and very secure. The small parking lot was to the far left, but only part of it was visible from the window.

Suddenly, just a couple of feet from where he was, something moved outside the window with incredible agility.

‘Shit!’ Hunter jumped back, his hand going for his gun.

The black cat ran the length of the window ledge in just a split second. Hunter stood motionless, both arms extended, his grip tight around his pistol handle, his pulse racing.

‘Goddamn it! Not twice in one night,’ he finally breathed out. How could he not have noticed the cat? He moved closer and looked again. The lack of any light outside made the window work almost as a two-way mirror. At night, a person dressed all in black could have observed Kelly without being noticed. Hunter unlocked the window, pushed it open and welcomed the cool breeze that kissed his face. He leaned forward and looked out, first right then left, in the direction of the parking lot. That’s when he noticed something at the far wall blink at him.

Fifty-Seven

The shrieking scream that came from her TV made Jessica Black wake with a start. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa and hadn’t even noticed the old, black-and-white B-movie horror film that had started.

She rubbed her gritty eyes, pulled herself up into a sitting position, and looked around her living room for Mark, her boyfriend. He was nowhere to be seen.

The woman on the screen screamed again and Jessica groggily reached for the remote control that had fallen between her legs, and switched the set off. The scented candle she’d lit earlier had burned halfway through, and the entire room now carried the sweet smell of apples and cinnamon. Jessica watched the flame burn for a minute. Her Wechter acoustic guitar was resting by the side of the sofa next to her. Still watching the flame, she ran her hand across the strings and allowed her memories to catch up with her.

Jessica had got her first acoustic guitar on her tenth birthday. Her father had bought it for her as a present in a garage sale. It was an old and scratched plank of wood with rusty strings that sounded more like a dying dog than a musical instrument. But even at that age, Jessica understood her father had spent money he couldn’t afford just to make her happy. And happy she was.

Her fascination with the instrument had started two years earlier. Just like every afternoon before she had gotten sick, her mother had taken Jessica to the park close to where they lived. That day there was an old black man playing guitar just yards away from the bench her mother liked to sit on. That day, instead of running around with the other kids, Jessica sat on the grass in front of the old man and watched him play all afternoon, mesmerized by the sounds he could get out of only six strings.

The old man never returned to the park, but Jessica never forgot him. A week later her mother fell ill with something no one could diagnose. Her disease advanced quickly, eating away at her from the inside and transforming her from a smiling, vital woman into an unrecognizable bag of skin and bones. Jessica’s father faded along with his wife. As the disease progressed, so did his depression. His pay as a supermarket clerk was barely enough to keep them going, and when he lost his job two months after his wife had gotten ill, their financial situation collapsed.

Jessica’s mother died the day after doctors finally found out she had developed a rare carcinoid tumor.

Jessica’s last happy memory of her mother was that day in the park, both of them listening to the old guitar man.

Jessica took to the guitar as if that memory lived in every note she plucked. She had no money for lessons, magazines or music books, but she spent every possible second with her beloved instrument. Soon she’d developed her own unique style of tapping and fingerpicking the strings, exploring every sound the instrument could give her. She could play the guitar like no one had ever heard. At the age of nineteen she was offered a record deal by a small independent record company based in South Los Angeles. Through them she’d released six albums and done countless tours over the years. Jessica became well known and well respected in the jazz music scene, but her music wasn’t mainstream enough to be played by the most popular radio stations.

Three years ago, the manager of her record company decided to go back to basics and record a few videos of Jessica playing by herself before uploading them onto YouTube. He was betting on her beauty as well as her talent.

Jessica was stunning in a simple way. Five foot six with a dancer’s lithe body, straight shoulder-length black hair, magnetic dark brown eyes, full lips and flawless skin. She attracted looks anywhere she went.

The gamble paid off, but even he hadn’t expected it to take off as it did. Through word of mouth and social networking, Jessica’s YouTube videos went stratospheric. Over one million worldwide hits in the first month alone, placing her name on YouTube’s front page as the most watched clip. Today, as many of Jessica’s albums were sold and downloaded as those of mainstream, world-famous pop bands.