Garcia felt his stomach start to churn again.

‘The pain she must’ve suffered is . . . indescribable,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘Most fire victims die from smoke inhalation, not from the injuries sustained. Basically, their lungs collapse because they can’t process the smoke and they suffocate – sometimes even before they feel any pain at all from their scorched flesh. But that’s not the case here. There was no smoke. She felt every last pinprick of pain that came to her.’ She placed the metal tube down and let go of a deep breath. ‘As you know, the second victim was severely mutilated from inside. She suffered a lot, but that mutilation caused intense loss of blood. We all know that when a human being loses a certain amount of blood, the body simply shuts down, like going into hibernation or being anesthetized. The person starts to feel cold and tired, the pain disappears and they fall asleep before dying.’ She ran her hand over her mouth. ‘But not if you’re burned. The blood loss is minimal. There’s no hibernation or anesthetized effect. There’s only grotesque pain.’

Eighty

Doctor Hove pointed to a clear plastic bag on the metal counter behind her. Its contents seemed to be a small gooey mass of soft tar.

‘That’s all that was left of her entire reproductive system. It’s been scorched beyond any recognition by heat and fire. Even I couldn’t tell what was what.’

Not a word from Hunter or Garcia. The doctor carried on.

‘Her uterus, ovaries, and bladder exploded inside her abdominal cavity. Death came from a series of major organ failures, but that would’ve taken some time. During that time, she felt every ounce of pain her body could’ve taken. Until it could take no more.’

Garcia’s eyes kept going back to the plastic bag with the blackened contents.

‘Was she drugged?’ Hunter asked.

‘Without a doubt, but toxicology results will take a couple of days. My guess is that the killer used Estazolam again.’

‘Any signs of malnutrition or dehydration?’

Doctor Hove shook her head. ‘None. And just like the previous victim, I won’t be able to tell if she was sexually assaulted or not.’

By the time Hunter and Garcia made it back to Parker Center, their research team had compiled a three-page report on Jessica Black.

Born in South Los Angeles, she had turned thirty less than a month ago. The report went on to explain about her poor childhood, how she lost her mother when she was only nine, and about her fascination with acoustic guitars because of an old blues guitar man she saw in the park when she was a child. It also explained about her rise to fame once her videos were posted onto YouTube. Her concerts were sold out weeks in advance. She and her boyfriend, Mark Stratton, who was also a guitarist, but with a metal band called Dust, shared an apartment in Melrose.

Hunter tried the apartment phone number – no answer. He tried Mark’s cell phone – straight to his voicemail. He didn’t leave a message.

Hunter and Garcia made it to Melrose in forty-five minutes. Jessica and Mark’s apartment was on the top floor of a private condo surrounded by a forest of California Bay trees in North Kings Road. The building’s concierge, Scott, was a tall and reedy man in his late-twenties with a shaved head and a trendy goatee. He said that he hadn’t seen Jessica for a few days. Five to be exact.

‘How about Miss Black’s partner?’ Garcia asked.

‘Mark? He’s been away for . . . four days now,’ Scott replied. ‘His band, Dust, is just about to release their new album, so they hit the road for a bunch of pre-tour gigs before the real tour begins.’

‘Do you know when he’s supposed to be back?’

Scott shook his head. ‘Not exactly, but it’ll be a few weeks.’

Hunter’s eyes roamed the building’s entry lobby and settled on the security camera in the far-left corner.

‘How many CCTV cameras are there in the building?’ he asked.

‘Four,’ Scott said. ‘One just outside the main entrance, that one here in the lobby.’ He pointed to the camera Hunter had spotted. ‘One on the entrance to the underground garage, and one inside the elevator.’

‘And how long do you keep your CCTV footage?’

‘For a month. Everything is stored into a hard drive.’

‘We’re gonna need copies of everything, going back to the day you last saw Miss Black.’

‘Sure, that’s not a prob . . .’ Scott hesitated for an instant.

‘Something wrong?’

‘Well, four days ago we had a fuse box overload and all the cameras went down for a few hours in the middle of the night. And if I remember correctly, it happened on the day Mark left on tour.’

Hunter remembered what Myers had told him about the CCTV cameras in Katia Kudrov’s apartment building in West Hollywood. They had all conveniently gone down the night she disappeared. A fuse box overload.

‘We’ll need copies of whatever you have.’

‘Sure.’

‘How about any visitors?’ Garcia asked. ‘Do you remember anyone calling in on or around the day you last saw Miss Black? Maybe delivering something, a workman checking something . . . Any reason to go up to their apartment?’

‘Mark and Jessica didn’t really have people over. They preferred to go out, which they did a lot. Anyway, every visitor, service or delivery has to go through the front desk and details are always taken down.’ He checked the computer log. There was nothing.

‘Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging around the building on the days prior to Mark leaving on tour?’ Garcia asked.

Scott laughed. ‘Other than Mark and Jessica we have two up-and-coming Hollywood actresses, one rock singer, one rapper, one TV presenter and two radio DJs living here. There are always strange and eager people around just waiting to get a glimpse of their idols, or an autograph or photo.’

Hunter took down the name of the concierge on duty the night the cameras went down – Francisco Gonzales. He’d be on duty again later that evening.

As they got back to the car, Hunter tried Mark’s cell phone again. Still voicemail. He needed to get in touch with Mark as soon as possible. He needed access to their apartment. He called Operations and asked them to get back to him with Dust’s manager’s name, office and cell phone number. While they were at it, he asked them to get Jessica’s manager’s details as well.

Hunter disconnected and ten seconds later his cell phone rang.

‘Talk about fast response,’ Garcia joked.

‘Detective Hunter,’ he said, bringing the phone to his ear. He listened for a moment. ‘You’re kidding me. When? . . . Where is he? . . . OK, we’re on our way.’

‘What’s going on?’ Garcia asked as soon as Hunter closed his phone.

‘James Smith has been arrested.’

Eighty-One

James Smith was sitting alone inside interrogation room number two on the second floor of Parker Center. His hands were cuffed together, and he had them resting on the metal table in front of him. His fingers were picking at each other, anxiously. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, as if watching some invisible movie being played on a screen only he could see.