‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’ She pushed her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose.

‘She’s dead.’ This time, the voice at the other end of the line was male. The serenity with which he delivered those words made Talicia feel a little uncomfortable.

‘Are you reporting a murder, sir?’ Talicia’s fingers were already cruising over her keyboard once again.

‘There’s so much blood. Her screams were so full of pain and fear. It was beautiful.’

Every inch of skin on Talicia’s body turned cold. She coughed to clear her throat.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Who did you say is dead?’

‘Number three.’

Talicia halted her typing for just a moment.

‘Are you saying that there are three people who are dead?’

‘You are not listening to me, are you?’ the man said calmly, but didn’t give Talicia a chance to reply. ‘Number three is dead. Her name is Alison. Number four will soon follow. A lot sooner than you think . . . for I am death.’

This time, the thought that came to Talicia’s mind was the opposite of what she had thought about the previous call. What had started seriously was now beginning to sound bogus.

‘Did you get that? Alison. Her name is Alison. Make sure you have it. Make sure they know it.’

Talicia couldn’t risk it.

‘Alison. Yes, I got it, sir. Do you have a last name for her?’

‘Good. Now write this down. Are you ready?’

‘Yes, sir, I’m ready.’

‘I. Am. Death. Tell that to the cops when you dispatch them.’

‘I got it,’ Talicia said. ‘What address shall I dispatch them to?’

‘Run your trace. Find this phone and you’ll find her.’

‘Sir? Hello? Sir?

The line didn’t disconnect but the caller was gone.

Seventy-Five

Lopez Canyon Road, in Lake View Terrace, stretches out from Foothill Freeway all the way into the small western tip of the Angeles National Forest, before sharply bending right and reaching Kagel Canyon Road, where it finally ends. Less than a mile after the sharp right bend, a disused and uneven road forks out and to the right of it, going up a small hill. The call that Talicia had taken had come from there; more specifically, from inside an abandoned wooden building right at the top of that road.

It was past two in the afternoon when Hunter and Garcia received a second call from Doctor Snyder. He had just arrived at the crime scene and, as he entered the building, the first thing he did was reach for his phone and call the UV detectives.

Even with the sirens on, the twenty-five-mile drive that saw Hunter and Garcia cutting through South Central before hooking on to Glendale Boulevard, and finally to the western tip of the Angeles National Forest, took them an hour.

Thanks to the isolated location, and the fact that the whole of the disused road was flanked by nothing more than rough terrain and dense, impassable shrubs, the LAPD could set a perimeter right at the road’s entrance. No reporter or press van was able to get within a mile of the building.

Garcia flashed his credentials at the officers by the outer crime-scene tape, took a right and drove up the bouncy road.

‘Is this place secluded and out of the way enough for you, or what?’ Garcia asked as he parked by a forensic-van at the top of the road.

Hunter had just checked his cellphone – still no news about Mathew Hade.

As they exited Garcia’s car, Hunter took a moment to study the building.

It was a relatively small, rectangular, wooden structure, with an old-style gable roof. Entrance was through large double doors at the eastern end of it. Both Hunter and Garcia’s first impression was that the building very closely resembled a barn, with the exception that its roof wasn’t as high as one would expect it to be. The outside had once been painted white but, after years of being battered by sun and rain, only small patches of color remained. Also, as a result of their harsh contact with the elements, a few planks of wood from the south wall, the one that they were facing, were either partially missing or broken.

Three police officers stood to the right of the double doors. All three of them looked like they’d just been sick.

As Hunter and Garcia approached the yellow crimescene tape that further restricted the entrance to the building, they were greeted by a peculiar smell that came from inside – a mixture of rotten food and a sweet, metallic odor. Both detectives recognized the smell immediately because they’d been around it too many times.

Blood.

And lots of it.

They flashed their credentials at the lone officer with the crime-scene log book, who handed them a Tyvek coverall and a pair of latex gloves each.

Hunter and Garcia suited up, stooped under the yellow tape and pushed open the doors. They’d taken only two steps inside before the force of the image that met their eyes sucked all the air from their lungs, and held them fast.

They now understood why the officers outside looked like they’d been sick.

But the savagery of what stood before them wasn’t what had driven Hunter and Garcia to a stunned silence, or made their hearts skip a beat.

It was the fact that they both knew who the victim was.

Seventy-Six

Hunter and Garcia stood at the entrance to a large open area. Just like the impression they’d got from the outside, the inside also reminded them of a ranch barn, only to a smaller scale. The harsh sun in the sky outside, beating down on the building’s old wood walls and black gable roof, made its interior feel like an oven. They had been inside for less than ten seconds and beads of sweat were already starting to form on their foreheads and on the back of their necks.

Doctor Snyder was standing toward the back of the room, talking something over with one of his forensics agents. As he saw the detectives come through the doors, he made his way over to greet them. He had to travel around the edge of the room to avoid all the blood.

‘Robert. Carlos,’ he said with a small nod. His coverall was zipped up to the base of his neck but the hood was down, resting against the back of his shoulders. Once again, he had no nose mask.

Both detectives returned the gesture but kept their attention focused solely on the female victim before them. Her head was slumped forward, with her chin touching her chest, but her face was still visible. And that was what Hunter and Garcia seemed so transfixed by.

Doctor Snyder narrowed his eyes at them. Something wasn’t adding up. Despite the brutality of the entire scene and the amount of blood splashed around the place, their gaze was cemented firmly on the victim’s face. Why? The doctor spoke again.

‘Her name is—’

‘Alison,’ Hunter said almost robotically. ‘I don’t know her last name.’

Intrigue turned to surprise in Doctor Snyder’s eyes. ‘You know her?’

‘We both do,’ Garcia said. ‘She’s a waitress at Donny’s.’ He paused, closed his eyes, subtly shook his head and corrected himself. ‘Was a waitress at Donny’s, a diner two blocks away from the PAB. We sometimes eat there.’