The Crucifix Killer Part 10

'Gut feelings don't matter in this case, as I've found out.'

'C'mon, humor me. From what I've heard, you have a kick a.s.s intuition,' Garcia said.

'The truth is that I'm not sure. This killer's displayed some cla.s.sic disturbed behavior like most serial killers. Some of the things he does are textbook perfect, too perfect, as if he wants us to believe he's a typical serial killer.' Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a few seconds. 'Sometimes I think we are dealing with a religious freak, sometimes I think he's some sort of a crime genius f.u.c.king with us, pulling the right strings to send us in the wrong direction. Playing a game where only he knows the rules, and he can change them any time he feels like it.' Hunter took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. 'Whoever he is, he's very intelligent, very clever, very methodical and as cold as ice. He never panics. But what we need to do now is concentrate on the new victim, maybe she'll be the one that'll lead us to him.'

Garcia nodded. 'First we need to fax her photograph to as many model and acting agencies as we can. Having the victim's ident.i.ty would be a great start . . .'

'Sure, we'll do that, but there's something I'd like for us to check first.'

'And what's that?'

'Remember what Doctor Winston said about the victim?'

'Which part?'

'The gym rat gym rat part.' part.'

Garcia raised his eyebrows. 'Good thinking.'

'The problem is, there're over a thousand gyms scattered around this city.'

'For real?' Garcia asked surprised.

'Yes, this is LA, the city where to get even a waiter's job you need to look your best. Fitness is big business here.'

'In a country where the obesity rate is off the charts?'

'As I've said, this is LA, the city of the fit and beautiful.' Hunter smiled as he flexed his bicep mockingly.

'Yeah, in your dreams.'

'We should check out some of the bigger, more famous gyms,' Hunter paused for a moment. 'The doctor said she liked to use expensive stuff right? So she obviously spent money on herself.'

'And I bet that with a body like that she liked to be noticed,' Garcia cut in.

'I agree.'

'So if you wanted to show off your body, which gym would you go to? Since you are the expert.'

'Well, Gold's Gym is our best bet, there are two branches in Hollywood where we'll find a lot of famous and "in" people, and then there's the Arnold Schwarzenegger famous Gold's Gym in Venice Beach.'

'I think we should check them out.'

'Grab that computer image, we're gonna go visit the big boys.'

As Hunter reached their office door his cell phone rang. 'Yes, Detective Hunter speaking.'

'h.e.l.lo, Robert, did you miss me?' the robotic voice asked.

Fifteen.

Garcia was still walking towards the stairs when he realized Hunter wasn't with him. He stopped and looked back. Hunter was standing in front of their new office holding his cell phone to his right ear. By the look on his face Garcia could tell something wasn't right.

'Robert, what's wrong?'

Hunter didn't reply. He instinctively shook his head just a slight movement, but enough for Garcia to figure out what was happening.

'd.a.m.n!' Garcia said under his breath and quickly moved to Hunter's side tilting his head towards the phone trying to listen in.

'I trust you have seen my latest work?'

Hunter's mind went blank, his heart speeding like a racing bike.

'Aren't you gonna answer me, Robert?'

It had been almost two years since Hunter had heard that robotic voice. 'What was there to miss?' he replied with a calm voice.

Laughter 'Well, maybe the thrill, the adventure. I give purpose to your job.'

'To tell you the truth, I was hoping you were gone.'

Another laugh. 'Oh, c'mon Robert! I know you didn't really believe the guy you caught was me.'

Hunter stepped back into his office, Garcia still with him. 'So he was just another one of your victims?'

'I didn't kill him.'

'You framed him, which is basically the same thing.'

'In truth I did you a favor. He was just another dirty sack o' s.h.i.+t . . . . . . a pedophile a pedophile.'

Despite his hatred, Hunter knew that the longer he kept the killer talking, the more chances he had of forcing a mistake, a slip of the tongue.

'So you decided to come out of retirement?'

The laughter was more enthusiastic this time. 'I guess you could say that.'

'Why now?'

'Patience. All will be revealed in good time, Robert. Anyway, I'd love to chat for longer, but you know I can't. I just wanted to make sure you knew the games have started again, but don't worry, I'll be calling you again soon enough.'

Before Hunter had a chance to say anything else the line went dead. 's.h.i.+t!'

'What did he say?' Garcia asked before Hunter could return his phone to his pocket.

'Not much.'

'So there's no doubt anymore, it's him, it's the Crucifix Killer.'

With frustration in his eyes Hunter could only manage a slight nod.

'We'd better tell the captain.'

Hunter registered a certain excitement in Garcia's voice. 'I'll call him from the car; we need to go check those gyms you drive.'

Hunter's conversation with Captain Bolter was quick. He told him about checking out a few gyms and about the killer's phone call. The captain had cogitated the idea of placing a listening device in Hunter's cell phone, but they'd tried it before with no luck. The caller had used a tracer scrambler device that bounced the call through twenty locations around the globe. For now, there was nothing anyone could do.

Their visit to the gyms in Hollywood came up empty. Neither the reception nor the fitness staff had seen a woman that resembled the computer-generated portrait. They'd need a warrant and a lot of man hours to go through all the member files in the gym's database, and that would still be a shot in the dark.

The Gold's Gym branch in Venice Beach is arguably the most famous gym in the world. It shot to fame with the release of the film Pumping Iron Pumping Iron, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger in 1977. From professional bodybuilders to movie stars and celebrities, Gold's Gym in Venice Beach is the place to be if you want to show off your body, but their luck didn't change. No one recognized the woman in the picture there either.

'There's no way we're gonna go around LA checking all the gyms,' Garcia said as they reached his car.

'I know, this was a long shot anyway, but we had to try it,' Hunter said rubbing his tired eyes. The previous sleepless night was starting to show its signs.

'So what's next, model and acting agencies?'

'Not yet.' Hunter was deep in thought for a moment. 'Doctor Winston said he was confident our victim had money and she spent quite a lot of it on pampering herself remember?'

'Yeah, so?'

'If she was a struggling actress or model . . .'

'One thing she wouldn't have a lot of would be money,' Garcia picked up where Hunter left off.

'You're getting good at this ever thought about becoming a detective?' Hunter said derisively.

Garcia lifted his right hand and showed Hunter his middle finger.

'There's someone else I'd like to visit.'

'Who?' Garcia asked intrigued.

'If she was a struggling actress or model she'd still be able to make quite a lot of money by doing something else. You mentioned it before.'

Garcia frowned. After a few seconds he snapped his fingers and pointed at Hunter. 'Hooker,' he said triumphantly.

Hunter gave him an approving smile. 'And I know just the guy we need to talk to.'

'Let's go then,' Garcia said sounding eager.

'Not now, he's only around at night are you busy tonight?' Hunter said with a quick wink.

'Are you asking me out on a date?'

It was Hunter's turn to flip Garcia the middle finger.

Sixteen.

George Slater left his office at the renowned Tale & Josh law firm at the usual time of six-thirty in the afternoon. His wife Catherine knew she wouldn't be having dinner with him as it was Tuesday night, 'poker night.'

George was an average-looking man. The kind that would never attract much attention in a crowd through looks alone, but no one could deny he was charming. Five foot nine with dark-brown eyes and hair to match, his impeccable dress sense had always managed to conceal his thin frame.

After leaving his office George sat listening to the radio news as he drove his luxurious M-Cla.s.s off-roader Mercedes-Benz to a small rented apartment in Bell Gardens. He'd found the apartment over the internet and dealt directly with the owner avoiding the estate-agent middleman. In exchange for discretion, George had offered to pay the landlord cash one whole year in advance.

Two copies of a hand-drafted agreement and a receipt for the amount paid were the only existing doc.u.mentation of the transaction. No lengthy contracts, no traceable paperwork. Even the name on the contract was fict.i.tious Wayne Rogers. George took no chances. The property could not be traced back to him.

The apartment was located in a very quiet street just on the edge of Bell Gardens and that suited George just perfectly. It meant fewer people to witness him coming and going and the building's underground garage offered him even more shelter from prying eyes.

The single-bedroom apartment wasn't very s.p.a.cious but it served its purpose. It certainly wasn't luxuriously decorated. The entrance door opened straight into a small living room painted white. A three-seat black-leather sofa had been placed a little off the center of the room facing an empty wall. There was no TV set, no paintings, no rugs or carpet. In fact, apart from the sofa, the only other piece of furniture in the living room was a magazine holder. The kitchen was small and very clean. The cooker had never been used. The contents of the fridge were restricted to twelve bottles of beer, some chocolate bars and a carton of orange juice. The apartment wasn't used for living in.

An en-suite double bedroom was located at the end of a small corridor. Inside it, an extravagant bed with a pompous iron-frame bedstead had been positioned against the wall directly opposite the door. To the left of the bed an all-mirrored-door wardrobe. The room had been fitted with a dimmer switch, or as George liked to call it the mood switch. This was the most important room in the apartment.

George closed the door behind him, placed his briefcase on the floor next to the sofa and walked into the kitchen. After grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting its top off he returned to the living room. The beer tasted ice-cold and it relaxed him on a desperately hot day. George drank half the bottle down before sinking himself into the sofa and grabbing his second cell phone from his briefcase. Very few people knew about his extra phone; his wife wasn't one of them. George had one more sip of his cold beer before rereading the latest text message.

I'll be with you around 9:15. Can't wait to see you.

The message wasn't signed, but there was no need. George, or Wayne as he was known, knew exactly who it was from Rafael.

George had met the six-foot-one man of Puerto Rican descent through a male escort agency a year ago. At first their relations.h.i.+p was professional, but it soon developed into a forbidden affair. George knew Rafael had fallen in love with him and though his feelings for Rafael were very strong, he couldn't call it love at least not yet.

George checked the time ten past eight. He had an hour before his lover was due to arrive. He finished his beer and decided to go for a shower.

As the water ma.s.saged his tired body, George fought a guilty feeling. He loved Catherine, and he loved making love to her on the few occasions he was allowed to. Maybe if they'd stayed in Alabama things would've been different, but LA had offered him something new. In today's society being bis.e.xual would be considered by some as quite normal, but certainly not by Catherine.

Catherine Slater was born Catherine Harris in Theodore, Alabama. Her upbringing by her excessively religious family had been very strict. She was an avid churchgoer, sometimes five to six times a week. Overbearing and opinionated, she firmly believed in no s.e.x before marriage, and even then she believed s.e.x shouldn't be used as an instrument of carnal pleasure.

Catherine and George met during their freshman year of law school at Alabama State University. Both straight 'A' students, it didn't take long for their cla.s.smate friends.h.i.+p to develop into an impossible, s.e.xless romance. Blinded by his enormous desire to be with her, George asked for Catherine's hand in marriage one month after their graduation.

Soon after their wedding George was offered a position with a very well-known law firm in Los Angeles, Tale & Josh. Catherine's vision of Los Angeles was that of a degraded and violent city fueled by s.e.x, drugs and greed, but after two months of discussions and promises she accepted that George's job opportunity was too good to pa.s.s.

Catherine wasn't bothered by the fact that her own professional future wasn't involved in the move to Los Angeles. She'd never expected to be a career woman. Her parents had brought her up to be a good wife, to take care of her home, her children and her husband, and that was exactly what she wanted to do. She also believed George wouldn't take to LA and after maybe a year or two he would grow tired of the 'big city, bright lights' lifestyle she was wrong. lifestyle she was wrong.

After winning his second case for his new law firm, George's client invited him to a private party to celebrate the victory. Don't bring your wife with you. You'll have more fun on your own, if you know what I mean. Don't bring your wife with you. You'll have more fun on your own, if you know what I mean.

George was intrigued by the mysterious invitation. He gave Catherine the typical 'working late' excuse and turned up at a luxurious mansion in Beverly Hills. What he saw changed his life forever. excuse and turned up at a luxurious mansion in Beverly Hills. What he saw changed his life forever.