One by One (Роберт Хантер 5 Поодиночке) - Carter Chris (2) (читать книги бесплатно полные версии txt) 📗

Silence.

‘But I also knew that EATEN would come out on top.’

A long pause.

‘So this is the trade, Detective Hunter,’ the caller carried on. ‘You tell me how I knew they would pick EATEN over BURIED, and you’ll find her body soon enough. You don’t. Her body vanishes. Since you’re so confident in your abilities, let’s see how good you are.’

Hunter’s stare settled on Captain Blake.

‘Tell him something,’ she urged. ‘We need that body.’

‘C’mon, Detective,’ the caller urged him. ‘It’s simple psychology. You should get this easy.’

Several seconds went by before Hunter spoke.

‘Because EATEN appealed to “human curiosity”, BURIED didn’t.’ His voice was calm and collected.

The captain frowned.

‘I like it,’ the caller said. ‘Please explain.’

Hunter scratched his forehead. He knew that, for now, he had to play the caller’s game.

‘Everyone knows what to expect from BURIED. EATEN is the unknown. What would you use? How would it be done? What could possibly eat a human being alive? Natural human curiosity would tip the scale toward the unknown.’

A pause was followed by a loud laugh and then handclaps. ‘Very good, Detective. As I said, society as a whole is quite predictable, isn’t it? It was a done deal from the start.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘It must eat you up inside, mustn’t it, Detective?’

‘What must?’

‘The knowledge that the vast majority of people who watched that online show enjoyed it. They probably even cheered every sting. They loved watching her die.’

No reply.

‘And you know what? I bet that they are dying with anticipation for the next show.’

Captain Blake shivered with anger.

‘Well, I must bid you all farewell. I’ve got things to do.’

The line disconnected.

Thirty

The next show.

Those words seemed to echo inside Hunter’s office forever. They all knew exactly what that meant, and it filled everyone with dread.

The first thing Hunter did was to ask his research team to come up with a list of possible meanings for SSV, the three letters that had appeared in the top left-hand corner of the screen at the beginning of the broadcast. He had also asked them to prepare a report on tarantula hawks. Was the species found in California? Can anyone breed them in their back garden, or do they require special environment, conditions, etc.?

Garcia contacted the Missing Persons Unit again and emailed them a snapshot of the woman’s face. They needed to identify her as soon as possible.

Operations called Hunter as soon as he had disconnected from the call with the killer. This time he hadn’t bounced the call all over Los Angeles. He had used a prepaid cellphone. No GPS. But the call didn’t last long enough for them to be able to accurately triangulate it. The call had originated from somewhere in Studio City.

The broadcast and Hunter’s telephone conversation with the killer had left everyone shaken, but Hunter knew he had to keep his focus. He and Garcia left the PAB and drove to the bus depot in Athens, south Los Angeles. They needed to determine if Kevin Lee Parker, the first victim, had boarded any bus on route 207 on that Monday evening. With that, they could establish if the victim had been abducted in the stretch between the bus stop and his house in Jefferson Park or during the short walk from the Next-Gen Games Shop and the bus stop in Hyde Park.

Four out of the six drivers who had driven route 207 on Monday evening were on duty tonight. Hunter and Garcia struck it lucky with the third driver they interviewed. After showing him a portrait photograph of Kevin Lee Parker, the tall and skinny man nodded and told both detectives that he remembered Kevin because he was a regular – always took the bus from the stop at Hyde Park Boulevard and 10th Avenue, and usually around 7:00 p.m. The driver said that Kevin was a polite man, always said ‘hello’ as he boarded the bus. He couldn’t one hundred percent remember if Kevin was alone or not, but he believed he was. The driver also couldn’t remember if Kevin had gotten off at the stop at Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard, his usual stop.

After leaving the bus depot, Hunter and Garcia drove to the intersection between Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard. Kevin Lee Parker’s house was a ten-minute walk from the bus stop there. They parked the car and walked the route twice. If Kevin had stuck to West Jefferson Boulevard, and then turned right into South Victoria Avenue, the whole trajectory from the bus stop to his house would’ve taken him down well-lit and busy roads, but cost him an extra three minutes. The fastest route would’ve been to cut through the West Angeles Church’s car park, just past the Chevron Gas Station on the corner of Crenshaw and West Jefferson, and then carry on through the back alleys, behind South Victoria Avenue.

The West Angeles Church had no security cameras outside, and its car park was located at the back of the building, well hidden from any roads. According to the schedule posted at the front of the church, there were no services on Monday evenings. The car park would’ve been empty and concealed in the shadows of three not-so-bright lampposts. Snatching Kevin from there, or any of the back alleys on the way to his house, would’ve been child’s play: no one would’ve witnessed it at all.

Thirty-One

The Los Angeles FBI headquarters in Wilshire Boulevard was a seventeen-story-high concrete and glass box-structure that looked more like a prison than a federal law-enforcement building. With small, one-way, special dark glass windows pigeonholed between long and thin cement pillars, all that was missing were thick metal bars and guard towers around the perimeter. In short, it looked like every FBI building around the country – nondescript and enigmatic.

It was coming up to eight in the evening when Garcia parked his car in the parking lot directly behind the FBI building. The lot was far from empty. Garcia picked a spot next to a shiny black Cadillac with tinted windows and chromed wheels.

‘Wow,’ he said as he turned off his engine. ‘I’m surprised his license plate isn’t “IMFBI”.’

Before getting to the main entrance doors, both detectives had to go up a set of concrete stairs, across an open-roof green garden and down a CCTV-monitored corridor. They pushed open the heavy, thick glass doors and stepped into a well-lit and pleasantly air-conditioned reception lobby.

Two attractive and conservatively dressed receptionists, who were sitting behind a black-granite reception counter, smiled as they entered the building. Only one stood up.

Hunter and Garcia identified themselves, handing her their credentials. The receptionist quickly typed something into her computer terminal and waited for the application to reply. It did so in less than five seconds, confirming their names and ranks with the LAPD. It also displayed an identifying photograph of each detective. Satisfied, the receptionist returned their identifications to them together with two blue and white visitors’ badges.

‘An agent will escort you inside,’ she said.

A minute later a tall man in a dark suit approached them. ‘LAPD Detectives Hunter and Garcia.’ He nodded his greeting. No handshakes. ‘Please follow me.’

They were escorted through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, then through a third set of security doors and into an elevator, which descended one floor to the FBI Cybercrime Division. The elevator opened onto a shiny, hardwood corridor, where hanging brass fixtures with several portraits in gilded frames lined the walls. Neither Hunter nor Garcia recognized any of the people in the photographs.