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

‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘Brad Nelson. We’re still gathering information on him, but chances are he’ll be clean. He moved back to Canada ten months ago.’

Garcia retrieved the printouts from his printer and carefully pinned them onto the pictures board.

The captain stepped closer to have a better look. The close-up photos of the victim’s face sticking out of the heavy-duty plastic bags made a sick acid taste travel up from her stomach, through her throat and into her mouth. She quickly reached into her pocket for a mint.

‘You said that you’ve been to the victim’s apartment,’ Captain Blake said, finally turning to face her detectives. ‘Anything?’

‘We found his laptop,’ Garcia informed her. ‘But it’s password protected. We left it with Dennis Baxter at the Computer Crimes Unit. They’re trying to break it.’

Captain Blake nodded, unenthusiastically.

‘But we also got this,’ Garcia said, producing the notebook he found in Ethan Walsh’s apartment.

‘And what is that?’

‘An old-fashioned address and telephone book,’ Garcia explained. ‘Apparently, the more into technology you are, the more you know that it can all go disastrously wrong. It looks like Ethan Walsh kept a hard copy of what I’m guessing are all the numbers in his cellphone’s address book.’

Captain Blake nodded. She had one herself. ‘OK, and . . .?’

Garcia handed her the book, already opened onto a specific page. ‘Fifth name from the top,’ he said.

The captain’s eyes scrolled down the list, paused, widened a fraction. ‘Christina Stevenson?’ She read the name out loud before her gaze shot up in the direction of both detectives. ‘Is this the same Christina Stevenson?’ She pointed to the pictures board. ‘The killer’s second victim?’

‘The one and the same,’ Hunter agreed. ‘That’s her cellphone number.’

‘You do remember that we retrieved Christina Stevenson’s cellphone from her house, right?’ Garcia asked.

‘His number is in her address book as well.’ The captain phrased it half as a question, half as a statement.

‘It is,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘We checked her phone’s call log, but it goes back only three weeks. She hadn’t made or received a call to or from Ethan Walsh’s number during that period.’

‘Do you have his cellphone?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Garcia replied. ‘It wasn’t in his apartment. We’ve checked with the provider, and the phone has been switched off. We’ve already requested phone records for the past three months for both of them. We should hopefully have them by the end of today, or maybe tomorrow. At the moment we’re not sure if they were friends, acquaintances, or if Ethan Walsh had, in any level, been part of any of Ms. Stevenson’s reports.’

Captain Blake returned her attention to the phone book.

‘I spent most of the night reading through every article Christina Stevenson wrote for the LA Times in the past two years,’ Hunter announced. ‘Six hundred and sixty-nine in total. Ethan Walsh’s name isn’t mentioned in any of them. I’ve already contacted Ms. Stevenson’s ex-editor with the entertainment desk again. She’s never heard the name Ethan Walsh.’

‘You’re thinking he might’ve been an informant?’ Captain Blake asked. ‘Like a source, I mean?’

Hunter shrugged gently. ‘It’s possible. I’ve also asked her for a copy of all the articles Ms. Stevenson wrote while she was with the crime desk.’

‘Crime desk?’ the captain asked.

‘Before she became an entertainment reporter, Christina Stevenson spent nine months with the crime desk. I know it was a long time ago, but I’d still like to go through all those articles as well. I should be getting those sometime today.’

The captain started flipping through the pages in Ethan Walsh’s phone book.

‘If you’re looking for the first victim’s name,’ Garcia said, ‘Kevin Lee Parker, it’s not there. We’ve looked.’

She paused, considering her thoughts for a little while. ‘Yeah, but this shows that at least two of the victims knew each other. In a city where the population stands at around twelve and a half million people, this cannot be a coincidence. This killer isn’t selecting his victims at random.’

Ninety-Three

Her first thought as she finally reawakened was that death felt nothing like what she had expected.

Next, as her senses slowly came back to her, she realized that death hadn’t taken her yet, then came the pain – rushing through her like a drug overdose. It felt as if every bone and muscle in her body had been beaten up and then twisted out of shape. Her head throbbed so ferociously it was hard even to breathe. She could feel the blood thundering through her ears with such force she believed her eardrums would explode. She moaned slowly, while trying to find the strength to open her eyes against the pain.

That was when she heard his voice again, and the sheer sound of it sent a shocking wave of fear through every atom in her body.

‘Don’t fight it. Don’t try to move. Just try to relax.’ His tone was calm, emotionless, disembodied.

She was unable to hold back the fearful cry that escaped her lips.

The man waited.

She tried blinking her eyes open, thinking that she must not panic, but fear had already covered her like a shroud. She gasped in air, hyperventilating.

He spoke again.

‘Take a deep breath, and try to remain calm.’

Another gasp of air.

‘I know you’re scared. I understand it seems difficult right now, but just breathe, and soon the panic will go away.’

She tried to do as she was told.

She finally managed to open her eyes, allowing them to drink in her surroundings, but the room was mostly dark. The only light came from a terribly weak corner light far away. The air was stale, heavy with the smell of old hay, disinfectant and something else she didn’t recognize. Something sweet and sickly. She couldn’t see the man, but she could hear his breathing, and she could sense his oppressing presence.

She slowly became aware that she couldn’t move. She was sitting down in some sort of heavy, hard and uncomfortable high-backed chair. Her wrists were roped to the chair’s arms – her ankles securely fastened to the chair’s legs. Her torso and head weren’t restrained, which allowed her to slightly twist her body from side to side. She did so slowly. First left, then right, trying to better understand the room. Only then she realized that she was naked.

Suddenly she was overcome by an abrupt despair at how vulnerable, exposed and fragile she really was. She wanted to stay in control. She wanted to show strength and determination, but at that precise moment fear was winning that battle, and involuntarily she began sobbing.

‘You’re not doing what I told you to do.’ The man’s cold voice came again.

The woman could not stifle her sobs. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and squeezed them tight, wishing the tears away.

‘Stay strong,’ the voice in her head said.

She had read somewhere that rape attackers thrived on fear, on the submission of their prey, but that thought only served to scare her more, and the uncertainty of what would happen to her next petrified her. When she spoke, the words left her lips as if spoken by a little lost child.

‘Please, don’t hurt me.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Please, let me go.’

Silence.

Her next words came out without any thought.

‘I’ll do whatever you want. Please, just let me go.’

No reply.

‘Please . . .’ In a moment of sobriety from her fear, she realized how useless that word sounded.

‘Tell me what you want from me?’ Her mind raced over the possible answers to her own question, but she forced herself to banish the gruesome visions.