The driver looked up at the building. On the first floor a woman with short dirty-blond hair, and clearly carrying a little more weight than she would like to, was staring out the window at the heavyset man. Her eyes followed him until he disappeared down another street. When he was gone, she faded back into the apartment, but three minutes later she was at the window again. This time, her anxious gaze concentrated at the opposite end of the road. The driver also noticed something different about the woman. Her hair had been brushed and the unflattering nightgown she was wearing was gone, replaced by something sexier.
Five minutes elapsed and nothing else happened. Then the woman’s lips spread into a smile. The driver followed her stare all the way to another man who had turned the corner and was now hurriedly walking toward the apartment block. He was at least forty pounds lighter than her husband, and about ten years younger. The woman’s lips broke into a wide smile.
The driver chuckled.
At 7:15 a.m., another man exited the building. This one was tall with an athletic build. He walked with purpose. His eyes showed strong resolve and determination. Reflexively, the driver slid down on his seat, making himself even more unnoticeable, while at the same time attentively observing the man as he jumped into his own car and drove away.
The driver smiled. Everything was going to plan.
Twenty minutes later, his mark finally stepped out of the building. He sat forward and watched her walk to her car. She was attractive, with a charming aura around her, and a body he knew would be the envy of all her friends.
He took a deep breath and allowed the excitement to avalanche down his spine. Adrenaline rushed through him as he checked his broadcasting equipment and started his engine.
He’d spent the entire day tagging her, waiting for the right moment to strike. He knew that his success depended on choosing the perfect moment. Anything less than perfect and things could turn around very quickly.
After so many hours, that moment had finally arrived.
His show was about to go online again.
The Devil Inside.
Hunter paused and looked at him.
‘As I said before, the plot revolves around a young woman whose mother had murdered three people while supposedly possessed by a demon. I was mainly interested in finding out about those murders. Specifically, the method used.’
‘And . . .?’
‘No resemblance at all to our case. It was a frenzied knife attack. All three victims were slaughtered inside the same house, in the same night, and in the space of minutes. The film then focuses on the woman’s daughter attending several exorcism sessions to try to figure out if her mother was really possessed by the devil when she did it. No one is locked inside any sort of enclosure, glass or not. No wasps or any other insect appear. No one is left inside an alkali or acid bath, nothing is broadcast over the Internet, and there’s no voting or choosing between death methods. If there really is a meaning behind the message the killer left in Ms. Stevenson’s bedroom, that film isn’t it.’
Hunter’s focus moved to the pictures board and the fluorescent orange fingerprint powder photograph. He scratched his head.
Dennis Baxter, from the Computer Crimes Unit, had batch-downloaded all of Christina Stevenson’s emails into an external hard drive, now connected to Garcia’s computer. No more going over them on a 3.5-inch screen, and no more risk of being locked out of her account.
‘Nothing so far that I’d call suspicious,’ Garcia replied, returning to his desk. ‘There are a lot of quick-fire internal emails between Ms. Stevenson and other
Hunter ran over his meeting with Pamela Hays.
‘Whoa, wait,’ Garcia said, lifting his right hand and pausing Hunter when he told him about the phone threats Christina had been getting. ‘Who’s this guy?’
‘His name is Thomas Paulsen,’ Hunter explained. ‘He’s a software millionaire, based right here in LA.’
‘Software?’ A muscle flexed on Garcia’s jaw. He was already typing Paulsen’s name into a search engine.
‘That’s right. His company was one of the first to create enterprise Internet database systems.’
Garcia looked up from his screen. ‘When did you get time to research him?’
‘I didn’t,’ Hunter replied. ‘I read a lot. I read the piece in
‘Are we talking to him?’ Garcia asked. ‘He sure sounds like someone who knows his way around cyberspace.’
‘We probably will be, but not just yet. First I want to find out how badly Christina Stevenson’s article affected him. But even then we would still need to link Paulsen to Kevin Lee Parker. Maybe he had a beef with Ms. Stevenson because of the article she wrote, but how would our first victim fit into his payback plan?’
Garcia said nothing.
Hunter’s desk phone rang, sucking his attention away from the board.
‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special Section.’
There was a click on the line.
‘Hello . . .?’
‘Detective Hunter,’ the caller finally said. His tone was cold and unrushed, like a doctor greeting a patient. ‘I’m glad you are at your desk.’
In hearing his voice, Hunter felt an emptiness form in his stomach, a kind of vacuum sensation, that was instantly replaced by a rush of anxiety. Hunter clenched his jaw and locked eyes with Garcia.
‘Are you online?’ the caller asked, his voice now filled with mocking amusement. ‘Because I’m about to show you something I am certain you and your partner will enjoy watching.’
‘Are you ready, Detective Hunter?’ the caller asked rhetorically. ‘Because your favorite website just went back online. You don’t need me to give you the web address again, do you?’
Hunter was already typing it into his browser’s address bar.
The web page loaded in less than three seconds. But what Hunter saw forced him to do a double take. This time the picture wasn’t dominated by the green tint of a night-vision lens. Neither was it being broadcast from a dingy, dark dungeon-looking room somewhere. The caller was broadcasting in broad daylight from a busy city street. And this time the camera wasn’t static either. It was moving with the crowd, walking along leisurely, as if handheld by a tourist filming his LA vacation.
Hunter’s eyes narrowed.
There were people all around. Men and women dressed in a variety of different attires, from casual jeans, T-shirts, shorts and dresses to business suits. Some seemed in a hurry, with their cellphones glued to their ears. Some were casually walking around, maybe window-shopping. It was hard to tell, as the camera lens angle was straight and narrow, like tunnel vision. Hunter could see people coming toward the camera and walking past it, but the peripheral vision was blurred.
Hunter quickly used the palm of his hand to cover the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘Call Michelle at the FBI Cybercrime Division,’ he whispered to Garcia. ‘The website is back online.’
Garcia’s desk was probably the best-organized desk inside the entire PAB. Everything had its designated place, and always seemed to be symmetrically positioned. Michelle Kelly’s card was the first of three arranged side by side to the right of his telephone. He dialed the number, and Michelle answered within two rings.
‘Michelle, it’s Carlos.’
Instantly Michelle picked up on Garcia’s serious tone.
‘Hey, Carlos. What’s wrong?’
Garcia typed into his browser’s address bar as he spoke. ‘He’s back online. The website is back online.’
‘What?’
‘He’s on the phone to us right now.’
He heard frantic keyboard clicks from the other end.
The page loaded on Garcia’s screen and he cocked his head back, frowning at the street images before looking at Hunter. ‘What the hell?’
Hunter gave him a subtle headshake.
‘What do you mean – the website is back online, Carlos?’ Michelle said over the phone. ‘I’ve got nothing here.’
‘What?’
‘I’m looking at an Error 404 page.
‘I’ve already rechecked it. You sure it’s the same address?’
‘Positive.’
More keyboard clicks.
‘Damn, he’s blocking us out,’ she ultimately said.
‘He’s what . . .? How can he block you out, but not us?’
‘There are a few methods, but I’m not going to get technical with you right now.’
Garcia shook his head at Hunter. ‘They can’t see it,’ he whispered. ‘Somehow he’s blocking them out, but not us.’
Hunter wrinkled his nose at the information, but he knew he didn’t have time for an explanation. He switched the call to loudspeaker.
‘Are you watching?’ the caller asked.
‘We’re watching,’ Hunter replied, his voice calm but firm.
‘Where the hell is that?’ Garcia mouthed the words at Hunter, pointing at his computer screen. ‘Rodeo Drive?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’
Rodeo Drive was Los Angeles’ best-known shopping district, situated in Beverly Hills, famous for its designer labels and haute couture fashion. It attracted a multitude of people every day. But Hunter was right. What they were looking at didn’t look like Rodeo Drive. Right now, those images could be coming from any regular shopping street – in a city with thousands of them.
‘Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?’ the caller commented. There was a distinct lilt in his tone.
‘Indeed,’ Hunter agreed. ‘In fact, if you tell me where you are, I’ll come and walk with you.’
The caller laughed. ‘Appreciated, but I think I’ve got enough company for the moment. Can’t you see?’
People were walking by in all directions.
Hunter and Garcia were glued to their computer monitors, looking for something, anything that could give them some sort of clue to where the caller was broadcasting from. So far they’d seen nothing.
‘Isn’t it great that we live in a city so full of people?’ the caller carried on. ‘So vibrant and full of life?’
Hunter said nothing.
‘The downside is that Los Angeles is also a very busy city, where people are always rushing somewhere, too busy with their own thoughts, their own problems, their own obsessions. Too busy to notice others.’ The caller laughed, as if what he’d just said amused him immensely. ‘I could be wearing a Batman outfit out here, and no one would look at me twice.’
The caller carried on walking as he talked, but still neither Hunter nor Garcia had seen anything they’d recognized yet.
Suddenly the caller had to quickly shuffle left to avoid colliding with a man whose eyes were locked on his cellphone’s screen while typing a text message. As the man whizzed past the caller, missing bumping into him by an inch, the caller turned around, his camera following the man’s walk. A few yards ahead, the man slammed into a dark-haired woman who was going in the opposite direction. The man never stopped. His eyes didn’t even leave his cellphone’s screen.
‘Wow, did you see that?’ the caller asked. ‘That guy just shouldered that woman to one side without giving a shit. No “I’m sorry”, no apologetic smile . . . He didn’t even miss a step. People out here just don’t care, Detective.’ Another laugh. This one with a hint of contempt. ‘No one cares for anyone else but themselves.’ A short pause. ‘The good old American way, huh? Always look out for number one. The rest can go fuck themselves.’
Despite his harsh words, there was no anger in his voice.
Garcia was through with this one-sided conversation. ‘You’ve got something against the American way?’
Hunter’s eyes moved to him.
‘Ah, Detective Carlos Garcia, I presume,’ the caller said. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. No, I’ve got nothing against the American way. On the contrary. But your question strikes me as a little odd, coming from a person who wasn’t actually born here.’ He paused again. ‘Brazil, isn’t that right?’
Carlos Garcia
‘How the hell . . .’ Garcia began, but Hunter gave him the most subtle of headshakes, suggesting that he didn’t engage in a verbal confrontation with the caller.
A laugh came through the phone. ‘Information is easy to obtain when you know how to get it, Detective Garcia.’
Garcia took Hunter’s advice and bit his lip.
The caller took the silence as a cue and moved on. ‘There are so many people out here, walking around, just getting on with their own lives. You know, being out here makes me feel like a kid in a candy shop. So many choices. Anyone could become my next guest, if you know what I mean.’
Unconsciously, Hunter held his breath. Was this the reason for this call? The killer had shown them how he tortured and killed people. He had shown them how he chose the death method. Was he now showing them his selection process?
‘But I think I already have someone in mind,’ the caller said before Hunter could say anything back. ‘Can you guess who it is?’
Hunter and Garcia craned their necks, moving closer to their monitors, but the camera didn’t zoom in to anyone in particular.
Just ahead and a little to the left, a blond woman had stopped. She was searching for something inside her handbag. Was she the one the caller had chosen?
An odd-looking man with thin lips and a pointy nose, separated by a thick mustache that looked designed to offset both, was walking slowly, coming straight toward the camera. Maybe the caller had picked him.