Gallery of the Dead

Forty

Despite how tired he felt, Hunter decided that before driving home he would stop by The Thirsty Crow Lounge in Silver Lake. The place, which had once been a novelty truck-stop dive called Stinkers, had undergone a massive transformation and was now an easy-going, throwback bar, worlds away from the seedy watering hole it used to be. Its vast selection of Scotch, bourbon and spirits, together with its diverse cocktail menu, owed nothing to any of the more famous whisky and cocktail lounges in downtown LA. It was also a lot more reasonably priced, which considerably added to its appeal, and considering that Hunter’s biggest passion was single malt Scotch whisky, The Thirsty Crow Lounge had become one of his favorite places in recent years.

Back in his apartment, Hunter had a small but impressive collection of Scotch that would probably satisfy the palate of most connoisseurs. He would never consider himself an expert, but unlike so many of his friends, who also claimed to enjoy single malt Scotch whisky, he knew how to appreciate the flavors and robustness of the malts, instead of simply getting drunk on them. Though sometimes getting drunk worked just fine.

Hunter sat at the far end of the shiny white-topped bar, which together with the polished dark-wood paneled walls and the music of Parov Stelar playing out of the old-fashioned jukebox gave the place a cozy speakeasy look and feel. He had just ordered his first shot of Scotch when Professor Tracy Adams walked through the lounge doors. Her bright red hair fell loose past her shoulders, with her fringe styled into a charming 1940s victory roll. She wore a halterneck black-and-white rockabilly swing dress, which exposed both of her tattoo-covered arms. The silk bow around her waist matched her black, low-heel Mary Jane shoes perfectly. As she made her way toward Hunter, several patrons turned on their seats to look at her.

‘Have I missed much?’ she asked, nodding at the tumbler sitting on the bar in front of Hunter. The question came accompanied by a smile that could make even the most confident of men stutter.

‘Not really,’ Hunter replied, getting to his feet.

She gave him a peck on the lips. ‘I’m surprised, but very pleased you called.’

By choice, Hunter had been a loner for most of his life, and for that reason he had always been very comfortable in his own company. He didn’t mind drinking by himself, having dinner by himself, or even going places by himself. It gave him a chance to relax with his own thoughts. But sometimes, being alone with his thoughts wasn’t such a good idea. Plus, Garcia was right. Hunter knew he needed to disconnect from the case, even if only for a few hours. He needed to give his brain some breathing time, and he could see no better way of doing that than to be in the company of someone like Tracy. Not only was she intelligent, funny, and terribly attractive, but she certainly could keep up with the drinking as well.

He waited until Tracy had taken her seat before returning to his.

‘So what did you go for tonight?’ Tracy asked, referring to Hunter’s choice of Scotch.

He simply slid his glass her way.

She took it and even before bringing it to her nose she could smell the strong peat smoke.

‘Laphroaig?’ she asked, but immediately corrected herself. ‘No, Ardbeg.’

Hunter smiled. He knew she would get it right.

Just like Hunter, Tracy Adams loved Scotch whisky and her nose and palate were as refined as any expert’s, something she had learned from her father, a true Scotsman from the Highlands.

‘Is this Uigeadail?’ she asked as she brought the glass to her lips. ‘No.’ She corrected herself again, after the smallest of sips. ‘Corryvreckan, right?’ Her Scots Gaelic pronunciation was impeccable.

Hunter nodded.

‘Wow.’ She sat back as she slid the glass back to Hunter. ‘And with no water, either. That bad a day?’

Hunter didn’t have a favorite malt. He usually chose his dram according to how he was feeling, and though he was a mystery to everyone, Tracy had managed to pick up a few of his telltale signs. One of them was that if he’d had a bad day, Hunter would always choose a smoky malt, and one couldn’t get much smokier than Ardbeg Corryvreckan.

‘Not one of the best,’ he confirmed.

The bartender, who was at least six-foot-three, with a gleaming smile and blond hair tied back into a hipster ponytail, placed a black paper napkin on the bar in front of Tracy.

‘So what can I get you tonight?’ he asked in a baritone voice that could’ve belonged to a documentary narrator.

‘I guess I’ll follow suit,’ she replied, nodding at Hunter. ‘I’ll have the same, please.’

One of the bartender’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Really? That’s quite a heavy, smoky malt. A lot heavier on the alcohol too. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something a little smoother?’

‘It’s OK, Alex,’ Hunter said. ‘She can handle her Scotch better than anyone in here, including you and me.’

The bartender smiled as he looked back at Tracy. ‘Is that a fact?’

She shrugged.

‘In that case, welcome to The Thirsty Crow. I’m Alex.’

‘Tracy. Pleased to meet you.’

They shook hands.

‘An Ardbeg Corryvreckan coming up. Any ice with that?’

‘No, but if you give me just about a fifth of water in it I’d appreciate it.’

‘Oh, I like her,’ the bartender said, nodding at Hunter before pouring Tracy her drink.

Tracy and Hunter touched glasses.

‘I know you don’t talk about your work,’ she said, once the bartender had returned to his duties. ‘So I won’t even ask, but if you feel like talking about anything, you know I’m a great listener, right?’

They both had a sip of their drinks.

‘We’re joining forces with the FBI for this one,’ Hunter said, after a short pause.

His revelation almost made Tracy choke — thirty percent because of the unexpected news and seventy percent because Hunter had chosen to share something about one of his investigations with her. He had never done that before.

She quickly had another sip of her Scotch. ‘Are you talking about the same case you had to rush out of UCLA for?’

Hunter nodded.

‘But you barely—’ She paused, as she finally realized what she was missing. ‘You didn’t go asking for help, did you? They invited themselves in.’

Another nod.

Tracy taught psychology and forensic psychology at UCLA. She knew exactly how the FBI worked. She knew that, bar a few exceptions, the FBI would only provide assistance with a homicide investigation if the primary law-enforcement agency involved officially requested their help.

‘So that means that whatever this is,’ Tracy continued, ‘it’s not the first in the series and it has crossed city boundaries, probably even state ones.’

Hunter’s reply was an eyebrow movement, followed by a sip of his Scotch.

‘Well, if you guys haven’t asked for help, they surely found out about it fast enough.’

‘That was my fault,’ Hunter said.

Despite being curious, Tracy decided not to dig any deeper. If Hunter wanted to tell her anything else, he would. ‘Have you ever joined forces with the FBI before?’

‘Not in this capacity. I’ve helped them out on a case not that long ago, but I was on leave from the LAPD. It wasn’t a joint effort.’

‘Will you have to relocate to Quantico?’

‘No chance,’ Hunter replied. ‘We’ll be working out of the LA FBI Headquarters in Westwood.’

Tracy didn’t try to disguise how pleased she was with that answer. ‘Oh, OK. So we’re still on for dinner tomorrow night?’

Hunter had forgotten all about their dinner plans, but neither his eyes nor his facial expression gave his memory lapse away. ‘Yes, of course.’

Tracy renewed her smile. ‘Are the bathrooms at the back?’

Hunter nodded.

‘I won’t be a minute.’ She had one more sip of her Scotch before grabbing her handbag.

The bathrooms were at the end of a short corridor, past a very stylish decorated sitting area. Tracy chuckled as she saw the signs on the doors.

The one on the right said ‘Whisky’. The one on the left said ‘Vanilla vodka and cranberry’.

No wonder the bartender was so surprised, she said to herself.

At that exact moment, a six-foot-two man who looked to be in his mid-thirties exited the men’s bathroom. He wore a dark T-shirt, blue jeans and black boots. As his eyes settled on Tracy, he stopped and smiled.

‘Wow,’ he said, his stare moving slowly from her face down to her breasts, then all the way to her shoes. ‘You’re a pretty one, aren’t you? And I loooove your ink.’

His words slurred a little, giving away how inebriated he was.

‘Thank you,’ Tracy replied politely.

The skin on the man’s face was tanned and weather-beaten. His hair was short, crew-cut number one, and his broad chest and shoulders indicated a build packed with muscle.

As Tracy tried to move into the ladies’ room, the man took a step to his right, blocking her path.

She looked up and into his dark-brown eyes. There was mischief in them.

‘Could you please excuse me?’

‘Look,’ the man said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a water-filled tube. ‘I saw you sitting with some douchebag at the bar, but that’s probably because you don’t know any better. But let me tell you, a pretty girl like you deserves someone who can really show you a good time. Someone like me.’ The man’s right hand moved in the direction of Tracy’s hair, forcing her to quickly take a step back.

‘Look,’ she replied, not shying away from the man’s stare. ‘Since it’s quite obvious that you’ve had a little too much to drink tonight, I will disregard your insulting comment about my date at the bar. That’s clearly the alcohol talking. My advice to you is — go get a drink of water and ask the bartender to order you a taxi. More drinking will probably only make your night worse, not to mention how you’ll feel in the morning.’

She tried to get past the man, but he blocked her path once again.

‘I have a much better idea,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I follow you in there.’ He threw his thumb over his shoulder. ‘And you and I can get properly acquainted. You know what I’m talking about, right?’ His hand moved to his crotch and he gave it a long and slow rub.

Tracy chuckled. ‘I don’t know if I should laugh or puke. You are nauseatingly abominable.’

‘Huh?’

‘Oh, sorry, honey,’ she said, with pity eyes. ‘Too many big words for you? I can rephrase if you like.’

‘What I’d like is for you to come in there with me. Then I’ll show you what “big” really is. Why would you want to drink with a VW Beetle...’ he pointed toward the bar area, ‘... when you can party with a limousine?’ He used both hands to point at himself.

Tracy made a pain-stricken face. ‘Did you learn the art of conversation out of a fortune cookie?’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.’ The man reached for Tracy’s arm.

Big mistake.

With her left hand, Tracy pushed the man’s arm to one side, while her right one moved to his stomach.

The man’s T-shirt was stretched thin against his muscly torso, which would have made it even easier for Tracy to find the correct spot, had she not already known exactly where to apply the pressure. As her fingers came into contact with the man’s abdomen, his eyes widened and he gasped at the intense pain that shot through his body. Reflexively, he tensed his stomach muscles to try to repulse the attack, but it was all too late. Tracy’s fingers were already applying pressure against the linea alba, the thin band of connective tissue that ran vertically down the center of the man’s abdominal muscle.

His face contorted out of shape.

Tracy pushed a tiny bit harder.

The pain was so powerful, so debilitating, even the man’s voice failed him.

Tracy smiled.

The man’s legs trembled under his huge body and Tracy could tell that he was about to go down. Immediately she released some of the pressure to prevent him from collapsing.

His eyelids flickered oddly.

She pushed him back against the wall, using it to help her hold him upright.

‘You’ll be a little woozy after I let go here, OK?’ Tracy said, her voice gentle and caring. ‘But you’ll be fine in a minute or two.’

The man looked at her with pleading eyes.

‘So,’ she continued. ‘Once again, my advice is that you get a drink of water, then call a taxi and go home. You’ve done all the drinking you were supposed to do for tonight, all right?’

All the man could do was nod.

‘And please,’ Tracy added. ‘Don’t try that approach with anyone else... ever.’

She finally let go of him and entered the ladies’ bathroom. A few seconds later she heard him collapse to the ground.

Back at the bar, Hunter finished his Scotch and swerved around on his bar stool.

Tracy had been gone for a few minutes now. Also, the tall, muscle-mount he had noticed going into the corridor that led to the bathrooms just a little before Tracy still wasn’t back either.

Hunter began wondering if he should go check on her when he saw the six-foot-two man stumble out of the back. The man had his right hand pressed against his stomach, as if he’d just been punched. The look on his face was sheer agony. As the man got to Hunter, he paused.

‘You should keep her on a leash, buddy,’ he said in a weak, half-drunk voice.

‘Excuse me?’ There was no one else next to Hunter, so the man must’ve been talking to him.

‘She’s fucking lethal, that’s what she is.’

Shrouded in confusion, Hunter watched as the man stumbled away, grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, and exited the lounge.

‘What was that all about?’ Alex asked Hunter.

‘I have no idea, but I’d better go check on Tracy.’

Hunter didn’t have to. As he turned on his stool, Tracy finally reappeared and returned to her seat.

‘What happened?’ Hunter asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this WWF reject just came out of the bathroom, walked past me and said something about keeping you on a leash and how lethal you were.’

Tracy laughed. ‘Is that what he said?’

‘Who is he? And what did you do?’

‘No one, really,’ Tracy replied. ‘Just someone I met back there. He asked me for my advice, so I gave it to him.’

‘Advice?’

‘Yes. I told him that he should go home. He’d had enough to drink for tonight. Where is he?’ She turned and looked around the lounge but failed to spot the man.

‘He left,’ Hunter told her.

‘Oh, so he did take my advice.’

Hunter found all this too bizarre, but decided not to ask any more questions.

Tracy finished her drink. ‘Another one?’

Hunter considered it for a short moment. ‘How about if we go get something to eat? Have you eaten already?’

Tracy smiled as she glanced at her watch. ‘Given that it’s past eleven in the evening... yes, I’ve had dinner already, but I can keep you company.’ She paused and looked back at Hunter invitingly. ‘Or how about we go back to my place and I’ll cook you something?’

Tracy was a fantastic cook. Hunter knew that very well.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘It’s quite late and I wouldn’t want to impose.’

‘Yes. Positive. And you’re not imposing.’

As they smiled at each other, Hunter’s cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.

Tracy looked back at him, incredulous that this was about to happen again.

‘Detective Hunter, UVC Unit.’ Hunter took the call.

It was Special Agent Williams.

As Hunter listened in silence, his expression changed to something considerably more somber.

‘Where?’ he said into the mouthpiece, checking his watch. ‘I’m not home right now, but I can be there in fifteen minutes.’ He listened for another few seconds. ‘OK, I’ll be ready.’ He disconnected from the call and his stare moved to Tracy.

She didn’t need to ask. She knew that a call coming into Hunter’s phone at that time of night could only mean one thing.

‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ he said, reaching for her hand.

She smiled through her disappointment.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘It’s your job.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Same perp again?’

Hunter nodded.

‘Wow, he’s not losing any time, is he?’

Hunter placed a couple of bills on the bar counter and reached for his jacket. ‘Once again,’ he said to Tracy. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

‘As long as you make it up to me, I don’t mind,’ she replied in a half-joking, half-serious tone.

‘You can count on that.’ He kissed her on the lips before rushing out of the bar.