The Caller

Two

Detective Robert Hunter of the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division noticed the redhead woman as soon as he entered the 24-hour reading room on the first floor of the historic Powell Library Building, which was part of the UCLA campus in Westwood. She was partially hidden behind a pile of leather-bound books, a coffee mug on the table in front of her. She was sitting alone, busy typing something on her laptop computer. As Hunter walked past her table on his way towards the one at the far corner of the large room, she met his gaze. There was nothing in it. No intrigue, no invitation, no flirt. Just a casual unconcerned look. A second later, her stare returned to her computer screen and the moment was over.

This was the third time Hunter had seen her in the library, always sitting behind a pile of books, always with a coffee mug in front of her, always by herself.

Hunter loved reading and consequently he loved the 24-hour reading room at the Powell Library, especially in the early hours of the morning on the nights his insomnia got the better of him.

In the USA, one in five people suffer from chronic insomnia, mostly brought on by a combination of work, financial and family-related stress. But in Hunter’s case, the condition had grabbed hold of him way before he had to deal with the pressures of having a stressful job.

It all started just after his mother lost her battle with cancer. Hunter was only seven years old at the time. Back then, he would sit alone in his room at night, missing her, too sad to fall asleep, too scared to close his eyes, too proud to cry. The nightmares that followed his mother’s death were so devastating to the young Robert Hunter that as a self-defense mechanism, his brain did all it could to keep him awake at night. Sleep became a luxury and a torment in equal measures and to keep his brain occupied during those endless sleepless hours, Hunter read ferociously, devouring books as if they empowered him. They became his sanctuary. His fortress. A safe place where the ghastly nightmares couldn’t reach him.

As the years went by, Hunter’s insomnia and nightmares subsided considerably, but just a couple of weeks after receiving his Ph.D. in Criminal Behavior Analyses and Biopsychology from Stanford University, his world crumbled before him for the second time. His father, who had never remarried and at the time was working as a security guard for a branch of the Bank of America in downtown Los Angeles, was gunned down during a robbery gone badly wrong. Hunter spent twelve weeks by his side in a hospital room while he lay in a coma. Hunter read him stories, told him jokes, held his hand for hours on end, but once again, love and hope proved not to be enough. When his father finally passed away, Hunter’s insomnia and nightmares came back with a vengeance, and they had never left him since. On a good night, Hunter could probably manage to find three, maybe four hours of sleep. Tonight wasn’t one of the good nights.

Hunter reached the last table at the end of the hall and checked his watch — 12:48 a.m. Like always, despite the late hour, the place was relatively busy, with a very steady flux of students all throughout the night.

He had a seat, making sure that he was facing the room, and flipped open the book he had with him. He read for about fifteen minutes before deciding that he too needed a cup of coffee. The closest vending machines were just outside the reading room, by the elevators. As Hunter crossed the library hall once again, he caught another glimpse of the redheaded woman. Though her stare reverted back to her laptop, it didn’t do it quickly enough. She had been looking at him again but, despite being caught out, her body language gave no signs of her being embarrassed; on the contrary, it showed confidence.

The brand new coffee machine outside offered fifteen different types of coffee, nine of them flavored. The most extravagant one, which came loaded with whipped cream, caramel sauce and chocolate sprinkles, was served in a cup that held twenty fluid ounces. It was priced at $9.95. That made Hunter chuckle. Student prices and measures had come a long way since his college days.

‘Unless you like your coffee sickly sweet, I’d stay clear of that one.’

The advice, which came from the person standing a few feet behind Hunter, caught him by surprise. As he turned, he found himself face to face with the redhead.

Her beauty was evident and intriguing at the same time. Her bright red hair, which fell just past her shoulders, was naturally wavy, with her fringe looping above her forehead and slightly to the right, creating a charming victory roll — pin-up style. She wore old-fashioned, black-framed cat-eye glasses that perfectly suited her heart-shaped face and gently called attention to her green eyes. Centered just under her bottom lip, she had a labret piercing, with a dainty black stone stud. Her septum was also pierced, showing a delicate silver ring. She was dressed in a black and red 1950s-inspired rockabilly dress, which exposed her arms in full. They were both covered from shoulder to wrist in colorful tattoos. Her Mary-Jane shoes matched the colors on her dress.

‘The option you were looking at,’ she clarified, sensing Hunter’s confusion and pointing at the machine with her empty coffee mug. ‘The Caramel Frappuccino Deluxe? That one’s excessively sweet, so unless that’s your thing, I wouldn’t go there.’

Hunter hadn’t realized that he’d been checking the selection so attentively.

‘I’d say that sweet isn’t the only thing it excels at then,’ he replied, quickly peeking over his shoulder. ‘Ten bucks for a cup of coffee?’

Her lips parted into an agreeing smile that was both charming and shy.

‘I’ve seen you here in the library before,’ she said, moving the subject away from ‘sweet and expensive coffees’. ‘Are you a student here at UCLA?’

Hunter regarded the woman in front of him for an extra moment. Age-wise, it was hard to place her. She carried herself with the pride and authority of a head-of-state, but her delicate features could belong to a college senior. Her voice also gave little away, bearing a gentle, girlish tone combined with enough self-assurance to disarm the most confident of guesses.

‘No,’ Hunter replied, honestly amused by her question. He knew that he looked nothing like a college student anymore. ‘My student days are well and truly over. I just...’ His eyes moved past her and on to the reading room. ‘Like coming here at night. I like the serenity of this place.’

His answer brought a new smile to the woman’s lips.

‘I guess I know what you mean,’ she said, as she turned and allowed her gaze to follow Hunter’s through the doors and into the large reading room, transitioning from the checkered wooden floor to the dark mahogany tables, and finally to the large, gothic-styled windows. ‘Plus,’ she added, ‘I also like the smell of this place.’

Hunter frowned at her.

Her head tilted sideways slightly as she explained. ‘I always thought that if you could put a scent to knowledge, this would be it, don’t you think? A combination of paper, both old and new, leather, mahogany...’ Her quick pause was shadowed by a shrug. ‘Overpriced coffees, and students’ stale sweat.’

This time Hunter returned her smile. He liked her sense of humor.

‘I’m Tracy,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘Tracy Adams.’

‘Robert Hunter. Pleasure to meet you.’

Despite her delicate hands, her handshake was firm and strong.

‘Please,’ Hunter said, taking a step to his right as he nodded, first at Tracy’s empty coffee mug then at the vending machine. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Oh no, you were here first,’ Tracy replied. ‘I’m in no rush.’

‘It’s OK, really, I’m still deciding,’ Hunter lied. He only drank black, unsweetened coffee.

‘Oh, OK. In that case, thank you.’ Tracy stepped up to the machine, placed her mug on the designated spot, slotted some coins into it and made her selection — regular black. No sugar.

‘So, how are the classes going so far?’ Hunter asked.

‘Oh no,’ Tracy replied, collecting her mug and turning to face him. ‘I’m not a student here either.’

Hunter nodded. ‘I know. You’re a professor, right?’

Tracy looked at him curiously and with an intense, searching gaze, but his expression revealed nothing at all. That just served to intrigue her further.

‘That’s right, I am, but how did you know?’

Hunter tried to shrug it off. ‘Oh, just a guess, really.’

Tracy didn’t buy it.

‘No way.’

She quickly thought back to the leather-bound volumes she had on her table. None of their titles really hinted at her occupation, and even if they did, Hunter would’ve needed super-human vision to be able to read them from where he’d been sitting, or as he walked past her table.

‘That was too confident a statement for it to be a guess. Somehow you already knew. How?’ The look in her eyes was now very skeptical.

‘Just simple observation,’ Hunter replied, but before he could develop his answer any further, he felt his cellphone vibrate inside his jacket pocket. He reached for it and checked the display screen.

‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said, bringing the phone to his ear. ‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special.’

Tracy’s eyebrows arched. She wasn’t expecting that. A few seconds later she saw his whole expression change.

‘OK,’ Hunter said into his cellphone, checking his watch — 1:14 a.m. ‘I’m on my way.’ He disconnected and looked back at Tracy. ‘It really was a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy your coffee.’

Tracy hesitated for an instant.

‘You forgot your book,’ she called out after him, but Hunter was already halfway down the stairs.