The Caller

Seventy-One

As Hunter parked in front of his six-story apartment block in Huntington Park, he peeked at his watch — it was coming up to 11:00 p.m. He leaned his head back on to the seat’s headrest and looked up at the aging building for a moment. By one of the windows on the second floor, an old man sat chain-smoking cigarettes. With every third drag he had, he would cough two or three times before spitting down on to the sidewalk below. On the fourth floor, Margaret Dixon, a very sweet lady in her early fifties, was staring out the window of apartment 416, teary-eyed. Every night, without fail, she would stare out of her window at the road below for several long hours, waiting for her husband to come back from his night shift. Her husband, Philip, had been involved in a work-related accident several years ago. He had died that same night.

A far-away siren dragged Hunter’s attention away from the building and he wondered if going home right now was really the best idea. Sleep, if it came at all, wouldn’t be until the very early hours of the morning. His brain was still wide awake and he wasn’t looking forward to another night either tossing and turning in bed, or pacing the length of his small apartment.

He began contemplating taking a drive down to Santa Monica or Venice Beach when a completely new idea entered his mind. He considered it for just a few seconds.

‘Oh, what the hell. Why not?’ he said, staring into his own eyes in the rearview mirror. He shrugged and reached for his cellphone.

‘Hello,’ a female voice replied.

‘Hi, is this Tracy?’

‘This is she, yes.’

‘Hi, Tracy. It’s Robert. Robert Hunter?’ He thought that he would have to help her out with a little bit more information than just his name, but he was pleasantly proven wrong.

‘Oh, the mysterious detective. What a surprise.’

Hunter took that as a good sign.

‘Is this a bad time?’ Out of habit, he consulted his watch again.

‘No. Not at all. I was just about to... do nothing, really.’

Hunter smiled. ‘Funny, me too. Listen, I know it’s quite late on a Sunday night, not really the best night for going out, and you probably have lectures in the morning, but I was wondering if you would like to go grab a coffee somewhere.’

‘You mean... somewhere that’s not the UCLA library?’

‘Preferably not.’

Hunter heard Tracy laugh. The laugh was followed by a short pause.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ she replied at last, ‘I have a better idea. Why don’t we go somewhere where they serve something a little stronger than coffee? There’s a great bar not that far from me. How long will it take you to get to West Hollywood?’

‘At this time... about an hour.’

‘OK, so how about I meet you there in an hour?’

‘That sounds great.’