The Death Sculptor

One Hundred and Seven

It was late afternoon when the phone on Garcia’s desk rang. He hadn’t seen or heard from Hunter all day, but that wasn’t uncommon.

‘Detective Garcia, Homicide Special,’ he answered, and listened in silence for several seconds.

His expression took on such a deep frown that his forehead looked like a tire print. ‘You’re kidding . . . Where? . . . Are you sure? . . . OK, stay put, keep your eye on the house, and if anything changes call me straight away.’ Garcia disconnected, and ran down to Captain Blake’s office. Five minutes later he was dialing Hunter’s cellphone number. Hunter answered it on the first ring.

‘Robert, where are you?’

‘Sitting in my car, waiting, gambling on a hunch.’

‘What? What hunch?’

‘Too complicated to explain now.’ Hunter had already picked up the anxiety in Garcia’s voice. ‘What have you got?’

‘You’re not going to believe this. One of our teams hit the jackpot. We’ve got a solid lead on Ken Sands. Apparently he’s been working for an Albanian drug outfit. We have a positive lock on his present location.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere in Pomona. I’ve got the address here with me.’

Pomona was way out of town.

‘We’ve got a green light from the captain,’ Garcia said. ‘A search warrant is being pushed through the courts as we speak.’

‘How fast can we get a SWAT team in place?’

‘Five to ten minutes to get a team deployed. I already have someone getting me all the information on the location, including architectural drawings. We’ll probably be able to brief the SWAT captain in fifteen, twenty minutes max.’

Hunter consulted his watch. ‘I won’t make the briefing, Carlos. I’m on the other side of town, and rush hour started twenty minutes ago. Give me the address in Pomona and I’ll meet you there.’

Hunter disconnected, and at that exact moment the car he’d been following all day started moving again.

‘Damn,’ he said, turning the key in his ignition and stepping on the gas.