The Death Sculptor

Thirty-Two

A police siren wailing in the distance disrupted the eerie silence that had taken over Hunter’s living room. Alice tried her best to read Hunter’s face, but failed.

‘The killer has got to be telling us about his feelings for Derek,’ Alice said. ‘He has to be telling us that he considered Derek to be a liar, a deceiver, a betrayer.’ She lifted a hand before Hunter could respond. ‘I know what you’re going to say. Derek was a lawyer, and many people consider lawyers to be deceivers and liars by trade.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘But Derek Nicholson wasn’t your regular, everyday liability or personal-injury lawyer. He was a state prosecutor. He had one client, and one client only – the State of California. His job was to prosecute criminals who’d been apprehended by the LAPD or the California State Police. And his fee didn’t depend on a win or a loss, or on how much he could bleed out of the counterpart.’

Hunter still said nothing.

Alice was getting animated. ‘The point is, I don’t think the killer is alluding to himself as a deceiver. He’s got to be referring to Derek, but not simply because he was a lawyer. It’s got to be because of something else. Something that we haven’t found out yet.’

‘Did you get anywhere with the list of criminals Nicholson prosecuted over the years?’ Hunter asked.

‘No breakthroughs yet,’ Alice said, getting up. ‘Nothing about the ones who’ve been released or the relatives of the ones who are still inside suggests that they’d be capable of anything of this magnitude. But if they’re out there, I’ll find them. Do you mind if I grab another beer?’ She pointed to the kitchen.

‘Make yourself at home.’

Alice opened Hunter’s fridge and frowned at how empty it was. ‘Wow, what do you live on? Protein drinks, Scotch and . . .’ she quickly scanned the kitchen, ‘. . . air?’

‘The diet of champions,’ Hunter replied. ‘How about the ones Nicholson didn’t send to prison? The ones who escaped being sentenced because of a technicality or whatever? How about the victims of the accused? The ones who felt the state didn’t perform its duty. Could any of them be capable of retaliating? Has anyone ever directly blamed Nicholson for losing a case?’

Alice poured the new beer into her glass and returned to the living room. ‘I must admit I haven’t had the time to check that yet. But trust me, if there is a link between Derek’s murder and any of his cases, I’ll find it.’

Hunter’s gaze stayed on Alice. Something about the natural, self-assured way she talked told him that her confidence wasn’t just cockiness and bravado, which was surprising, given that she worked for the cockiest, most self-glorifying law-enforcement office he knew in all of California – the district attorney’s office. No, her confidence wasn’t just shallow words. It was exactly that; confidence in herself and what she knew she could do.

‘The second victim . . .’ Alice asked, sipping her beer. ‘Was he also a lawyer, a prosecutor?’

Hunter got up and moved towards the window. ‘Worse. He was an LAPD cop.’

Alice’s eyes widened in surprise as her brain already started measuring the consequences.

‘His name was Andrew Nashorn,’ Hunter said.

‘Was he a detective?’

‘He was until eight years ago.’

She paused midway through a sip of her beer. ‘What happened?’

‘Nashorn was shot in his abdomen while pursuing a suspect in Inglewood. That resulted in a collapsed lung, a month in hospital and six on sick leave. After that, he couldn’t be out in the field anymore. He chose to stay with the South Bureau’s Operations Support Division.’

‘And how long was he a detective for?’

Hunter could see she was catching on quick. ‘Ten years.’

Alice’s face seemed to sparkle with the same thought Hunter had had hours earlier.

‘He and Derek could be case-related,’ she said. ‘Or even more than a single case. Ten years is a long time catching criminals.’

Hunter agreed.

‘Derek was a prosecutor for twenty-six years.’ Alice’s thoughts were now on full flow. ‘Chances are he did prosecute at least one perpetrator that . . . what’s his name again?’

‘Andrew Nashorn.’

‘That Nashorn apprehended.’

Hunter agreed again.

‘That could be our first real link. Maybe even a breakthrough. I’ll cross-reference it and see what I get.’

Hunter checked his watch. ‘Yes, but not now. We both need to get some sleep.’

Alice nodded but didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on Hunter. ‘You said there was a second sculpture.’

Hunter stayed silent.

‘Did you have a chance to check it? Did it also cast a shadow puppet onto the wall?’

‘Alice, did you hear what I said? We need to get some sleep. And you need to disconnect for at least a few hours.’

‘It did, didn’t it? We’ve got something else now. A new clue from the killer. A new shadow puppet. What is it?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ Hunter lied.

‘Sure you do,’ Alice challenged. ‘Why don’t you wanna tell me?’

‘Because if I do, you’re going to go back home, you’re going to get on your computer and you’re going to search the net until you come up with something. And we need to get some sleep. That means you too. Drop it. Give your brain a few hours’ rest or else you will burn out.’

Alice paused in front of a sideboard in Hunter’s living room where a few picture frames were neatly arranged. She reached for the one right at the back – a young and smiley Hunter in his college graduation gown. His father was standing next to him. The expression on his face told the whole world that on that day no one was a prouder dad than he was. She smiled at it and placed it back on the sideboard before facing Hunter again. ‘You don’t remember me at all, do you?’