The Executioner

Forty

As they drove down Pacific Coast Highway, the scenery had changed from the hustle and bustle of Downtown Los Angeles to the tranquility and breathtaking ocean views of Malibu. Hunter continued to stare out of the window.

Malibu is famous for its warm sandy beaches and for being the home of countless movie stars and celebrities. A place reserved for the rich and mega-rich.

‘No need to check for the address,’ Garcia said, slowing down. ‘I guess that’s it.’

About a hundred yards ahead on the left, several police vehicles were parked at the gates to a large mansion. News vans from various channels were already at the scene. Satellite antennas raised high in the cold and wet night sky.

Garcia slowly zigzagged his way around the cars and came to a stop in front of the intimidating electronic iron gates. An officer wearing a standard-issue LAPD vinyl raincoat came up to the driver’s side.

‘Detectives Garcia and Hunter,’ Garcia said after lowering his window. ‘Homicide Special.’

The officer nodded and used the remote control in his hand to open the gates. ‘Forensics and the two other detectives have been in there for a while now,’ he said.

‘Two other detectives?’ Hunter asked, leaning across Garcia.

‘That’s right,’ the officer replied, stepping back from the car and gesturing for them to drive through.

As Garcia drove forward, Hunter caught a glimpse of Claire Anderson standing under a large white umbrella with the other reporters.

The perfectly cement-paved driveway must’ve been at least a hundred yards long, flanked by numerous palm trees. Just past the gates, on the left, there was a tennis court. The large green area between the court and the impressive two-story mansion had been impeccably mown, and the hedges around it were neatly cropped.

Garcia entered a circular parking bay and pulled in next to a forensics unit van, just in front of a four-car garage.

‘Wow, would you have a look at this place,’ Garcia said, stepping out of his car. ‘Someone knew how to live in style.’

The house was white and modern with a terracotta-tile roof and large glass windows. On the second floor, the room at the corner of the house had a wrap-around balcony offering panoramic views of the beach. A few police officers were standing on the stone steps that led up to the front door, sheltering themselves from the rain.

With his badge in hand, Hunter took the steps two at a time. All the officers at the house’s entrance were unnaturally quiet. The look on their faces was a mixture of sorrow and skepticism.

Double doors led them into a reception area that was bigger than Hunter’s entire one-bedroom apartment. It was a rich, sterile room, full of money and devoid of character – the kind of elegant space in which it was hard to believe people actually lived.

A strange, unidentifiable smell lingered in the air. The sort of smell that could make you sick if you were exposed to it for long enough.

A short and bulky man in a white Tyvek coverall noticed the two detectives as they stepped into the house.

‘Detective Hunter?’ he asked, approaching them.

‘Yes.’ Hunter turned around.

‘I’m Detective Martin, Thomas Martin, from the LASD Malibu/Lost Hills station.’

They shook hands firmly.

Malibu is actually an incorporated city in Western Los Angeles County. Any homicides committed in that city initially fall under the Los Angeles Sheriff Department jurisdiction.

‘What do we have?’ Hunter asked, looking around.

‘A fucking mess, that’s what we have. It started as a missing person’s call to the West Hollywood station.’

‘West Hollywood?’ Garcia enquired, surprised.

Martin nodded. ‘I suggest you guys suit up while I fill you in.’ He pointed to two coveralls on a table together with surgical masks and latex gloves.