The Night Stalker

Thirty-Four

‘So, where exactly are we going?’ Garcia asked, easing his car out of the parking spot.

‘Norwalk,’ Hunter said, punching the address he was given over the phone into the GPS system.

One of the officers they had visiting art galleries with a snapshot of the man who’d swapped phone numbers with Laura Mitchell on the final night of her exhibition had hit gold. The owner of an exclusive gallery in Manhattan Beach had recognized the person in the photo. Nine months ago he’d purchased a canvas by Laura Mitchell from the gallery during one of their exhibitions.

Most art galleries will ask their clients to allow the purchased piece to remain on display until that particular show is over. The Manhattan Beach Gallery always insisted on taking down a name and contact number for its clients.

The man’s name was James Smith.

Norwalk is a mostly middle-class neighborhood located seventeen miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles. It took Hunter and Garcia fifty-five minutes to get from South Figueroa Street to the address they were given on the poorer side of Norwalk.

The address led them to an old, gray concrete monstrosity. A six-story-high public housing unit with dirty windows which was in desperate need of a coat of paint. Garcia parked his car across the road from the building’s entrance. A group of five guys who were bouncing a basketball around just a few yards away stopped all activity. Ten eyes were glued to Hunter and Garcia.

‘jQue passa five-o?’ the tallest and fittest one of the group called as both detectives crossed the street. He had no shirt on and his muscles glistened with sweat. Most of his torso, arms and neck were covered in tattoos. Hunter recognized some of them as prison branding. ‘jQué quieres aquí, puer-cos?’ He let go of the ball and folded his arms defiantly. The other four grouped up behind him like a defensive line-up.

‘No somos policías,’ Hunter said, flashing his gym membership card. He knew the group was way too far away to be able to see it properly. ‘I’m from the City of Los Angeles Housing Authority.’ He flicked his head towards Garcia. ‘He’s from Pensions and Welfare.’

The whole group’s hard-ass demeanor evaporated in an instant.

‘Oh man, I gotta go,’ the one with glasses said, checking his watch. ‘I’ve got a job interview in an hour.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ the skinny, shaven-headed one said.

They all nodded and mumbled in Spanish as the group broke away, all five of them reaching for their cell phones.

Garcia couldn’t hide his smile.

The entrance lobby was in as much need of attention as the rest of the building. Dirty walls, water stains on the ceilings, and the stale smell of cigarettes greeted Hunter and Garcia as they came through its metal and wired-glass doors.

‘Which floor?’ Garcia asked.

‘Fourth.’

Garcia reached for the elevator call button.

‘You gotta be kidding, right?’ Hunter chuckled. ‘Have you noticed the state of this place? That’s a risk too far.’ He gestured towards the stairs. ‘Safer to use those.’ They took the steps two at a time.

The fourth floor corridor was long, narrow, badly lit and it smelled of old fried onions and piss. They passed a semi-open door where a baby was crying somewhere inside. The TV in the living room was on, showing some sort of courtroom program.

‘Not really the sort of place you’d expect an art lover to live,’ Garcia commented.

Apartment 418 was two doors from the end of the corridor. Hunter knocked and waited fifteen seconds.

No reply.

He knocked again and moved his ear to the door. Ten seconds later he heard someone approaching from inside. The door unlocked with a loud clang and then was pulled back a fraction, just the length of the security chain. The lights inside the apartment were off. All he could see was a pair of eyes looking out from about a foot away from the door. The sweet smell of jasmine seeped through from inside.

‘Mr. Smith?’ Hunter asked. ‘James Smith?’

Silence.

Hunter subtly placed the tip of his boot against the bottom of the door and lifted his badge. ‘We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?’

Two more seconds of silence. Suddenly, in a desperate reaction, the door was pushed forward with a jerk, but Hunter’s foot stopped it from slamming shut.

‘James. .? What the hell?’ Hunter called.

The tension on the door relaxed as Smith let go of it. They heard the hustle of foot scuffing inside the apartment, moving deeper within, and away from them. Hunter looked at Garcia quizzically for a split second. They both realized it at the same time.

‘Fire escape. .’