Bradley took a deep breath and ran a hand over his mouth. ‘Derek was a friend as well as a colleague.’ His tone had changed in a flash. He now sounded like he was addressing a jury with his opening remarks. ‘I’d known him for over twenty years. I had dinner and drinks in his house many times, and he in mine. I knew his wife. I know his daughters. I’m the one who will accompany them to the morgue for the official identification.’ A muscle tensed in his jaw. ‘And they still don’t know all the sadistic details of their father’s murder. They don’t know about the sculpture. And I’m not sure if they should know. It would destroy them inside.’ His gazed moved around the room before returning to Hunter. ‘Derek was an excellent prosecutor and a devoted family man. We all felt saddened and robbed of an extraordinary person when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer of the lung just a few months ago, but this . . .’ His eyes stole a new peek at the file and photographs on Captain Blake’s desk. ‘This beggars belief.’
If DA Bradley was expecting anyone to make some sort of comment, he was disappointed.
‘Barbara told me that your first line of investigation is to check on all offenders Derek put away over the years,’ he said after a brief pause.
‘Something like that,’ Hunter agreed.
‘Well, that’s exactly where
Hunter read the name on the card – Alice Beaumont, Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Bureau of Investigation.
‘She’s brilliant when it comes to digging into anyone’s life. A computer genius. She has access to all our archives, and then some. Alice can help you find whatever file you need regarding any of Derek’s prosecutions.’
Hunter slotted the card into his jacket pocket.
‘I hope you’re not one of those who feel intimidated by working with a female who’s brighter than you.’ DA Bradley smiled.
Hunter smiled back.
‘Now, what concerns me the most,’ Bradley said, back in his super-serious tone, ‘is that over the years Derek put a lot of trash away. Many of them dirtbags caught by you.’ His gaze moved from Hunter to Captain Blake. ‘Or by another detective from your division, Barbara. The process is simple. You catch them. We prepare the case. We take them to court. A judge presides, and a jury of twelve jurors convicts. Do you see where I’m going with this?’
Captain Blake said nothing.
Hunter nodded. ‘If Derek Nicholson’s murder was payback, then he’s only one link in a long chain.’
‘That’s correct.’ Beads of sweat were starting to form on the DA’s shiny forehead. ‘If what we have here is retaliation for Derek being the prosecutor in an old case, then you better catch this crazy fucker soon. Because if you don’t . . . we can expect more bodies.’
Twelve
While the sun baked the day in a cloudless blue sky, the AC blasted cold air into the cockpit of the metallic silver Honda Civic that had just turned into Interstate 105, heading west. The trip shouldn’t have taken them more than twenty-five minutes, but Hunter and Garcia had been sitting in stop-and-start traffic for thirty-five minutes, and they were still at least another twenty away from their destination.
Amy Dawson, Derek Nicholson’s weekdays nurse, lived in a single-story, three-bedroom house with her husband, two teenage daughters, and a noisy little dog called Screamer. The house was tucked away in a quiet street behind a row of shops in Lennox, southwest Los Angeles.
Amy had been hired as Nicholson’s nurse just a few days after he was diagnosed with his illness.
As Garcia finally turned into Amy’s road, the dashboard thermometer showed the outside temperature to be at 88ºF. He parked his car across the road from her place and both detectives stepped out into a humid and stuffy day, the sun stinging their faces.
The house looked old. Rain and sunlight had caused the paint to fade and crack around the windowsills and the front door. The iron-mesh fence that surrounded the property was rusty and bent out of shape in places. The small front yard could certainly have used a little attention.
Hunter knocked three times and was immediately greeted by a barrage of barks coming from deep within the house. Not the strong, ferocious kind of barks that would scare away a burglar, but the squeaky, annoying kind that could give anyone a headache in minutes. And Hunter already had one.
‘Shut up, Screamer,’ a female voice called from inside. The dog reluctantly stopped barking. The door was opened by a black woman with a round face, cat-like eyes and cornrows on her head. She was around five foot five, and her plump figure overstretched the thin fabric of her summer dress. Amy was fifty-two, but her kind face bore the signs of someone who’d lived longer and seen more than her share of suffering.
‘Mrs. Dawson?’ Hunter asked.