‘Yes,’ she replied with a smile that made his legs wobble.
‘I mean . . . with me . . . would you like to dance with me . . . ?’
Her smile widened. ‘Yes, I’d love that.’
While on the dance floor, swinging awkwardly to a slow song, Anna whispered into Garcia’s ear.
‘What took you so long?’
Garcia pulled his chin from her shoulder and looked into Anna’s hazel-honey eyes. ‘What?’
‘Five school dances. This is the fifth school dance this year. What took you so long to ask me?’
Garcia tilted his head to one side and said tentatively. ‘I . . . like to keep the ladies waiting?’
They both laughed.
They started dating that night.
Garcia proposed three years later, straight after their graduation.
When Garcia became a detective for the LAPD, he made a promise to himself never to bring home any of the grotesque world his profession took him to. To never, ever discuss his day with Anna. Not because it was against protocol, but because he loved her too much, and he would never stain her thoughts with the images and the reality of his every day. He had never broken that promise.
Late last night, while in bed, Anna pulled herself closer to Garcia and whispered in his ear.
‘If you ever wanna talk. You know I’ll always be here. No matter what.’
He faced her and gently swept a lock of hair from her face. ‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘Everything is fine.’ He kissed her lips.
Anna placed her head on his chest and closed her eyes. ‘I love you,’ she said.
Garcia started stroking her hair. ‘I love you too.’ Sleep never came.
Garcia sat facing the pictures board. His attention mostly on the photograph of the shadow image cast by the second sculpture. ‘What the hell is he trying to tell us?’
‘I asked myself that same question all night long,’ Alice said, standing behind him.
Garcia jumped in his chair. He hadn’t noticed her entering the room. ‘Wow,’ he said, consulting his watch. ‘You’re up early.’
‘Or late, depends on how you look at it.’ She placed a few folders on her desk.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’
‘I didn’t want to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes my brain cooked up a new nightmare.’
Garcia made a face as if he knew exactly how she felt.
She picked up one of the folders she’d brought in with her and handed it to Garcia.
‘What’s this?’
‘Prison files and visitation records for Alfredo Ortega and Ken Sands.’
Garcia’s eyes widened. ‘Really? I didn’t even know the request had been sanctioned already.’
‘That’s one of the perks of having the DA, the Mayor of Los Angeles, and the Chief of Police so keen to see an investigation resolved. Things move a lot faster. They were faxed to my office at the crack of dawn today.’
‘Have you been through them already?’
Alice used both hands to tuck her loose hair behind her ears. ‘I have, yes.’
Garcia’s eyes dropped to the folders on his lap.
‘I read fast.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve highlighted a few points.’ She thought better of her words. ‘Actually, quite a few. Start with the blue folder, Alfredo Ortega’s file. As you’ll remember, he went to prison eleven years before Ken Sands.’
Garcia noticed a new quirk in Alice’s voice. ‘And I can tell you’ve found something.’
‘Wait until you read both files.’ She sat at the edge of her desk with a satisfied look on her face. ‘You’ll have to read it to believe it.’
Fifty-Three
Detective Seb Stokes paused midway through a long sip of his coffee and returned the mug to the table. A teardrop blob of cream now sat on the tip of his round nose. An almost perfect fluffy white mustache contoured his top lip.
‘A mechanic?’ he said, using a paper napkin to wipe the cream off his face. ‘You got the fucker on CCTV?’
‘No, CCTV wasn’t working,’ Hunter replied in an even voice.
‘It fucking never is when you need it. So how do you figure the killer posed as a mechanic?’
‘Last night I found out that there was some sort of oil leak with Nashorn’s boat’s inboard engine. He was supposed to leave on his usual two-week sailing trip the day he was murdered. My guess is that he probably noticed the problem while doing his final check-through, and knew he couldn’t sail off with a faulty engine. Too risky.’
‘Yeah, that would be the Andy I know. He was always very thorough. And the one thing he wasn’t was careless. Have you checked with the marina? Do they have a register of mechanics?’
‘I’ve checked.’ Hunter sipped his coffee. ‘They don’t have a mechanic station. What they do have is a list of mechanics they recommend. Nashorn never contacted the marina’s admin office asking for a mechanic’s name. But most boat owners already have a mechanic they trust anyway.’
‘Did Andy?’
Hunter nodded. ‘A guy called Warren Donnelly. I spoke with him last night. He said he was never contacted by Nashorn about any engine-oil leak.’
‘So you’re thinking that the killer tampered with the engine before Andy got to his boat,’ Stokes said, reading Hunter’s expression. ‘Maybe even a day or two before.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Then all he had to do was hang around somewhere close, observing, waiting for the right moment to offer his services.’