The Night Stalker by Chris Carter Page A

canvas and the faint foot imprints. A strong and fast perpetrator could have covered the distance between there and where Laura would have been standing in a flash, too fast for her to react. But Hunter didn’t believe her attacker had surprised her in that way. If he had, there would have been some sort of a struggle, and there were no such signs anywhere. If someone had crept up behind her and sedated her in some way, Laura would have no doubt dropped her paint palette and brush, not placed it on the unit next to the stand. The surrounding floor area where Laura would have stood while working on her canvas was covered in small speckles and splashes of paint, not blotches and smudges caused by a palette hitting the ground.
    ‘Pass me the flashlight, Carlos.’
    Garcia handed it to him and Hunter moved its beam to a point on the brick directly behind the large canvas.
    ‘Something else?’ Garcia asked.
    ‘Not sure yet, but brick walls are notorious for pulling fibers out of fabrics if you lean against them.’ Hunter kept inching the beam up. When he got to a point about six feet from the floor, he paused and moved forward, stopping just millimeters from the wall, careful not to disrupt the dust. ‘I think we might have something.’
    He reached for his phone and dialed the number for the Forensics team.

 
Twenty-Seven
     
    West Hollywood is famous for its nightlife, celebrity culture and diverse atmosphere. Themed bars, chic restaurants, futuristic and exotic nightclubs, art galleries, designer boutiques, sports centers, and the most varied selection of live music venues will keep you entertained from sunset to sunset. Informally referred to as ‘WeHo’ by most Angelinos, the word is that if you can’t get your kicks in West Hollywood, then you’re probably already dead.
    It was just past 6:00 p.m. when Hunter and Garcia got to the Daniel Rossdale Art Gallery in Wilshire Boulevard. The building was small, but stylish. Smoked glass together with concrete-and-metal frames were used to create a pyramid-style structure that could be considered a sculpture on its own.
    Calvin Lange, the gallery’s curator and Laura Mitchell’s closest friend, had agreed to a meeting. Laura’s last exhibition had been at his gallery.
    Hunter and Garcia were shown to Calvin Lange’s office by an attractive and elegantly dressed assistant.
    Lange was sitting behind his desk, but stood up as both detectives entered the room. He was a wiry, sandy-haired, smiling man in his early-thirties.
    ‘Gentlemen,’ he said as he firmly shook their hands. ‘You said over the phone that this was about Laura Mitchell?’ He indicated the two leather chairs in front of his desk and waited for both detectives to have a seat. ‘Have there been any problems with any of her paintings purchased from this gallery?’ He paused and quickly studied both detectives’ expressions. Then he remembered Laura’s mother’s phone call to him two weeks ago. ‘Is she OK?’
    Hunter filled him in.
    Calvin Lange’s eyes flicked from Hunter to Garcia and then back to Hunter. His lips parted but no words came out. For an instant he looked like a little kid who’d just been told Santa Claus was a con. Still in shocked silence, he approached the minibar built into the tall wooden unit on the north wall, and with a trembling hand reached for a glass. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ His voice quivered.
    ‘We’re fine,’ Hunter said, taking in all his movements.
    Lange poured himself a large glass of Cognac and quickly took a mouthful. That seemed to bring some of the color back to his face.
    ‘I was told by Mrs. Mitchell that you were probably Laura’s closest friend outside the family,’ Hunter said.
    ‘Maybe . . .’ Lange shook his head as if disoriented. ‘I’m not sure. Laura was a very private person, but we got on well. She was . . . fantastic: funny, talented, intelligent, beautiful . . .’
    ‘She exhibited in this gallery not so long ago, is that