The Night Stalker by Chris Carter

couldn’t tell you who.’ She paused. ‘The only other person I can think of is Calvin Lange, the curator of the Daniel Rossdale Art Gallery. The person who kick-started her career. He was very fond of her, and she of him. They talked on the phone and met quite frequently.’
    Roy nodded his agreement.
    Hunter noted Calvin Lange’s name down and his eyes returned to the photo frames on the wooden desk. ‘Being a successful artist consequently means having fans, I suppose.’
    Denise nodded proudly. ‘Her work was admired and loved by many.’
    ‘Did Laura ever mention any . . .’ he searched for the right words, ‘ . . . insistent fans?’
    ‘You mean . . . like a stalker?’ Her voice faltered for an instant.
    Hunter nodded.
    Denise finished the rest of her whiskey in one gulp. ‘I never thought of it, but she did mention something a few months ago.’
    Hunter put down the picture frame he was holding and took a step in Denise’s direction. ‘What exactly did she tell you?’
    Denise’s gaze moved to a neutral point on the white Nepalese rug in the center of the room as her memory struggled to remember. ‘Just that she’d started receiving some emails from someone who said he was in love with her work.’
    ‘Did she ever show you any of these emails?’
    ‘No.’
    Hunter looked at Roy questioningly, who shook his head.
    ‘Did she tell you what they said?’
    Denise shook her head. ‘Laura played it down, saying that it was just a fan being flattering of her work. But I did get the feeling that something about it had spooked her.’
    Hunter wrote again in his notebook.
    Denise moved closer, stopping at an arm’s reach from Hunter. She looked into his eyes. ‘How good are you and your team, Detective?’
    Hunter frowned as if he hadn’t understood the question.
    ‘I wanna know if you can catch the sonofabitch who hurt my daughter and took her from me.’ The grief in her voice was gone, substituted by undeniable anger. ‘Don’t tell me you’re gonna do the best you can. The police are always doing the best they can, and their best is rarely good enough. I know you’re gonna do your best, Detective. What I want you to do is look me in the eyes and tell me your best will be good enough. Tell me you’ll catch this sonofabitch. And tell me you will make this sack of shit pay.’

 
Twenty-Three
     
    Whitney Myers used the little gadget Leonid Kudrov had given her to activate the gates to the underground garage in Katia’s apartment block. As she drove in, she immediately spotted Katia’s torch red V6 convertible Mustang parked in one of the two spaces reserved for her penthouse apartment. Myers took the empty spot next to it, got out and placed her right palm on the Mustang’s hood. Stone cold. Through the window, she checked its interior. All seemed fine. The car alarm light was blinking on the dashboard, indicating that it was active. Myers paused and allowed her eyes to roam the whole of the garage. The place was well lit, but there were many dark spots and corners where someone could hide. She noticed only one security camera, on the ceiling, facing the garage’s entrance door.
    Myers retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the box in the back seat of her car and rode the elevator up to the penthouse. There, she used the keys Leonid Kudrov had given her to gain access to Katia’s apartment. No alarm. No signs of forced entry.
    She softly closed the door behind her and paused for an instant. The living room was immense and decorated with a lot of style. Myers took her time looking around. Nothing seemed out of place. No signs of a fight or struggle.
    She made her way to the spiral stairwell in the corner and moved up to the top floor. On the mezzanine landing, she found Katia’s car keys in a tray on a tall chest of drawers crowded with family photographs.
    Myers moved on down the corridor and entered Katia’s bedroom. The walls were painted in pink and white, and there were enough stuffed toys