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Authors: Chris Carter
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her right eye. ‘Do you think all that could’ve been a diversion? The killer made the murder look like a ritual, when in fact it was just a plain sadistic homicide?’
‘To divert us from what?’ Garcia asked.
‘It wasn’t a diversion,’ Hunter said confidently as he returned to his desk and had a sip of his water. ‘If the killer wanted to stage a ritual, the decapitation and the circular blood trail around the altar would’ve done the job. He didn’t have to go as far as drinking the priest’s blood or shoving a dog’s head down the body’s neck. There’s a deeper meaning to all this.’
Captain Blake closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘So what’s your next move?’
‘We need to find out as much as we can about Father Fabian, including his personal life.’
‘Any family?’
‘Father Fabian was an only child,’ Garcia replied, reading from a sheet on his desk. ‘His father’s unknown and his mother died of liver cirrhosis six years ago.’
‘Our best bet is Father Malcolm,’ Hunter cut in.
‘Who’s Father Malcolm?’
‘He’s the head priest at the Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church in Paramount. He was also Father Fabian’s closest friend.’ Hunter instinctively checked his watch. ‘I’m taking a drive there later on.’
‘I’ll stay and get on with the journals.’ Garcia pointed to the pile of books.
‘How about this?’ the captain asked, pointing to the dog’s head photograph. ‘Any leads?’
‘Not yet,’ Garcia replied. ‘We’ve found references to Greek mythology and the Eastern Orthodox Church, but nothing relevant so far.’
They were interrupted by the phone on Hunter’s desk. It rang twice before he picked it up. ‘Detective Hunter.’ He turned towards Captain Blake. ‘It’s for you.’
‘Yes . . .’ she said, bringing the receiver to her right ear. ‘Put him on hold and transfer the call to my office. I’ll take it in there.’ She handed the phone back to Hunter. ‘Just a few days on the job and the mayor is already becoming a pain in my ass.’ She headed for the door.
Twenty-Six
Ryan Turner arrived at Reilly’s Estate Agency in West Hollywood an hour and fifteen minutes late. Amanda had only talked to the prospective buyer over the phone and she wasn’t really sure of what to expect. She was pleasantly surprised.
Ryan was around six-two, in his early forties and well built. His dark brown hair was short, conservative and clean, in harmony with the rest of him. He was executively dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit with perfectly polished shoes. He spoke with a hint of a southern accent.
‘I’m sorry for being late,’ he said as he firmly shook Amanda’s hand. ‘Business people always babble on more than they should.’
‘It’s no problem at all, Mr. Turner,’ she replied, giving him her warmest smile. ‘I’m glad you could make it.’
‘I’m really looking forward to seeing this house. From what I saw on your website, it looks perfect.’
Amanda’s smile widened.
‘And please,’ he continued, ‘call me Ryan.’
‘Only if you call me Amanda.’
‘Deal.’
Ryan convinced Amanda to ride with him. With traffic, the drive took them just over an hour. Amanda spent the first twenty-five minutes telling Ryan how wonderful the property was. Her rehearsed speech rolled off her tongue like poetry. For the rest of the drive they talked about everything, from business to Christmas presents.
The first thing Ryan noticed as they drove through the grand electronic iron gates of the property in Malibu was the tennis court to the left of it.
‘Impressive,’ he said.
Things were going just as Amanda hoped they would.
The rest of the house didn’t disappoint Ryan. Over six thousand square feet of living space with high wood-beamed ceilings in places and magnificent marble floors. Its interior had been luxuriously decorated with modern and stylish furniture. Ingenious light fixtures made every room relaxed and
‘To divert us from what?’ Garcia asked.
‘It wasn’t a diversion,’ Hunter said confidently as he returned to his desk and had a sip of his water. ‘If the killer wanted to stage a ritual, the decapitation and the circular blood trail around the altar would’ve done the job. He didn’t have to go as far as drinking the priest’s blood or shoving a dog’s head down the body’s neck. There’s a deeper meaning to all this.’
Captain Blake closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘So what’s your next move?’
‘We need to find out as much as we can about Father Fabian, including his personal life.’
‘Any family?’
‘Father Fabian was an only child,’ Garcia replied, reading from a sheet on his desk. ‘His father’s unknown and his mother died of liver cirrhosis six years ago.’
‘Our best bet is Father Malcolm,’ Hunter cut in.
‘Who’s Father Malcolm?’
‘He’s the head priest at the Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church in Paramount. He was also Father Fabian’s closest friend.’ Hunter instinctively checked his watch. ‘I’m taking a drive there later on.’
‘I’ll stay and get on with the journals.’ Garcia pointed to the pile of books.
‘How about this?’ the captain asked, pointing to the dog’s head photograph. ‘Any leads?’
‘Not yet,’ Garcia replied. ‘We’ve found references to Greek mythology and the Eastern Orthodox Church, but nothing relevant so far.’
They were interrupted by the phone on Hunter’s desk. It rang twice before he picked it up. ‘Detective Hunter.’ He turned towards Captain Blake. ‘It’s for you.’
‘Yes . . .’ she said, bringing the receiver to her right ear. ‘Put him on hold and transfer the call to my office. I’ll take it in there.’ She handed the phone back to Hunter. ‘Just a few days on the job and the mayor is already becoming a pain in my ass.’ She headed for the door.
Twenty-Six
Ryan Turner arrived at Reilly’s Estate Agency in West Hollywood an hour and fifteen minutes late. Amanda had only talked to the prospective buyer over the phone and she wasn’t really sure of what to expect. She was pleasantly surprised.
Ryan was around six-two, in his early forties and well built. His dark brown hair was short, conservative and clean, in harmony with the rest of him. He was executively dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit with perfectly polished shoes. He spoke with a hint of a southern accent.
‘I’m sorry for being late,’ he said as he firmly shook Amanda’s hand. ‘Business people always babble on more than they should.’
‘It’s no problem at all, Mr. Turner,’ she replied, giving him her warmest smile. ‘I’m glad you could make it.’
‘I’m really looking forward to seeing this house. From what I saw on your website, it looks perfect.’
Amanda’s smile widened.
‘And please,’ he continued, ‘call me Ryan.’
‘Only if you call me Amanda.’
‘Deal.’
Ryan convinced Amanda to ride with him. With traffic, the drive took them just over an hour. Amanda spent the first twenty-five minutes telling Ryan how wonderful the property was. Her rehearsed speech rolled off her tongue like poetry. For the rest of the drive they talked about everything, from business to Christmas presents.
The first thing Ryan noticed as they drove through the grand electronic iron gates of the property in Malibu was the tennis court to the left of it.
‘Impressive,’ he said.
Things were going just as Amanda hoped they would.
The rest of the house didn’t disappoint Ryan. Over six thousand square feet of living space with high wood-beamed ceilings in places and magnificent marble floors. Its interior had been luxuriously decorated with modern and stylish furniture. Ingenious light fixtures made every room relaxed and
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