D-King sat back and looked at his fingernails, flicking the end of each one with his thumb. 'You mean could this be some sort of trademark retaliation?' He shrugged. 'Who knows? Possibly. If she belonged to a homeboy and she either stole from him or decided to fuck around, I wouldn't be surprised. Some people don't look kindly at being fucked with. Examples have to be made, do you feel me? This could even be considered mild by some standards.' He paused and looked at the picture again. 'But if this is payback for her being somebody's woman and getting dirty somewhere else, you can expect to get another body the motherfucker she was doing it with. This kind of revenge comes in twos, Detective.' He pushed the photo back towards Hunter. 'What does this have to do with homemade explosive devices?'

'More than it looks.'

D-King chuckled. 'You never give anything away, do you?' He had a sip of the dark green colored drink in front of him. 'Actually, if last time we saw each other is anything to go by, I don't really fucking wanna know what this is all about.' He regarded Hunter like a poker player about to bet his whole stash before tapping the picture with his index finger. 'But this is fucking offensive, man, and I owe you one anyway. Let me look into it and I'll get back to you.'

Seventeen.

Garcia turned on the fan and stood in front of it for a minute before going back to his desk. He couldn't even imagine how hot that room would be during summer.

He'd been going over the crime-scene pictures in his computer, enhancing and scrutinizing them, looking for anything they could use to point them in the right direction as to the victim's identity. So far, nothing. No tattoos or surgery scars. The moles and freckles he could see on her arms, stomach, neck and cleavage were too common and not prominent enough to really be classed as identifying marks. As far as he could tell, she was a natural brunette and her breasts were her own.

Her arms showed no signs of needle marks and her frame wasn't skinny and wasted. If she was a junkie, she certainly didn't look like one. Despite the small patches on her cheeks that carried that old-person's-skin look Hunter had mentioned, the victim couldn't have been any older than thirty-three, at a stretch. If the old saying that the eyes are the windows to the soul was true, then her soul was scared beyond belief when she died.

Garcia leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He reached for his coffee cup, but it had long gone cold. Before he could pour himself a new one, a clicking sound announcing the arrival of a new email came from his computer. The Missing Persons files he'd requested. They'd promised to send them over in forty-five minutes. That had been two hours ago.

Garcia read the email and let out a high-pitched whistle. Fifty-two brunette Caucasian women with hazel eyes, aged between twenty-seven and thirty-three, and somewhere between five five and five eight in height had been reported missing in the past two weeks. He unzipped the attachment containing all the files and started printing them out, first the photographs, then their personal information sheets.

He poured himself a new cup of coffee and gathered all the printouts into one pile. The photos would have been brought into the Missing Persons Unit by the person who reported them as missing. Even though Missing Persons would have asked for a recent picture, Garcia knew that some of those photographs could be over a year old, sometimes more. He'd have to allow for subtle changes in appearance such as hair length and style, and fullness of the face due to weight loss or gain.

The main problem Garcia faced was that he had only the close-up photo of the victim, the one from the crime scene, to compare them to. The swelling on the victim's lips together with the thick black threaded stitches forcing them tightly together deformed the bottom half of her face. Matching any of the photographs sent from Missing Persons to that one would be a long and laborious task.

An hour later Garcia had reduced the possible matches from fifty-two to twelve, but his eyes were getting tired, and the more he looked at the pictures, the fewer distinguishing features he saw.

He spread the twelve printouts out on his desk, creating three lines of four with their respective information sheets next to them. The photos were all of reasonable quality. There were six face portraits, passport-style; three where the subject had been cropped from a group picture; one showed a wet-haired brunette sitting on a jet ski; another smiling brunette was by the pool; and the last picture showed a woman at a dinner table holding a glass of champagne.

Garcia was about to start the whole process again when Hunter walked through the door and saw him hunched over his desk, staring intensely at the group of neatly arranged photographs.

'Are those from Missing Persons?' Hunter asked.

Garcia nodded.

'Anything?'

'Well, I started with fifty-two possibilities and have been comparing them to our crime-scene photos for over an hour now. The swelling on our victim's face makes things a lot harder. I'm now down to these,' he nodded at the twelve photos on his desk, 'but my eyes are starting to play tricks on me. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to look for any more.'

Hunter stood in front of Garcia's desk and allowed his eyes to jump from photo to photo, spending several seconds on each one. A moment later his gaze settled on the facial close-up of the unidentified victim. He moved them all nearer together, making a new photo group before reaching for a blank sheet of paper.

'Every face can be looked at in several ways,' Hunter said, placing the sheet of paper over the first photo at the top of the group, covering two-thirds of it. 'That's how composite sketches are created. Individual characteristics added together one by one.'

Garcia moved closer.

'The shape of the head and ears, the shape of the eyebrows, eyes and nose, the mouth, the jaw line, the chin . . .' As he mentioned each facial feature, Hunter used the paper sheet to cover all the other ones. 'We can very crudely use the same principle here.'

A few minutes later they had discarded another eight photographs.

'I'd say our victim could be any of these four,' Hunter said finally. 'They share all the same physical features oval face, small nose, almond-shaped eyes, arched eyebrows, prominent cheekbones . . . the same as our victim.'

Garcia agreed with a nod.

Hunter checked the personal fact sheets Garcia had stapled to the back of each picture. They'd all been reported missing over a week ago. Their home and work addresses were scattered all over town. At first glance there seemed to be no other similarities between the four women other than their looks.

Hunter glanced at his watch. 'We've gotta check them all out today.'

Garcia reached for his jacket. 'I'm ready.'

Hunter handed him two of the photographs. 'You take those and I'll take these two.'

Garcia nodded.

'Call me if you get lucky.'

Eighteen.

Whitney Myers drove through the tall iron gates of the sumptuous mansion in Beverly Hills just forty-five minutes after she had received the call. She parked her yellow Corvette C6 at the far end of the wide cobblestone courtyard, took off her dark glasses, and placed them on her head like an arc to hold her shiny, long black hair back. She grabbed her briefcase from the passenger's seat, checked her watch and smiled to herself. Considering LA's afternoon traffic and the fact that she had been in Long Beach when she got the call, forty-five minutes was lightning fast.

She was greeted at the steps that led up to the mansion's main entrance by Andy McKee, a short, overweight, brilliant attorney-at-law.

'Whitney,' he said, using a white handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 'Thank you for coming so quickly.'

'Not a problem,' she smiled as she shook his hand. 'Whose house is this? It's gorgeous.'

'You'll meet him inside.' He looked at her appraisingly and the sweat returned to his forehead.

Whitney Myers was thirty-six years old with dark eyes, a small nose, high cheekbones, full lips and a strong jaw. Her smile could be considered a weapon with the power of turning steady legs into gelatinous goo. Many strong and eloquent men had babbled incoherently and giggled like kids after she hit them with it. She looked like a model on a day off, even more beautiful because she wasn't trying.

Myers started her career as a police officer at the age of twenty-one. She worked harder than anyone in her bureau to move through the ranks and make detective as quickly as she could. Her intelligence, quick thinking and strong character also helped push her forward, and by the age of twenty-seven she finally received her detective's shield.

Her captain was quick to recognize that Myers had a gift when it came to persuasion. She was calm, articulate, attentive and extremely convincing when putting her point across. She was also good with people. After six months on an intensive and specialized course with the FBI, Myers became one of the chief negotiators for the West and Valley bureaus of the LAPD and the Missing Persons Unit.

But her career as a detective with Los Angeles' finest came to an abrupt end three years ago, after her efforts to negotiate a suicidal jumper off the roof of an eighteen-story-high skyscraper in Culver City went terribly wrong.

The aftermath of what happened that day put Myers' entire life under severe scrutiny. An investigation was launched into her conduct, and Internal Affairs came down on her like a heavy downpour. After several weeks, the IA investigation was inconclusive and no charges were brought against her, but her days with the LAPD were over. She'd been running her own missing persons investigation agency since then.

Myers followed McKee through the house, past a double staircase and down a hallway lined with pictures of famous movie stars. The hallway ended in the living room. The room was so imposing it took Myers a few seconds to notice a six-foot-two, broad-shouldered man standing at an arched window. In his right hand he held an almost empty glass of Scotch. Despite being in his mid-fifties, Myers could see he had a boyish charm about him.

'Whitney, let me introduce you to Leonid Kudrov,' McKee said.

Leonid put his glass down and shook Myers' hand. His grip was tense and the expression on his face was the same she'd seen in every face that had ever hired her desperation.

Nineteen.

Myers declined the offer of a drink and listened attentively to Kudrov's account of events, taking notes every other sentence.

'Have you called the police?' she asked while Leonid refilled his glass.

'Yes, they took my details but they barely listened to what I was saying. Gave me some bullshit about elapsed time, independent adult, or something like that, and kept putting me on hold. That's when I called Andy and he called you.'

Myers nodded. 'Because your daughter is thirty years old and you couldn't substantiate your reason for believing she's gone missing, it's normal practice to wait at least twenty-four hours before she can be officially considered a missing person.' Her voice was naturally confident, the kind that inspired trust.

'Twenty-four hours? She could be dead in twenty-four hours. That's bullshit.'

'Sometimes it's even more, depending on the evidence given.'

'I tried telling him that,' McKee added, wiping his forehead again.

'She's an adult, Mr. Kudrov,' Myers explained. 'An adult who has simply failed to turn up for a lunch appointment.'

Kudrov glared at Myers and then at McKee. 'Has she heard a fucking word I said?'

'Yes,' Myers replied, crossing her legs and flipping through her notes. 'She was thirty minutes late for your lunch. You called her several times. She never answered and never returned any of your messages. You panicked and went to her apartment. Once there you found a towel on the kitchen floor, but nothing else seemed out of place except for a bottle of white wine that should've been in the fridge. Her car keys were on a tray upstairs. You found her priceless violin in her practice room, but you said that it should've been in the safe. From what you could tell there was no sign of any sort of struggle or a break-in, and the place didn't seem to have been burgled. The building's concierge said that no one had visited her that night.' She calmly closed her notebook.

'Isn't that enough?'

'Let me explain how the police would think, how they are trained to think. There are way more Missing Persons cases than there are detectives working them. The number one rule is to prioritize, only allocate resources when there's no doubt the person in question has really gone missing. If she were a minor, an amber alert would've been issued all across the country. But as an independent adult who's only been unreachable for less than twenty-four hours, protocol dictates the police go through a checklist first.'

'A checklist? You're shitting me.'

A quick headshake. 'I shit you not.'

'Such as?'

Myers leaned forward. 'Is this an adult who: one may be in need of assistance? Two may be the victim of a crime or foul play? Three may be in need of medical attention? Four has no pattern of running away or disappearing? Five may be the victim of parental abduction? And six is mentally or physically impaired?' Myers placed her sunglasses on the coffee table next to her. 'From that list, only having no pattern of running away or disappearing checked out. The police's initial thoughts would be because Miss Kudrov is a sane, independent, financially sufficient and unattached adult woman, she could've simply decided she needed a break from everything. There's no one she really needs to give account of her actions to. She doesn't have a nine-to-five job, and she isn't married. You said she just got back from a long tour with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.'

Kudrov nodded.

'It must be very stressful. She could've jumped on a plane and gone to the Bahamas. She could've met someone in a bar last night and decided to spend a few undisturbed days with that person somewhere else.'

Leonid ran a hand though his cropped hair. 'Well, she didn't. I know Katia. If she had to cancel an appointment with me or anyone else, she would've called. It's just the way she is. She doesn't let people down, least of all me. We have a great relationship. If she had decided that she needed a break, she would've at least let me know where she was going.'

'How about her mother? Am I right in assuming you and she aren't together any more?'

'Her mother passed away several years ago.'

Myers kept her eyes on Leonid. 'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Katia didn't just decide to take a trip somewhere. I'm telling you, something is wrong.'

He started pacing the room. Emotions were starting to fly high.

'Mr. Kudrov, please-'

'Stop calling me Mr. Kudrov,' he cut her short. 'I'm not your teacher. Call me Leo.'

'OK, Leo. I'm not doubting you. I'm just explaining why the police acted the way they did. If Katia hasn't showed up in twenty-four hours, they'll be all over this case like ugly on a moose. They'll use every resource available to find her. But you better be prepared, because with your celebrity status, the circus will come next.'

Leonid squinted at McKee before moving his stare back to Myers. 'Circus?'

'When I said that the LAPD will use every resource available, I meant that. Including you and your status. They'll want you to make your own appeal to the public, to personalize the case. Maybe even hold a conference here at your house. They'll broadcast Katia's photo on TV and in the newspapers, and they'll prefer a family picture instead of a lone shot it's more . . . touching. The picture will be copied and plastered all over LA, maybe even the whole of California. Search parties will form. They'll ask for clothes for the dog search teams. They'll want hairs and other samples for DNA tests. The media will camp outside your gates.' Myers paused for breath. 'As I said, it will turn into a circus, but the LAPD Missing Persons Unit is very good at what they do.' She hesitated for effect. 'Leo, given your status and social class, we have to consider the possibility that your daughter was kidnapped for ransom. No one has attempted to contact you?'

Leonid shook his head. 'I've been in the house all day and have left specific instructions at my office to divert any unidentified caller to my home line. No calls.'

Myers nodded.

'Something is wrong. I can feel it.' Leonid pinned Myers down with a desperate stare. 'I don't want this splattered all over the news unless it's really necessary. Andy told me you are the best at what you do. Better than the LAPD Missing Persons. Can you find her?' He made it sound less of a question and more like a plea.

Myers gave McKee a look that said, I'm flattered.

He returned a shy smile.

'I will do my best.' Myers nodded, her voice confident.

'So do it.'

'Do you have a recent picture of your daughter?'

Kudrov was already prepared and handed Myers a colored eight-by-twelve-inch photograph of Katia.

Myers' eyes grazed the picture. 'I'll also need the keys to her apartment, the names and phone numbers of everyone you can think of who she could've contacted. And I need it all by yesterday.'

Twenty.

Hunter called both contacts on the two Missing Persons personal fact sheets he had with him. Mr. Giles Carlsen, a hair salon manager from Brentwood, had contacted the police ten days ago to report Cathy Greene, his roommate, as missing. On the phone, Carlsen told Hunter that Miss Greene had finally turned up the morning before. She'd been away with a new male friend she'd met in her dance class.

The second contact, Mr. Roy Mitchell, had contacted the police twelve days ago. His 29-year-old daughter, Laura, had simply disappeared. Mr. Mitchell asked Hunter to meet him at his home in Fremont Place in an hour.