The Crucifix Killer

‘If she is she would’ve come to me, I know that. She wouldn’t just run away.’

‘What do you want me to do, boss?’

D-King had a sip of his coffee, thinking about his options. ‘First check the hospitals,’ he finally said. ‘We’ve gotta find out if something’s happened to her.’

‘Do you think someone might’ve hurt her?’

‘If someone did… that motherfucker is dead.’

Jerome wondered who’d be stupid enough to hurt any of D-King’s girls.

‘If the hospitals come up blank we’ll need to check with the police.’

‘Shall I call Culhane?’

Detective Mark Culhane worked for the Narcotics division of the LAPD. He was also in D-King’s dirty-cop pay list.

‘He ain’t the sharpest of minds, but I guess we’ll have to. Warn him not to go snooping around like a lost dog though. I wa

‘I’ve got you, boss.’

‘Check the hospitals first, if you come up empty – call him.’

Jerome nodded, leaving his boss to finish his breakfast.

D-King had a bite of his egg-white omelet, but his appetite had gone. After over ten years as a dealer he’d developed a nose for trouble and something didn’t smell right. He wasn’t only well known in Los Angeles, he was also well feared. Once someone had made the mistake of slapping one of his girls across the face. That someone was found three days later inside a suitcase – his body separated into six parts, head, torso, arms and legs.

Nine

Carlos Garcia was a young detective who’d worked his way up through the police ranks almost as quickly as Hunter. The son of a Brazilian federal agent and an American history teacher, he and his mother moved to Los Angeles when Garcia was only ten years old, after his parents’ marriage collapsed. Even though he’d lived in America most of his life, Garcia could speak Portuguese like a true Brazilian. His father was a very attractive man with smooth dark hair, brown eyes and olive skin. His mother was a natural blond with light-blue eyes and European-looking fair skin. Garcia had inherited his father’s olive-tone skin and darkish brown hair, which he let grow slightly longer than his mother would’ve liked it. His eyes weren’t as light blue as his mother’s, but they had definitely come from her side of the family. Despite being thirty-one years old, Garcia still had a boyish look. He had a slim frame, thanks to years of track and field, but his build was deceptive and he was stronger than anyone would’ve guessed.

Je

He’d dated the same girl since high school and marriage came almost immediately after their graduation. A

Garcia spent two years as a LAPD detective in north Los Angeles before being given a choice: a position with the Narcotics department or one with the Homicide division. He decided to take the Homicide job.

On the morning of his first day with the RHD Garcia had woken up a lot earlier than usual. He’d tried to be as quiet as possible, but that didn’t keep him from waking A

‘How do I look?’ he asked after his second cup of coffee.

‘It’s the third time you’ve asked me the same question,’ A

Garcia nodded and bit his bottom lip. ‘A little bit.’

‘There’s no need. You’ll be great.’

A

At exactly eight-thirty Garcia was standing in front of Captain Bolter’s office in the RHD building. He found it fu

‘Come in.’

Garcia opened the door and stepped inside.

Captain William Bolter was now in his mid-sixties but he looked at least ten years younger. Tall, strong as an ox and sporting a full head of silvery hair together with a thick mustache, the man was a menacing figure. If the stories were true, he’d taken over twelve bullets in his time, and he was still standing.

‘Who the hell are you, Internal Affairs?’ His voice was firm but not aggressive.

‘No sir…’ Garcia stepped closer, handing over his forms. ‘Carlos Garcia, sir, I’m your new detective.’

Captain Bolter was sitting in his imposing high-backed swivel chair behind his rosewood desk. He flipped through the forms looking impressed at times before placing them on his desk. He didn’t need any paperwork to tell him Garcia was a good detective. No one was assigned to the RHD if they hadn’t shown a high level of competence and expertise, and according to Garcia’s track record, he had plenty.

‘Impressive… and you are exactly on time. Good start!’ the captain said after swiftly consulting his watch.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The captain walked up to the coffee machine in the far corner of his office and poured himself a cup, Garcia didn’t get offered one. ‘OK, first things first. You gotta lose that cheap suit. This is the Homicide division, not the fashion police. The guys out there are go

Garcia looked down at his suit. He liked that suit – it was his best suit – his only suit.

‘How long have you been a detective now?’

‘Two years, sir.’

‘Well, that’s remarkable. It usually takes a detective at least five to six years on the job before he’s even considered for the RHD. You either kiss a lot of ass or you are the real thing.’ With no reply from Garcia the captain continued. ‘Well, you might’ve been a good detective out there working for the LAPD, but this is Homicide.’ Sipping his coffee, he walked back to his desk. ‘Holiday camp is over, so

‘I understand, Captain.’

‘Do you?’ He pi

Garcia had half expected the dangerous job speech; every captain has one. Without turning away from the captain’s stare, he replied in a steady voice and with no vacillation. ‘I’m ready, sir.’

The captain looked back at Garcia, searching for a hint of fear, self-doubt maybe, but years of experience in character judging told him this kid wasn’t scared, at least not yet.