The Death Sculptor by Chris Carter Read Free Book Online Page A

you.’ His gaze moved from Hunter to Captain Blake. ‘Or by another detective from your division, Barbara. The process is simple. You catch them. We prepare the case. We take them to court. A judge presides, and a jury of twelve jurors convicts. Do you see where I’m going with this?’
    Captain Blake said nothing.
    Hunter nodded. ‘If Derek Nicholson’s murder was payback, then he’s only one link in a long chain.’
    ‘That’s correct.’ Beads of sweat were starting to form on the DA’s shiny forehead. ‘If what we have here is retaliation for Derek being the prosecutor in an old case, then you better catch this crazy fucker soon. Because if you don’t . . . we can expect more bodies.’

 
Twelve
    While the sun baked the day in a cloudless blue sky, the AC blasted cold air into the cockpit of the metallic silver Honda Civic that had just turned into Interstate 105, heading west. The trip shouldn’t have taken them more than twenty-five minutes, but Hunter and Garcia had been sitting in stop-and-start traffic for thirty-five minutes, and they were still at least another twenty away from their destination.
    Amy Dawson, Derek Nicholson’s weekdays nurse, lived in a single-story, three-bedroom house with her husband, two teenage daughters, and a noisy little dog called Screamer. The house was tucked away in a quiet street behind a row of shops in Lennox, southwest Los Angeles.
    Amy had been hired as Nicholson’s nurse just a few days after he was diagnosed with his illness.
    As Garcia finally turned into Amy’s road, the dashboard thermometer showed the outside temperature to be at 88ºF. He parked his car across the road from her place and both detectives stepped out into a humid and stuffy day, the sun stinging their faces.
    The house looked old. Rain and sunlight had caused the paint to fade and crack around the windowsills and the front door. The iron-mesh fence that surrounded the property was rusty and bent out of shape in places. The small front yard could certainly have used a little attention.
    Hunter knocked three times and was immediately greeted by a barrage of barks coming from deep within the house. Not the strong, ferocious kind of barks that would scare away a burglar, but the squeaky, annoying kind that could give anyone a headache in minutes. And Hunter already had one.
    ‘Shut up, Screamer,’ a female voice called from inside. The dog reluctantly stopped barking. The door was opened by a black woman with a round face, cat-like eyes and cornrows on her head. She was around five foot five, and her plump figure overstretched the thin fabric of her summer dress. Amy was fifty-two, but her kind face bore the signs of someone who’d lived longer and seen more than her share of suffering.
    ‘Mrs. Dawson?’ Hunter asked.
    ‘Yes?’ Her eyes squinted behind thin reading glasses. ‘Oh, you must be the policeman who called earlier?’ Her voice was hoarse but delicate.
    ‘I’m Detective Hunter and this is Detective Garcia.’
    She checked their credentials, smiled politely, and pulled the door fully open. ‘Please come in.’
    As they did, Screamer started barking again from under a table. ‘I’m not gonna tell you again, Screamer. Shut up and go inside.’ Amy pointed to a door on the far end of the living room and the tiny dog dashed through it and disappeared down a small corridor. A freshly baked cake smell came from the kitchen and perfumed the entire house. ‘Please make yourselves at home.’ She gestured towards the small and dark living room. Hunter and Garcia had a seat in the mint green tufted sofa, while Amy took the armchair directly in front of them.
    ‘Would you care for some iced tea?’ she offered. ‘It’s mighty warm out there.’
    ‘That would be great,’ Hunter replied. ‘Thank you very much.’
    Amy walked into the kitchen and moments later returned carrying a tray with an aluminum jug and three glasses.
    ‘I can’t believe anyone would want to harm Mr.