Chapter Fifty-Three

In North Long Beach, Hunter's final domestic violence support-group meeting went just like every other meeting that he'd attended in the past two weeks – no oddly shaped fingers, no telltale reflexes as he delivered his made-up story and no one approaching him at the end of the meeting for a friendly chat. As he finally stubbed out his cigarette and got back into his car, he rested his head on the steering wheel and breathed out.

‘This is just crazy,' he told himself with a shake of the head.

Hunter was used to frustration. It was part of the job. Most murder investigations moved forward slowly, a small piece at a time, while some would drag behind at a snail's pace. Sometimes, the whole investigation would just grind to a halt due to the lack of evidence or clues… and that, Hunter knew, was exactly what was happening to this case.

With over one hundred different support groups scattered around LA that catered to help people who could easily fall into the category of abusive parents, he and Garcia could be doing this every night for a whole year and never identify a single suspect, but Hunter didn't know what else to do. They had no crime scene to investigate, no new forensics report to study in the hope of new clues… and no other avenue to pursue other than the one they'd already been going down for the past two weeks.

He and Garcia needed to regroup and rethink.

Hunter reached into his jacket pocket for his cellphone and began typing one last ‘sketchy drug-dealers' text message.

Yet again, no crooked fingers or shady reactions tonight. Need to re-evaluate our approach.

But before he pressed the ‘send' button, Hunter paused.

There was no message from Garcia.

He checked the time – 9:58 p.m.

Garcia's support-group meeting was supposed to have ended an hour ago. There should've been some sort of message by now. They always texted each other within five to ten minutes of their meetings ending.

Hunter dialed his voicemail service – no new messages either.

Something wasn't right.

Hunter didn't believe in premonition, sixth sense, divination, omens… whatever name people called it these days. But he had always trusted his gut. It had guided him down the right path and saved his life more times than he could remember, and right then, his gut was screaming at him that something had gone wrong.

He quickly dialed his partner's number. The call went straight to voicemail. The message he left was simple and to the point: Carlos, where the hell are you? Call me back.

Hunter disconnected and dialed Dispatch, asking them to track Garcia's cellphone location.

While he waited, he deleted the original message that he had typed and typed a brand new one, identical to the voicemail he'd just left. Five seconds after pressing ‘send', his phone rang in his hand.

‘Detective Hunter?'the young male voice at the other end of the line asked, as Hunter took the call. ‘My name is Milton, I'm with the LAPD COMPSTAT. We've just tracked Detective Garcia's cellphone location, like you've requested. His GPS and tracking chip are pinging normally, but he's not answering his calls. We've also tried to contact him via PD radio, since he's got a unit in his car, but we got no response either.'

‘So where is it?' Hunter asked. ‘His cellphone. Where did you track it to?'

‘To a high school car park in Watts.'

‘Thomas Riley High School?' Hunter asked, remembering the name of the school where Garcia had said that his support-group meeting was taking place that evening.

‘That's exactly the one,'Milton replied.

‘And you're sure that his cellphone is showing at the car park, not inside a school building.'

‘I'm sure,'Milton confirmed before explaining. ‘Without any high-structure interference, regular GPS tracking systems are accurate to within a radius of about sixteen feet, but LAPD detectives' cellphones are equipped with a tracking chip, which is accurate to within three feet. His cellphone is definitely in the parking lot, not in a school building.'

Hunter knew that meant Garcia's cellphone wasn't inside the phone basket that is passed around before the meetings start.

‘Are you still tracking the phone? I mean, right now?'

‘Yes, we are.'

‘Is it moving, or stationary?'

‘Stationary. It's been stationary since we acquired its location, a couple of minutes ago.'There was a half-hesitant pause. ‘What it looks like, Detective, if you'll allow me an opinion, is that Detective Garcia simply left his cellphone inside his car. Maybe he's just watching a high school basketball game, or something.'

‘No, that's not it,' Hunter replied. ‘He didn't forget his phone inside his car.' He switched on his engine. ‘OK. I need you to do me two favors, Milton. First, I need you to send me the exact location of his cellphone.'

‘Give me a second… done.'

Hunter heard a ping coming from his cellphone.

‘Second, I need you to call Dispatch and ask them to send a black-and-white to that location, right now – possible officer in distress.'

‘On it.'

‘Thank you, and keep on tracking his cellphone until I get there. I'm on my way now.'

‘Not a problem,'Milton replied. ‘I'll keep you posted if there's any status change.'

Hunter disconnected and put his car in gear.

If his gut feeling was screaming at him before, it was now playing a full-blown metal concert through a wall of sound – something had definitely gone wrong.