Chapter Twelve
Amari felt something twist inside her as she watched this morning’s corpse return to life. Not quite vibrant life, because the blonde seemed druggy to Amari. Still, the woman appeared to be enjoying the sex she shared with her barely glimpsed lover.
She made a mental note to make a priority of checking the victim’s tox screen. She already suspected that Don Juan had dosed his victim with flunitrazepam, better known by the trade name Rohypnol, more commonly called roofies.
When the video ended, Harrow closed the lid of the laptop with a somber finality.
Polk sat with a wide-eyed, bloodless expression, still trying to process what he’d just seen.
They were in Harrow’s office at UBC. Harrow was behind his desk, and network president Dennis Byrnes and attorney, Lucian Richards, Jr., bookended Amari and Polk, in visitor’s chairs.
Amari said to Harrow, “When exactly did you receive this, Mr. Harrow?”
“One of our writer-producers, Carmen Garcia, showed it to me early this afternoon She interrupted a meeting I was having with Dennis.”
Amari nodded. “But you didn’t call the police until when?”
“I’m sure you know when the call came in.”
Byrnes said, “We wanted to get an educated opinion on what this thing is, before calling you.”
“Well, it’s somebody cutting a woman’s throat, Mr. Byrnes, and then stabbing her repeatedly.”
“Lieutenant Amari, we get a lot of prank and crank tips at Crime Seen. We needed to try to ascertain if this was genuine or staged, before possibly wasting your time.”
“Just what scientific standards did you use to deduce whether or not this is footage of a real murder?”
Harrow said, “You probably know we have a top forensics team, culled from law enforcement all around the country. We got their read on it. Subjective but informed.”
The lawyer, Richards, said, “Mr. Byrnes also called me in for an opinion. I’m no forensics expert, but if this is genuinely someone committing murder to try to blackmail his way onto one of the network’s shows, getting a legal read on the situation was prudent.”
Amari’s half smile joined an arched eyebrow. “Obstructing justice is prudent in your view, Counselor?”
“Obstruction of justice was hardly our intention. We called you, and you’re sitting here now, and we’re cooperating. Why are we splitting hairs over a few minutes?”
“Your intention here is pretty clear, Counselor. Mr. Byrnes was trying to figure a way not to get burned by this thing … and you made him call us.”
“Actually,” Byrnes said, raising a forefinger in a point of clarification manner, “I didn’t make the call….”
She frowned at the exec.
Harrow leaned nearer her. “I did.”
“Why you?” Amari asked.
“Because I’m at the top of the Crime Seen food chain.”
“Not over the network president, you aren’t. What made any of you decide to call at all? You could’ve buried this thing. Deleted it, and if somehow you got called on it, dismissed your actions by saying you thought it was a hoax.”
He nodded toward the laptop. “I think a young woman is dead, and somewhere a family is wondering why they haven’t heard from their little girl.”
Amari said nothing, just cast a glance toward Polk, who was watching the exchange intently, but staying out of it.
Harrow caught the look.
“You already knew,” he said.
Byrnes said, “Already knew what?”
Both Amari and Harrow ignored that.
“I already knew,” she admitted with a nod.
The lawyer answered in his sonorous rumble: “That the woman was dead.”
Harrow said, “You found her. Where?”
Amari’s smile was gentle despite the tension. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”
Harrow smiled back. “Sometimes I forget I’m the media now. I was a cop for a long, long time.”
“I could tell you off the record.”
Polk said, “Lieutenant, I don’t think—”
She raised a hand to silence her partner.
“Off the record,” Harrow said quietly. “Have you identified her?”
Amari gave him the broad outline—the body at the Hollywood sign, the roses, the note, the booby-trapped control box.
“I appreciate this,” Harrow said.
“Don’t be too grateful. That’s no more than’ll be on the LAPD press release. You’re just getting it a few hours early.” She nodded toward the laptop. “Obviously we need that video.”
He shrugged. “My computer expert, Jenny Blake, will arrange to give your techs access to everything you’ll need. In the meantime, we can give you a DVD.”
“Appreciate that. And we’ll want to talk to Ms. Garcia. But there’s one more thing. Something you won’t like, Mr. Harrow.”
“Try me.”
“You and your people—your so-called Killer TV forensics superstars? You need to stay away from this investigation.”
Byrnes sat exclamation-mark straight. “Lieutenant, Crime Seen is, in its way, a news show. We reserve our constitutional right to cover a news story … and this is most definitely a news story.”
Amari glared at the exec. “First of all, Crime Seen is not a news show. It’s reality TV. Don’t piss in my ear, Mr. Byrnes, because I know rain when I hear it.”
Byrnes shifted in his chair.
“Second, if you interfere with this investigation in any way, you will soon learn how serious a charge obstruction of justice can be. And all of you connected to that video, and the decision on how and when to bring the LAPD into it, will quickly find out just how much fun it is cooling your heels as material witnesses in lockup.”
The attorney spoke gentle thunder: “Lieutenant Amari, UBC will do whatever you ask, whatever you say.”
“Good,” Amari said. “Because I say butt out of this investigation. And I’m not asking.”
“Done,” Richards said.
“And you are not to air any portion of that video. Not one second.“
“Agreed.”
Her eyes swung to Byrnes and gave him a laser look. “Mr. Richards, I want to hear him say it.”
The attorney nodded to his client.
“We won’t air it,” Byrnes said unenthusiastically.
She turned to Harrow. “You’re quiet.”
“I could be saying something about First Amendment rights right now.”
“You could be.”
“But I won’t.”
“Really. I wouldn’t have run that vile thing even if Dennis had fired me over it.”
She wanted to believe him. But this was a man who had once shot a perp dead on live TV. How much farther over the line could you go than that?
She sneaked a look at Byrnes. The executive appeared glumly exasperated. Evidently, he believed Harrow.
“Why not run it?” she asked, as if casually exploring the hypothetical. “Just pixilate the areas of nudity and gore, and you’ve got a real ratings winner.”
“Ratings aren’t my job,” Harrow said. “We try to do the right thing at Crime Seen, and if the public doesn’t like what’s on offer, I’ll find something else to do.”
Polk chuckled. “Are you kiddin’, man?”
Byrnes muttered, “I wish he were.”
“Okay, Mr. Harrow,” Amari said. “I’m gonna choose to believe you. But if you’re playing me, you’ll pay for it.”
He grinned at her. The first full-on grin she’d got from him. “I can tell you this much, Lieutenant—I believe you.”
With a smile, Amari rose, nodded to the exec and the lawyer; then Polk trailed her to the door.
Falling in just behind, Harrow said, “To whatever extent you might want or need it, Lieutenant, know that you’ll have the complete cooperation of Crime Seen.”
“Thanks,” Amari said, if somewhat warily.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said.
They were in the hallway, Byrnes and Richards behind a closed door now, where Amari began, “Look, Mr. Harrow …”
“Make it ‘J.C.,’ would you?”
“J.C. I’m sorry if I seemed to come down hard-ass on you in there.”
“Hey, Lieutenant, I’ve—”
“Make it ‘Anna.’ “
“Anna, I spent plenty of time on your side of the fence—sheriff, DCI investigator … that’s Iowa’s criminal investigation department. I know what it’s like to have pressure from above to close cases, and I sure as hell know it’s easier to do that if the media isn’t breathing down your neck.”
“That was a nice speech, J.C.”
“Thanks. And I didn’t even use a teleprompter.”
That made her laugh. Suddenly Polk was tagging behind as the trio headed back toward the elevator.
As they were standing there waiting for a down arrow, Amari suddenly realized she had the host of Crime Seen as an audience. How surreal.
In a what-the-hell moment, she said, “Say, J.C.—there is another case we’re working on I wouldn’t mind some help with.”
She caught Polk cocking his head, frowning slightly.
“What can I do?” Harrow asked.
The elevators doors opened and they got aboard, Polk hitting the button for the lobby, keeping an eye on the other two, like they were kids up to no good.
Amari said to Harrow, “We’re on another murder, too, a brutal thing—took place about ten days ago.”
“You do work sex crimes, right? Not homicide?”
“Right. But this is like Don Juan—it falls on our side of the line.”
“However we can help,” Harrow was saying, “we will.”
“Okay,” she said. “A week ago Friday we caught a homicide at the Star Struck Hotel. Very nasty. Male victim, emasculated and stabbed to death.”
Harrow just listened.
“That’s in West Hollywood,” Polk put in.
Amari said, “Room registered to Jeff Bailey. Body we found does not match the security video of the guy who checked in as Bailey the day before.”
The doors opened and they walked in lockstep into the lobby, footsteps making little gunshot echoes.
“And you have a dead body with no ID,” Harrow said, “and I’m guessing no clues as to the identity of the killer, or the man who checked into the hotel in the first place.”
“Sums it up,” she said.
“Well,” Harrow said with an easygoing shrug, “we could broadcast pictures of your vic and the man who checked into the room.”
“That might really help,” Amari said. “A forensic artist has done a drawing of the victim—it’d be better that than a photo of the corpse.”
“Agreed.”
“Just so you know, we already ran it on the local news and got bupkes.”
“I did see that,” Harrow said. “You didn’t let the papers know about the emasculation aspect.”
“Right.” She’d actually slipped, revealing that; but she found herself feeling cop-to-cop with Harrow.”And that’s off the record.”
“No problem.”
A petite ponytailed blonde in a T-shirt and jeans materialized.
Harrow said, “Lieutenant Anna Amari, this is Jenny Blake, our resident computer guru.”
Amari smiled and extended her hand. “I recognize Ms. Blake from your show, of course.”
Handshakes and introductions over, Jenny and Polk went off to work out the LAPD getting the Don Juan video and access to UBC computers.
Meanwhile, Amari and Harrow stood near the glass doors onto the street.
“I’ll get you a copy of the artist’s drawing and the pertinent hotel security video,” Amari told him. “How soon can you get them on the air?”
“Friday night,” Harrow said. “I’ll showcase it right at the top. We have a hell of a lot bigger audience than local news.”
She smiled. “Well, thank you.”
“Not a problem. Always ready to look after a fellow officer’s interests.”
“Only you’re not a fellow officer anymore.”
“Really, I am. Better you get to know me, more you’ll see that.”
“This assumes I get to know you better.”
“Call it wishful thinking.”
“You’re not trying to soften me up, are you?”
“Moi?”
That coming from this craggy ex-cop made her laugh; it echoed a little in the lobby. Then she turned solemn.
“J.C., you’re not going to stay out of this Don Juan thing.”
“Was that a question?”
“Not really. I was paying attention when that sleazeball boss of yours and his pet lawyer were making all those promises … and you? J.C., you weren’t saying shit.”
Harrow didn’t say shit in response, either.
“I know you’re pissed this Don Juan prick has singled you and your show out. I get that. This guy is trying to blackmail you. He’s taking the good things you’ve done on Crime Seen and twisting them into something ugly, something dark. But surely you can’t imagine that, in some weird way, you’re to blame for what he’s done.”
“I don’t,” Harrow said simply.
“… Really? Not playing with me, J.C.?”
“No.
I don’t blame myself for the actions of this evil son of a bitch. Anna, you and I are both cop enough to know this one would be killing whether or not Crime Seen even existed.”
She only nodded.
Then she said, “Okay, here’s the deal. You get in my way, I mow you down—got it?”
“Sounds fair.”
“You air anything you find without bringing it to me first, I’ll run your ass in for obstruction.”
“Are you flirting with me, J.C.?”
“Maybe. But there’s one thing we can agree on.”
“What’s that?”
“Don Juan has to go down—soon. He has all the earmarks of somebody who will kill and kill and kill again.”
“No argument.”
He extended his hand.
They shook. His hand felt warm, not at all moist, strong, reassuring.
“Go get him,” Harrow said.