Chapter Fourteen
Harrow’s take on Lieutenant Anna Amari was this: she was efficient and smart and tough; and she smelled really good for a cop.
Tuesday, she’d brought over the sketch of the John Doe victim and a copy of the security video from the Star Struck. Apparently not content to leave them with Harrow’s assistant, Amari had handed them over personally.
They had discussed the drawing briefly, then took a pass through the grainy footage. She was a knowledgeable cop and provided some insights.
“Real planning went into this,” she said, as they sat together at Harrow’s desk before his computer screen. “Killer did his homework. Knew where the cameras were, not just in the hotel, but along his route.”
“You’ve checked the traffic cams, then.”
“Yes, and every convenience store and other business that might have a view on the streets approaching the Star Struck.”
“Were you able to tie him to a car?”
“No.” Abruptly she rose. “Okay, gotta get back at it.”
And she was gone.
On Wednesday, she called. She grilled him pretty hard about his team and their capabilities. Not nosy, exactly, but clearly up to something. He had no idea what.
Now here it was Thursday, and Vicki had just buzzed him to say that Lieutenant Amari was on line two. If she was stalking him, he didn’t think he minded.
“Harrow,” he said.
“What’s your opinion of the Dodgers?”
He smiled. “I never thought about it, Lieutenant Amari. Are they suspects in the Star Struck investigation?”
“What kind of straight male has never thought about the Dodgers?”
“We can talk later about how you made that deduction. I’m an Iowa boy. We don’t have any big-time professional teams. I always kind of dug the Yankees, though.”
“That’s just sad.”
“What is? That Iowa doesn’t have a big-time baseball franchise, or that I’ve watched a Yankee game in my time?”
“Yankees. Just so obvious. You need retraining. I’ll pick you up at your office.”
“Okay. When?”
“Six-thirty. Dodgers and Cards tonight. That’s the Cardinals?”
“Yeah, I know that much.”
“Prepare to be reborn, J.C.”
“Sounds messy.”
“Just be out front at six-thirty.”
“Okay—dinner after?”
“Dinner during. Dodger Dogs.”
“What’s a Dodger Dog?”
“Jesus, J.C., you really were born in a barn.”
She hung up.
He smiled. He hadn’t been bossed around by a woman like that since … his smiled faded a little. Since Ellen.
Funny thing, he caught himself checking his watch as the afternoon rolled by. Did he actually have a date? Beyond his life at Crime Seen, and the colleagues who’d become his surrogate family, he had no real friends in California. He knew people out here, of course, had neighbors he spoke to, retail businesses where he was friendly with staff, but that wasn’t much of a social life….
Back in Iowa, he had work friends extending from the sheriff’s department to the DCI, and through his wife and son, other friendships had been forged. None had lasted beyond the Christmas-card level, after he moved out here. He’d heard that when couples divorced, friendships with other couples fell away; but he’d never have guessed the same was true when a spouse died.
So he found himself oddly excited by the prospect of an evening out with Anna Amari. But was it because she smelled good (for a cop)? Or because he was hoping to get an update on Don Juan? Probably both, as he really did have that madman on his brain.
Since the snuff video on Monday, they had received no further communication from Don Juan; and the Killer TV team’s discreet efforts to track him down were getting nowhere.
Other than the video, the police had a lock on all the evidence, so there just weren’t that many directions to go. If the LAPD had made a victim ID, they hadn’t shared it with the media. And Crime Seen, like the rest of the press, had acquiesced to the chief’s request to keep the details of the murder to themselves. For now.
On her Tuesday visit, Anna had responded to Harrow’s seemingly casual inquiry about Don Juan with a single piece of information: “The dead woman’s fingerprints aren’t on file anywhere.”
Which meant not in any applicable database—law enforcement, local licensing, federal government, you name it.
As the afternoon wound down, Harrow stopped by Jenny Blake’s office and found the small, tidy space empty.
Jenny had reduced the standard desk, filing cabinet, and trio of chairs to just desk and chair. If not for the open laptop on her desk, Harrow might have thought the office vacant.
The laptop, however, meant she was still at work—it was an appendage of hers, and you don’t leave an arm or leg behind.
So he was not surprised when the petite blonde appeared in the doorway, popping the top of a diet soda.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked.
“The Hollywood sign victim—still unidentified?”
Jenny, with her hacking skills, was always the first to know.
“Yep,” Jenny said. She passed Harrow, moved behind her desk, and sat. “Why?”
He stood opposite her, folded his arms. “How good is our facial recognition software? By ‘our,’ I mean yours.”
The laptop was to Jenny what the utility belt was to Batman—whatever she needed was in there.
She raised an eyebrow and her expression indicated she was a trifle insulted by the question.
He asked, “Can you hack DMV records and match a frame from that video to a driver’s license photo?”
“But that’s illegal,” she said, with a lyrical lilt.
“I didn’t ask if it was legal.”
“Take some time,” she said, with a shrug. “Have to try to isolate a frame where she’s not screaming … and preferably has her eyes open. But you know what the little train said.”
“I think I can?”
She nodded and smiled.
Wow, he thought, she’s come a long way. …
He glanced at his watch. “I have a, uh, an appointment this evening. But call me when you’ve got something.”
She was already at it.
He would wait for another time to suggest she add a visitor’s chair to her office ensemble.
In the corridor, his phone vibrated.
“It’s six-thirty-five,” she said. “You’re late. I’m in a yellow zone. Shake it.”
Anna clicked off.
He did, too, getting into the elevator. He liked this woman. She didn’t take any crap nor was she afraid to dish some out, and there was a nice spiky sense of humor underneath.
When he stepped into the late afternoon sun, Harrow found Anna in a silver Mazda Miata, top down—the car’s, not hers, unfortunately….
She bestowed him a faintly mocking smile as he approached. “I said shake it, big shot. Don’t make me give myself a ticket.”
He was chuckling as he climbed in.
Anna wore a home Dodgers jersey, the white shirt’s blue lettering a striking contrast with her dark hair, olive complexion, and red-glossed lips. Blue shorts showed off perfect tanned legs. Oh my.
Harrow had the sudden realization that he wasn’t going to a ball game with a fellow officer, but a beautiful woman. And a second realization, dawning slowly not suddenly, said: You haven’t had a date since … since you were a goddamn kid going out on dates. …
As she goosed the gas and the car leapt away from the curb, Harrow tried to think of something to say. He had the awful feeling that he would never again think of anything to say….
“I was a little early,” she admitted, “and almost came up to your office. But in this wardrobe, maybe your team would get the wrong idea.”
He glanced at her legs, then looked at the sky, where the sun was making its escape.
She threw a look at him, amused, stopped at a light. “Are you getting an idea?”
“I might be.”
“Well, there’s no crime in that. Ideas aren’t illegal.”
“Some should be.”
She smiled, studied his face even as she drove. “You look uncomfortable.”
“You don’t. You look real comfortable. Very comfortable. Look, I haven’t been on a date for a while. You’re gonna have to forgive my awkwardness.”
“I’m not going to forgive it. I’m going to exploit it. I’m going to give you a very hard time.”
He was already having a hard time.
She hung a left onto Sixth Street, headed for the 110 and the short-distance, time-consuming ride to Dodger Stadium.
Anna laughed, her dark hair streaming in the breeze that the Miata was kicking up. “I wish you could see your face.”
“That right?”
“You look like you can’t decide whether to shit or go blind.”
He broke out laughing. “I never heard a woman say that before.”
“Get used to it.” She smiled. “I was hoping you’d have a sense of humor.”
“Heaven help the cop who doesn’t.”
The car was going too fast as she swept up the ramp onto the 110, and Harrow felt like he was racing to try to catch up.
He asked, “What made you think I might not have a sense of humor?”
“Because you are sooooo serious on that show of yours.”
The wind was really flapping her hair now as she sped up to, and caught, the rush-hour traffic. But within seconds, as so often happened in Los Angeles, they were sitting at a dead stop.
“So you’re a fan,” he said. Teasing now.
“A Dodgers fan? Sure.”
“I mean a Crime Seen fan. You obviously watch the show.”
“I’ve seen it.”
Kidding on the square now, he said, “Just because I’m not cracking jokes on Crime Seen doesn’t mean I’m some kind of humorless—”
“You’re serious right now, aren’t you?”
He stuck his tongue out at her.
She laughed. “Why don’t you do that on your show? You’re always Mr. Stone Face.”
“Oh, right—coming up next, the story of a man who butchered his coworkers when his boss failed to give him a raise, and then somebody gets hit with a pie?”
“Might boost ratings.”
He smiled. Just a little. “Can I be serious now?”
“Can I stop you?”
“It’s the work at Crime Seen that’s no nonsense. If you do watch, you know that. But that doesn’t mean I have a stick up my butt in my personal life.”
“A stick up my butt?”
“A personal life?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There’s this woman in my life.”
“Really? Tell me about her.”
“Well, she’s very serious about her work, but she has a fun, silly side. She’s probably pushing forty, but her body didn’t get the memo. Looks maybe … twenty-five.”
“I hate this woman.”
“Then don’t look in the mirror.”
She didn’t. She looked at him. She leaned over and gave him a kiss. It was just threatening to last awhile when a horn honked behind them as traffic finally started to move.
“I am basically a serious type,” she admitted, looking at the road, not Harrow. “But you have to laugh. All cops know that, otherwise they go nuts or eat their piece.”
“No argument.”
“Like those numb-nut uniforms who came up with ‘Billy Shears’ as a nickname. I get it. You can’t be in a job that makes you look at death on a regular basis and not develop a sense of humor.”
“Working sex crimes must be tough.”
She nodded. “You run into just about every nasty kink in the human psyche that you ever heard of. And then you run into some more. It’s when kids are involved that I have to self-medicate.”
“How do you do that?”
“White zin, mostly.”
“And beer over a Dodger Dog.”
Traffic crept forward.
“I don’t do sick humor,” he said. He sounded almost ashamed of himself.
Her eyes narrowed. “You never went to an electrocution and came out saying, ‘That came as a shock to the bastard’?”
“Nope.”
“Never caught an asphyxiation vic and told your partner, ‘Takes my breath away’?”
He shook his head.
“Bullshit, J.C.”
He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Never? Never never?”
Sheepishly, he said, “I got called to a crime scene once—when I was with DCI? A dead accountant. He had screwed up a guy’s taxes and the client got so pissed, he stabbed the CPA with a letter opener. Twelve times.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah,” Harrow said. “I said to the detective, ‘Bet he never figured on this.’ “
“I knew you were as sick as the rest of us!”
“Actually, I wasn’t. I just said it and accidentally made a stupid joke. Hey, I’m not funny. But I have a sense of humor. A sense of humor doesn’t mean you’re funny, it means you understand funny.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“You’re boring.”
He laughed out loud at that, and so did she.
They were pulling into the stadium lot. Anna
paid the cashier, then found a place to park. As they meandered toward the stadium, the sun setting, the warm breeze from the south, Harrow said, “Another case, a pissed-off wife shot her cheating husband—a dentist?”
“You didn’t.”
“And I said he got—”
“Drilled?”
“No. I said this time he got a new cavity.”
“Okay, J.C.—now you’re just screwing with me.”
“Just screwing with you, Anna? Isn’t that what they call a straight line? The funny people, I mean?”
She gave him a friendly elbow, then slipped an arm through his.
Inside, good as her word, Anna sprang for dinner, Dodger Dogs and beers. They took their time eating, and as they watched the game, Anna occasionally made a comment about a player or a bad (or good) call, but didn’t overdo the play-by-play. Harrow was enjoying the anonymity of the crowd as they sat up high, behind the plate.
“You know,” he said, “I could have gotten UBC to get us better seats. Box seats, even.”
“There are no better seats. These are season tickets. The Amari family’s been in these babies since Dodger Stadium opened.”
He lobbed it out. “Ever come here with a husband?”
“Just my own. Don’t worry—it didn’t take. Amari’s my family name—I never did use his.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. He had a great sense of humor, by the way. But I lost mine when he ran around.”
She said that with her usual flippancy, but he caught the hurt.
“He was a fool,” he said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Not easy being married to a cop. … Oh, J.C., I’m sorry.”
Apparently she realized she’d accidentally invoked his late wife.
“You have mustard on your mouth,” he said.
He gave her a quick kiss and removed it.
She studied him, between innings. “Are we moving a little fast?”
“Maybe. Considering this is my first date in five years.”
“You’re sweet.” She squeezed his arm and then left her hand there.
The warmth of this woman’s flesh on his gave him a sudden rush of guilt.
He was, after all, a healthy male who had been married for over twenty years but had, after his wife’s death, made zero effort to find new female companionship. He had his doubts about the existence of God—he’d seen too much horror on the job not to—but he allowed himself a vague sense that someday he and Ellen would be reunited.
Anna’s husband had cheated on her.
Was he cheating on Ellen?
In the meantime, he was having trouble concentrating on the game and Anna’s hand seemed in no real hurry to leave his arm.
His cell phone vibrated.
A few fans glared at him as he answered, softly, “Harrow.”
“Don Juan’s date?”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“I know who she is.”
Next to him, Anna’s phone chirped. She turned away slightly and answered it. Everyone in their section hated them now.
“Wendi Erskine,” Jenny said.
“Good. Anything else?”
“Nope—facial recognition software just pulled that.”
“Keep digging.”
No good-byes—they both hung up.
Anna was saying into her cell, “Where is it?”
Harrow watched, making no pretense of not eavesdropping.
“All right,” she said. “Okay. Gotta change first, then I’ll be there.”
She clicked off and rose. “Sorry. Got something.”
Then he was following her up the aisle steps, the crack of bat meeting ball not even getting her to pause for a glance.
Harrow asked her back, “Another body?”
They were starting down the tunnel before she answered. “You know I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Sure I can. Look, it sucks, but I can’t give you a ride back to your office. Heading the other way.”
“The network will get me a cab.”
“But you aren’t working.”
“Sure I am. I’m on seduction duty to make an LAPD detective tell me everything she knows.”
She was smiling. “Maybe you are funny.”
He smiled back, sighed. “… I was having fun.”
They were walking down the ramp toward the ground level.
“One more thing,” he said, stopping her.
“What?”
“Your Hollywood sign vic—her name is Wendi Erskine.”
She frowned. “Where did you get that?”
“Did you have it already? Had you ID’ed her?”
“No! Where did you get it, J.C.?”
He shrugged. “Not important.”
An edge crept in as she said, “At least respect me enough to tell me how you got the information.”
He told her that Jenny had made the ID using facial recognition software.
“That’s fricking illegal!“
“You want to bust us, Anna, or take the info and use it? That assumes you’re telling me the truth and you didn’t already know the victim’s name.”
“I don’t lie to you, J.C., but you’ve been lying to me. You said you’d stay out of this investigation.”
“No. You told me to stay out of the investigation. I said I’d do my best to stay out of your way. Two different things.”
“Are you out of your mind? You’re not a cop anymore!”
“I never stopped being a cop. Anna, this son of a bitch is trying to use my show to make himself famous. You can bet your very sweet ass that I am going to do everything I can to stop him.”
“Like broadcast that dead girl’s name?”
“No. You have my word—I won’t share that woman’s identity with anyone outside my staff, not till you announce it. If it gets out, it wasn’t us, that I promise you. I’m not looking for a scoop or ratings—I want this evil prick stopped.”
Her lids were at half-mast, but her eyes were sharp. “So you’re going to keep digging.”
“Yes.”
She was frowning, though he did not sense she was angry. Suddenly she touched his arm again, generating that now-familiar warmth….
“Look, I’ve got to go … but we need to talk about this.”
“How about after my show tomorrow night?”
“Okay.” She turned, took several quick steps, then looked back at him. “I forgot something….”
She went to him.
Kissed him on the cheek.
Just on the cheek, but kissed him.
They exchanged small, meaningful smiles, and when she was gone, Harrow got out his cell. He didn’t call a taxi, just Billy Choi.
“It’ll take a while in this traffic.”
“Fine, Billy. I’ll be waiting.”
He had time to kill, but Harrow had no real interest in the ball game. He did have enough appetite for another Dodger Dog.