by Matt Clemens
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?”
“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.
Chapter Thirteen
At six-foot-three, weighing in at around one-eighty, Danny Terrant sometimes felt that in his Santa Monica police uniform he resembled nothing so much as a sandy-topped, navy-blue number-two pencil.
This morning, he and his partner Bobby Nucci had caught a domestic disturbance call at an apartment on Euclid—their first of the day, but one of countless in their experience.
Short, plump, black-haired Bobby was Oliver Hardy to Danny’s Stan Laurel. The pair had buddied up at the academy and, not long ago—after stints for both with older, more seasoned partners—had found themselves back together.
When they got to the Gruner residence, the wife met them at the door, one hundred pounds of frazzled punching bag for the angry three hundred pounds of husband looming behind her. Patsy was a thirtyish bottle blonde and husband Lloyd was a helmet-haired behemoth in a XX-L Knicks T-shirt.
Nobody was screaming, which was good, but Danny could sense the Gruners were merely resting between rounds. As Danny took Patsy’s statement, Nucci led the husband to a neutral corner in the cracker-box apartment. This was not far enough away to prevent Lloyd from hearing his beloved refer to him disparagingly—i.e., “That fat-ass son of a bitch hits me all the goddamn time and I’m sick and goddamn tired of it.”
And the bell rang and the battle was on again.
Burly Lloyd, his lank brown hair running down over his shoulders, made like a bull and charged past Nucci, heading for the kitchen table where Danny and Patsy sat.
Nucci got knocked out of the way by the husband and could do nothing to halt the giant except grab a handful of hair and another of Knicks tee and hang on, getting dragged like Randolph Scott behind an Indian’s horse.
Rising from the table, right hand going for his hip holster, Danny just managed to get between husband and wife as Gruner barreled into him, cabbage-sized punches coming from every angle as the giant and Danny crashed into Patsy and sent furniture and bodies careening to the floor in a cracking crunch that the lanky cop hoped was wood and not bones.
Although Patsy managed to roll clear, Terrant hit the tile floor hard, Gruner landing on him, still punching, Nucci jumping on top of Gruner and trying to restrain him. Danny felt like he’d been working under a Buick and somebody kicked the jack out.
For a moment the skinny cop thought he might die, the air driven from his body by the weight of the pair wrestling on top of him, a big fat man and a small fat man. It probably looked way more comical than it felt….
Danny struggled to get out from under, grappling with the pepper spray at his belt, while Patsy was getting to her feet. Hoping she might supply some sort of help, Danny was dismayed when her contribution turned out to be leaping atop Nucci, pulling the policeman’s hair, and yelling shrilly to “leave my poor husband alone!”
This change of heart on Patsy’s part put three people on top of skinny Danny Terrant, and he could feel himself growing lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. I’ll be the only underweight person, he thought, ever to die from not shedding enough fat. …
But then the pepper spray found his hand and he was spritzing it everywhere he could. If his partner caught some, well, that was tuff-ski shit-ski….
As if by magic, the bodies atop him tumbled away in various directions. Nucci and the Gruners were yelling and flailing and rubbing their eyes as they rolled around on the tile.
After sucking down two deep breaths, blessed oxygen once again coursing through his lungs, a triumphant Terrant rose, his Glock drawn.
Amid the screaming, Lloyd blindly lumbered toward Danny, yelling, “You mother fuh—”
That was as far as the big man got before Danny sidestepped him and brought the pistol down on the back of a neck rolling with fat. Despite the padding, Lloyd sagged to his knees, paused in what appeared to be buggy-eyed prayer, then flopped to the floor, unconscious. With some difficulty, Danny managed to handcuff the man, wrists behind him.
Nearby her tubby hubby, Patsy writhed, feverishly rubbing her eyes and screaming incoherently.
“Stop rubbing,” Danny advised the woman. “You’re only making things worse.”
“Go screw yourself!” she shouted, still rubbing away.
Ah, he thought. To serve and protect. …
“You got it, Mrs. Gruner,” he said.
“You sprayed me,” Nucci moaned, as his partner helped him up. “I can’t believe you sprayed me.”
“I didn’t spray you. I just sprayed. I was getting my ass crushed.”
Nucci had nothing more to say, too busy trying to keep from rubbing his own peppered eyes. Danny knew what kind of agony Nucci was in—their training included getting similarly sprayed—and felt bad for his partner. But he would have done it again.
With the cuffs from Nucci’s belt, Danny returned to Patsy and restrained her, as well, while she shrieked about “suing you and your goddamn department.”
This and other obscene threats were hurled by the woman who had summoned them via 911 as Danny helped navigate the tap at a sink full of dirty dishes so his partner could flush his eyes.
They got the Gruners off to jail without further incident. The unhappy couple would face an impressive list of complaints, but other than a possible court appearance, Danny figured that was the end of it.
Not hardly.
Once the story got around the station, embellished vigorously by the red-eyed Nucci, Danny took a merciless ribbing from fellow officers the rest of the day. Danny pepper-sprayed his own partner, high-lar-ious! This, even though everybody agreed he’d done the right thing, even Nucci himself, when his eyes gradually cleared.
In fact, Bobby had said in the locker room, “You know, Danny boy, you probably saved both our asses. Those two mighta killed each other and made collateral damage out of us along the way.”
Bobby was a good guy, but Danny didn’t hang out with him off-duty much. Single, living in a lowrent apartment on Twenty-eighth Street, Danny Terrant didn’t often socialize with his brother officers. Most were family men, and the few single guys hung out at meat-market-type clubs, trying to look as cool as the drug dealers they busted.
Danny Terrant wanted none of it. Just wasn’t his style. Instead, he would go to Reseda, by himself, at least once every couple of weeks, to the Prairie Lights Bar. There, he could be somebody else, not an off-duty cop, just a nice single guy with an interest in something that was really fun, real fun … but something his coworkers would likely have made a laughingstock out of him over, had they known.
Line dancing.
Yes, Danny Terrant was into line dancing, into it all the way, and he didn’t care to expose himself and his wholesome hobby to the ridicule of his “cool” brother cops.
That evening, having grabbed a fast-food supper on the way home, Danny outfitted himself in black western shirt (snaps not buttons), black chinos, his favorite cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat. Finishing touch was the black belt with audaciously large silver belt buckle he’d won a couple of years ago in a mechanical bull riding contest.
In apparel like this, his lanky frame looked good. Looked real good. Checking out the effect in the mirror, he pronounced himself ready for fun, and hit the trail. Driving his new Mustang, he took off north from Santa Monica on the 405 headed for Reseda, listening to a Clint Black CD.
Before long, within the barn-wood walls of Prairie Lights, dancing to the blasting of Brooks & Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” Danny saw his day change from crapola into possibly the best night ever….
She was a tall drink of water with curly red hair that framed green eyes, high cheekbones, and lush, red-glossed lips. Though she was slender, she had curves complemented by her tight jeans and a spaghetti-strap green top that contrasted nicely with the creamy white of her shoulders and glimpse of bosom. All this was set off by hand-tooled leather green-and-brown cowboy boots that must have cost a small fortune.
She sidled up next to Danny and gave him an easy smile, which he was happy to return. They danced next to each other through another fast song, then another, and another. Finally, when a ballad began, they left the dance floor together, old friends.
At the bar, Danny introduced himself and asked if he could buy the lady a drink.
She nodded, but the blaring music, ballad or not, made it tough to be heard without shouting.
When bottles of beer arrived, she took hers, smiled, and leaning close said, “Gail Preston!”
“Nice to meet you, Gail!” he said, and they clinked bottles together in a tentative toast.
Funny thing was, she wasn’t his type. She was tall and slender and so was he, and he preferred short, shapely little things who frankly made him feel big.
But something about her, something magnetic, even charismatic, drew him to her. And it wasn’t like she was skinny—she had a nice full rack, and that bottom was sweet. Hell, Gail was a babe, a four-alarm fox.
Small talk at the bar was followed by what qualified as a quiet corner in Prairie Lights, where they ordered another round. Never a heavy drinker, Danny might have three or four beers over the course of an evening here. That might add up to a beer an hour, and he felt he danced ‘em off.
Still, trips to the john at the Prairie Lights were hardly a rarity for him. He was a little surprised, however, to find his sea legs wobbly on his third trip or so.
When he got back to the tiny table, he found another bottle waiting for him. He knew he had to slow down. But he hoisted the beer and said, “Thanks.”
She smiled and took a swig from her latest bottle.
“You know,” Danny said, “most women don’t come here alone. It’s not a rough bar or anything, but … people tend to show up in groups.”
Her smile was playful. “You’re not a group.”