by Matt Clemens
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.”
“Do you have one?”
“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?”
“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?”
It was Jenny.
“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.”
“Me, too.”
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.
Chapter Fifteen
Amari kept a change of clothes in her trunk. You could never know when a night out might be interrupted by a work call, so with the Dodgers on their way to an easy win—and J.C. Harrow maybe on the verge of scoring himself—she found herself leaving the stadium behind and pulling into the nearest gas station.
When she returned from the ladies’ room to the convertible—now in cotton shirt, jeans, sneakers, and LAPD Windbreaker—she opened the rider’s side door, unlocked the glove compartment, removed her holstered Glock, and clipped it to her belt.
She had only asked Harrow how he came up with the name Wendi Erskine to cover her bases (well, and her ass). She never expected a straight answer, and—while the way he’d come upon the info was infuriating—his frankness had floored her. Such honesty was a pleasant change from men she’d dated in recent years.
On the other hand, she’d never considered telling him that Captain Womack had called to say a second Billy Shears victim was waiting on a bed of blood in a motel in Reseda.
She took the 101, the Hollywood sign zipping by on her right, just before she turned onto the Ventura Freeway to get to the 405 for the drive to Reseda. Driving fast to get to a crime scene was a favorite perk. She flew through the cool evening, no siren but the red light on the dash flashing a path … some traffic even moved to the right, out of her way, like they were supposed to.
When she got off the 405, she turned west on Sepulveda and sped past the Van Nuys Airport. Before long the motel popped up on the left, its parking lot arrayed with emergency vehicles flashing blue and red.
She parked two spaces down from Polk, who was just getting out of the Crown Vic. They fell in step together as they crossed the lot.
Her young partner looked typically sharp in a black pinstripe suit with an Oxford shirt and red-and-gray striped tie. A gray fedora topped the outfit and gave him a Capone mob aspect. Should she break it to him that Big Al and the boys were stone-cold racists? Naw.
“What got ruined for you tonight, Lieutenant?”
“Dodgers–Cardinals game. Up six to one. You?”
“Dinner with a very fine lady.”
“Same fine lady as last week?”
”One I met this week.”
Amari glanced from the dapper-dressed Polk to their nondescript unmarked.
“How fine can she be,” she asked with good-natured skepticism, “if you took her to dinner in our wheels?”
“Told her my Benz is in the shop.”
“What Benz?”
He flashed a grin. “Exactly.”
This was a mom-and-pop inn that had once been part of the Ramada chain, and she and Polk might have been walking into 1993.
The lobby furniture was decent, if threadbare and/or scuffed. A couple of couches shared space with a coffee table (strewn with complimentary newspapers and things-to-do pamphlets) and a corner credenza with a coffee machine. The carpeting was worn but clean. Near the front desk, a wall-mounted tube TV showed CNN, volume off.
In this exhibit at the Hall of Ancient Accommodations, Amari was pleased to note two video cameras aimed at the front door and the desk.
A uniformed officer, name tag: LEE, met them as they came in.
“Brutal one,” the
Asian American cop said, after the introductions.
“So I hear,” Amari said.
“Looks like our boy Billy Shears again. Killer collected the victim’s package.”
Shuddering, Polk said, “You know, I wanted to be a fireman.”
“You’re young,” Amari said. “Never too late for a career change.”
They followed Lee through the lobby and up the stairs to the second floor and down a hallway, stopping at the top of its T, where cameras pointed in either direction.
Good, she thought.
“Room’s on the right,” Lee said, “all the way to the end.”
Amari asked, “Who found the body?”
“One of the owners—Mrs. Olmstad.”
Polk said, “Don’t tell us Mrs. Olmstad changes all the sheets herself.”
“It’s not that small an operation, but it’s on the cheesy side, all right.” Lee shrugged. “Clock radio went off full blast tonight, at seven, and just kept blaring. Guest next door phoned the desk to complain. Mrs. Olmstad came down to check and, when she got no answer, used her key to get in and, surprise—dead frickin’ guest.”
They took the right and started down the corridor, Lee out front.
“Anybody see or hear anything,” Amari asked, “besides that alarm going off?”
Lee shook his head. “A couple of my guys did a prelim canvas of the few guests who are in. Of course, some have checked out recently and, as you’ll see, this guy checked out a while ago. Plus, this joint’s got more vacancies than a Clippers game.”
“The current guests have anything for us?”
“Nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything, nobody wants to get involved.”
“Who’s the room registered to?”
“Al Roberts. Of Chicago, Illinois. No street address.”
“Is Roberts our victim?”
They were at the room now; a uniformed officer stepped aside so they could enter.
“No ID,” Lee said, letting the two detectives go in first. “Everything’s gone—clothes, wallet. No car in the parking lot that’s unaccounted for, either by a guest or the staff. You’re the lucky winners of a John Doe.”
This room, fairly good-sized, was more generic than the one at the Star Struck—no San Francisco whorehouse touches. The major similarity was the nude male corpse sprawled dead-center on the bed, a sheet draped from the waist down, a large black-bloody hole, mid-torso.