by Matt Clemens
Channel surfing landed him on the ESPN Sunday baseball game. He turned on the sound and the announcer said, “That’s out number three. No runs, hits, or errors. At the end of eight, the score remains Cardinals 2, Dodgers 1.”
As a commercial took over and he muted it again, Harrow shook his head.
Would be the damn Dodgers. …
On the table next to him, his landline rang and he hoped it would be Anna and feared it would be Anna….
No—caller ID announced Carmen.
“What’s up?”
“I … I need to see you,” she said.
Her voice sounded … off, somehow.
“Can’t wait till work tomorrow?”
“No. Now.”
“What?”
“Tell you when I see you.”
“Where are you?”
“Your driveway.”
He half rose and glanced out the window: Carmen’s Prius out there, all right.
“Come,” he said.
His people rarely dropped in on him, so this must be important. And he kept himself accessible to them. No gated community or tall walls with wrought-iron gates for Harrow. His Nichols Canyon address was just a nice ranch-style on a street of million-dollar homes worth a hundred grand back in the Heartland.
By the time he got to the door, she was standing there, hair tucked under a baseball cap, Survivor T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, laptop under her arm—the professional woman of the workplace suddenly a college student.
But what looked most different was her face, her bloodless complexion, eyes wide and … terrified?
He ushered her in, closed the door behind her. “What’s the matter, Carmen? You all right?”
“Not really,” she said with a weak smile.
She didn’t wait for any further invitation, just strode into the living room, Harrow trailing her. She settled on the edge of the couch and rested the laptop on the coffee table.
Her dark eyes were unblinking. “It’s him again.”
He sat next to her. “… Don Juan?”
She said nothing. Didn’t even nod.
When the computer was up, she found the right screen and clicked PLAY.
A lovely nude blonde woman (another blonde?) on the same bed as before, a bouquet of roses in their familiar vase on the nearby nightstand. Love-making already under way, the passionate but obviously drugged or drunk woman apparently enjoying the attention of her barely glimpsed male partner.
She was loud, screaming her delight, and as she reached her climax, she distorted the laptop’s speakers, as if Don Juan were killing her already….
As her passion subsided, and she lay back in a postcoital haze, the lover (back to the camera) moved off-screen, and they heard mechanical-sounding voiceover.
“I warned you this would happen,” Don Juan said. “You did not meet my request, Mr. Harrow, and now the responsibility is yours. Are you enjoying the show? Why not call this segment ‘Don Juan’s Lover of the Week’? But next week there will be a double feature, if you do not commit to airing what you’re viewing now.”
The blonde woman sat up, blinking drowsily, smiling dreamily; then her expression changed, as if a switch had been thrown, sending her into abject terror. Her eyes managed to grow huge, her mouth agape, as her attention was drawn toward the camera.
This time her scream was not of passion.
This was fright, in its purest form, a shrill cry for help that no one could hear but the off-camera killer and the helpless viewing audience of two at the laptop.
Then something blurred across the screen, in a metallic winking flash, something vaguely an arm, a hand, a blade, and the scream was cut off, literally, as blood burst from the woman’s throat, a scarlet flood, her hands going to the slice-wound, desperately trying to hold her literal life’s blood in as it sprayed through her fingers and finally dripped down to coat the camera lens.
Through the ghastly red filter, her body could be seen slumping onto the bed, in a terrible backward bow, her performance over.
The metallic voiceover returned: “Quite the little scream queen, don’t you think? Share her—and my art—with the world, Mr. Harrow, or I will be forced to share my love with another costar … and another … and another … and another….”
Don Juan faded out, and the awful red screen went thankfully black.
Carmen had shrunk into a corner of the sofa, face averted from the computer.
“Sorry you had to see that,” he said. “Cyber tip line? Does the LAPD know?”
She shook her head. “This came to my e-mail. Just came in….”
“Damnit, that’s the problem with these network e-mail accounts—”
“No, J.C.—this came to my e-mail. My account. One only my closest friends and family have. You’re not even on the list.”
He stared at her. “How in hell?”
She sighed heavily. “Guess you’d have to ask Jenny.”
“Exactly what I intend to do,” he said, getting out his cell.
In seconds he was telling Jenny Blake to meet him at the office, and to round up Chris Anderson, too.
Jenny didn’t hesitate—that it was mid Sunday evening was irrelevant.
She asked, “You want me to make the other calls, too? Everybody on the team?”
“Please. I have Carmen with me, and I need to call Lieutenant Amari.”
“Another body?”
“Another Don Juan video.”
“Which will mean another body. Okay.”
She clicked off.
My God, that kid is a cool customer, he thought.
Amari picked up after the first ring. Her voice sounded sleepy. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever call….”
“Not social,” he said. “Don Juan sent us another video.”
“Where are you now?”
“Home, but heading to the office. This didn’t come in on our tip line—Carmen’s personal e-mail account.”
“Shit! I’ll collect Polk and meet you at UBC. Listen, there’s something else….”
“There’s plenty to talk about,” he said selfconsciously. “Uh, Carmen’s here with me.”
“I’m not talking about personal matters, you big dope. Strictly business. … We’ve confirmed the Reseda motel kill as the second Billy Shears, and identified the victim. Fill you in later.”
“See you at UBC,” he said and clicked off. He turned to Carmen. “Okay if I ride with you?”
“Sure.”
“You okay driving?”
“No problem.”
As they went out the door and he set the alarm, he noticed Carmen giving him an odd look.
“What?” he asked.
“Had you talked to Anna since she got back from Ohio?”
“Not a subject for discussion,” he said.
And that ended it.
He looked at Carmen at the wheel in the darkened car as they hit the freeway, the lights on the ramp illuminating her for a moment. A beautiful young woman, in every way. If he and Ellen had ever had a daughter….
She glanced at him. “I know why I’m driving.”
“Why?”
“That was Scotch in that glass, wasn’t it?”
“We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”
His cell vibrated.
Caller ID: DENNIS BYRNES.
How the hell had Byrnes heard about the Don Juan video already?
“Harrow.”
“Goddamn son of a bitch!”
“Whoa, Dennis, I was going to call you next—”
“Call me? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Uh … after you.”
“Do you have any idea what that son of a bitch Don Juan has pulled this time?”
“Actually, I—”
“Goddamn maniac made a deposit! Left one right at our goddamn front door!”
“One what?”
“A girl! A woman! A victim! What the shit do you think I’m talking about?”
Harro
w knew at once.
The body of the woman in the latest video had been dumped somewhere at UBC.
“We just got another video, Dennis. Came in on Carmen’s home e-mail. She and I and the team are all heading for UBC right now. Your ‘deposit’ must be the woman in this new video.”
“Bad enough he kills and dumps her on our doorstep! Bastard goes and calls every TV station, every other network in LA, to announce what he’s done. Of course, he doesn’t give us the courtesy of a call!”
“Settle down, Dennis. This isn’t about UBC—”
“What the hell is it about, then?”
“It’s about young women being slaughtered. Get a damn grip, man. This is a police matter.”
“You’re telling me. There are cops all over the place. But not that Amari woman.”
“She’s on her way. I called her about the video.”
“You called her, but not me? First her, then your boss?”
“Settle the hell down. Yes, I call the police about murder evidence before I call a network executive. Learn to live with it. Listen—do you mean literal front doorstep?”
“Yes! Right in front—the lobby doorway. Know how we found out about a story every other network and news service already had? One of our security guards noticed CNN shooting out there! Thank Christ the cops have cordoned off the place and pushed these vultures back.”
There was an easy irony there that Harrow was in no mood to pursue.
“Dennis, make sure the police know to allow me and my team in.”
“Okay. All right. Will do.”
Harrow clicked off.
Carmen had gathered most of it from Harrow’s half of the conversation, but he filled her in on the rest.
“Is this what they mean,” she asked, “when they say this shit is getting deep?”
“It’s exactly what they mean,” he said.
They were almost there now, and blocks ahead, Harrow could see the flashing lights of the police and, on either side of the UBC building, the raised antennas of a dozen news vans.
“Damn it,” Harrow said, sitting forward, red and blue blushing his face.
“What?”
“A young woman’s murder is going into homes all over America—very possibly the home of family members.”
“It sucks.”
“Yeah. And we’re vultures, too.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. They won’t let this vehicle in—park around the corner, Carmen. We’ll walk.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Los Angeles averaged about five hundred murders a year, roughly twice the number of the state of Mississippi, which was where Chris Anderson would have long since returned, if it weren’t for Jenny Blake.
Shaw and Associates back home was the largest private-sector crime lab in the United States, so Chris already knew people might kill each other at the slightest provocation. He just hadn’t had to live in the thick of it until now.
A lab rat by nature, he found TV stardom nerveracking, especially having his budding relationship with Jenny splashed across the media. His mother had practically had a conniption fit when a supermarket tabloid ran a story alleging her baby boy was cheating on Jenny with Jessica Simpson.
First of all, was it cheating if you hadn’t ever slept with the girl you were going with? Second of all, he’d never met Jessica Simpson.
Still, the Crime Seen money was good (but the cost of living in LA high) and his house in Glendale was nice (if a nasty commute to the office).
Having Jenny make him her first call tonight was a help. He’d thrown on a Killer TV polo, khakis, and running shoes, and soon was heading for UBC in his brand-new Dodge Ram. Made good time only to find the whole blessed block closed off, with a mess of news crews massed on the periphery.
Driving a pickup didn’t make parking downtown easy, even on a Sunday night, and with the UBC ramp inside the cordons, he parked three blocks away on a side street. Hoofing it really wasn’t bad, though, not on this breezy spring evening, under a clear sky and a scattering of stars.
Then rounding a corner, he ran smack into a local news crew—an affiliate of a rival network.
Like an escaping prisoner, he got hit with flood lights, and the red eye of a camera tracked him like a sniper scope.
A striking, well-dressed, dark-haired woman blocked his path. She spoke to another camera that had positioned itself just behind him.
“This is Renee Oxley reporting live for KDLA News outside UBC Broadcast Center. Chris Anderson from Crime Seen is here with us. Mr. Anderson, what can you tell about the dead woman found outside the UBC lobby?”
What dead woman outside the UBC lobby?
“Excuse me,” he said, a hand over his face in murder-suspect fashion, and brushed past the reporter.
He damn near jogged, the news team trying to keep up. If he stopped, he’d be the limping zebra when a pride of lions was chasing the herd. First sign of weakness and they would eat him alive.
“Can’t you give us some comment, Mr. Anderson?”
Having no idea what the woman was talking about, he stayed tight-lipped and kept going, but even with their cameras and microphones, they were keeping up.
He patted his pocket for his cell phone—the reporter wasn’t asking about the new Don Juan tape. This was something else, and Harrow or Jenny would surely have called. … Finally he realized he’d forgotten to grab the thing on his way out the door.
“Mr. Anderson, please!”
Then he was up against a barrier of yellow crime-scene tape behind which a bored-looking cop stood watch, and the attractive reporter was on him, thrusting the mic at him, demanding just one comment….
“I’m sorry. I have no information you don’t already have.”
In fact, he had less. …
The reporter turned to her cameraman and said, “It seems even UBC’s own highly touted Crime Seen forensics team remains clueless about this bizarre tragedy.”
Ignoring this distortion, Chris stood at the barrier and sent his eyes on a desperate search for a friendly face. He spotted Lt. Amari, in a gray blouse and dark slacks with her badge necklaced, and called out.
She came right over. When only the yellow-and-black barrier separated them, she smiled and said, “Mr. Anderson, good evening.”
“Am I glad to see you, ma’am.”
The “ma’am” seemed to amuse her. “All you had to do, son, was tell the officer who you were, show some ID, and step on over. We have clearance for your entire Killer TV team.”
“No kidding?”
He glanced behind him, hoping that darn TV crew was catching this, but they had moved on.
Chris ducked under the tape, asking Amari, “What’s this about a body dumped at UBC?”
“Don Juan. He left a victim here. Follow me.”
He did, saying, “We just got a tape from that creep. That’s why Mr. Harrow called us in, but nobody said anything about this.”
“Don’t you have cell phones in Georgia?”
“It’s Mississippi, and of course we have cell phones.”
“Well, where’s yours? I know your boss tried to call you with the update.”
“Uh, it’s back at the house.”
“You see, you need to take these newfangled gadgets along with you, Mr. Anderson.”
“You having a little fun with me, Lieutenant?”
“Just a little. It’s a night that could stand some levity.”
She led him over to the front of the building, where walls of canvas, held in place by steel poles, gave the police and coroner’s people a place to work in privacy.
“Can’t let you in there,” Amari said. “I know you’re an expert, but you’re not LAPD, and that’s an active crime scene.”
“Understood.”
But he could see inside, the work lights giving plenty of illumination to the corpse as various techs moved around in there.
He’d been to his share of crime scenes and seen hundreds of photos of others
, but the tableau on the sidewalk outside his workplace made his gut tighten.
Not that it was gory—barely any blood. The shapely naked blonde on the sidewalk looked impossibly white against concrete gray and the red of the bouquet of roses arranged beside her. Her face was turned away, but Chris just knew she’d be pretty, like the last victim.
Don Juan had made sure he could no longer be ignored, leaving this one on their doorstep and alerting the media.
Amari asked, “You okay, son?”
“Yeah. It’s just so sad. Feel kind of … embarrassed for her.”
“She’s past that. Past any suffering, too, remember. Nothing left to do for her but solve this.”
“I hear that, Lieutenant.”
He followed Amari inside, the quiet of the lobby a welcome sanctuary from the bustling surrealistic scene behind the tinted glass.
At the elevator, Amari said, “Rest of your team is already here, except for you and Jenny.”
Chris stopped cold. Jenny might need help getting through that zoo out there.
“Can I use your cell, Lieutenant?”
“Sure….”
Soon Jenny was in his ear, saying, “Lieutenant Amari, I just got here….”
“It’s not the lieutenant,” he said. “I’m using her cell. Left mine at home.” “Ah.”
This single word meant she had tried to call him perhaps a dozen times.
“Just got here myself,” he said.
“You made good time,” she said, but not on the phone. Right behind him.
He whirled and there she was, laptop in a bag slung over her shoulder.
In short order, they were upstairs, joining the rest of the team at the conference room table.
Jenny was in her usual jeans and T-shirt, everybody else casually attired, dragged away from their Sunday evening. Only the normally extra-casual Choi seemed overdressed, in a black sport coat and dress shirt, new-looking jeans, and Italian loafers (no socks).
Choi noticed Chris staring, and said with a glower, “Don Juan ruined a perfectly good date. This time it’s personal.”
Chris took the chair next to Jenny while Amari took a waiting seat next to Harrow at the head of the table. Choi, Pall, and Chase were opposite Jenny and Chris. Carmen had taken a seat at the far end, off by herself.
When Harrow explained that the Don Juan video had come in over Carmen’s e-mail, Chris understood why the young woman looked so shell-shocked and pale.