“On our way,” she said.
He clicked off. Turned to Choi. “Let’s wait in the hall. This is a messy enough crime scene. Let’s not contaminate it.”
Choi nodded.
In the hall, the two men milled restlessly. Frustration and anger had them by the collars, shaking them. Both knew that Don Juan and Billie Shears might well have been in an elevator going down when they were going up.
“Screwing with us,” Choi said. “Screwing with us.”
“I know. But they’re getting bold, which means they’re getting sloppy.”
“Oh yeah,” Choi said with a sneer. “We got ‘em right where we want ‘em...”
Chapter Thirty-four
The feds descended.
The Killer TV team and even the LAPD were relegated to don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you status, the big boys taking over. Anna and Polk got assigned to other cases; when Anna balked, her captain generously granted her a week’s vacation she hadn’t requested.
A media-fueled panic burned through the city. Gun sales were up, sales of pepper spray and guard dogs, too, and the mayor and city council were exploring a curfew — an idea Harrow pronounced doomed to failure.
Although Billie Shears might pick her victims somewhat randomly, Don Juan’s prey were chosen with care, and no telling how many victims were already in his queue. Even with a curfew — really, a laughable concept in LA — Don Juan still had access to any victims already scouted.
Of course, Harrow and his team still kept digging, FBI be damned. Chase was looking for connections with acting classes, producers, press agents, or any group Don Juan might troll. With all the evidence in federal hands, Pall and Anderson were left without lab work, and instead helped Chase scale her mountain of possibilities.
Choi, who had identified Billie’s shears as hedge clippers, now sought a specific item — model, brand name, anything. Back at the LAPD, Polk had ruled out Jason Wyler — alibis on several of the murders.
The reluctantly vacationing Anna was helping Harrow scrutinize Jenny-fabricated copies of the Deluxe Sunset security tapes, the originals having been seized by the FBI. They started with the attack on Rousch in the corridor, but the camera was far away and details were sketchy.
Only Carmen had no work to do on the investigation. She alone was taking care of business, i.e., supervising pre-taped Crime Seen segments for their next show. Unlike everybody else, her hours were merely horrible, not horrific, and she was even managing something of a social life.
When Vince had suggested sushi for dinner, she leapt at the chance. Post-Kansas, she mostly ate at home, and she loved Japanese food. The restaurant Vince selected was kind of a high-profile place, which had its risks.
Vince walked her through a gauntlet of paparazzi as they approached the entrance, camera flashes strobing them.
“Sorry,” he said, with a concerned frown, as they stepped inside. “I forget you’re a TV star. That stuff must be a pain.”
“I’ve avoided it lately,” she admitted. “But it’s about time I crawled out of my shell.”
“I don’t know how you can stand it. I’m happy to be a nobody and have some privacy in my life.”
Vince looked his usual hawkishly handsome self, sharp in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie with geometric pattern.
At their table, he said, “I don’t blame them for wanting your picture, though — you look especially lovely tonight.”
He didn’t look so bad himself — his short brown perfect hair, his pale blue eyes leaping out of the dark tan.
But he wasn’t lying — she looked good, and knew it. She’d worn a little black dress withheld for special occasions, and this was one — their three-month anniversary. The dress was almost mini-short and its neckline wasn’t designed for a shy girl. They had been together all this time, and kissed and petted, like kids... but nothing more.
Tonight would be the night. He would not escape. He was in her crosshairs, and he didn’t have a chance...
When their drinks arrived — gin and tonic for him, Diet Sprite for her — Vince asked, “Still hectic at the show?”
“Oh yes. And my workload is, well, it’s getting out of hand.”
“Why?”
“Everybody else is still working on those... those cases. You know.”
“You said the FBI swooped in and—”
“You think that’s going to stop J.C. Harrow?” She laughed, sipped her soft drink.
“So you’re working on other stories.”
“Right. I mean, right now we don’t even know whether we can even mention those two.”
“Don Juan? Billie Shears? Why not? Everybody’s talking about them.”
“Even you and me, right now. Well, there are legal battles going on. I’m operating on the assumption that we need to put together a full week’s worth of show without those two maniacs to lean on.”
He half smiled, swirled his drink. “Ignoring them won’t work. It’ll only drive them harder.”
“That’s what J.C. says. You know, I appreciate your interest in my career, but we can talk about other, more interesting, more pleasant, things.”
The corner of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “Oh, yeah, right. The insurance business. Everybody’s favorite cocktail-hour conversation... I’m ordering another drink. Another Sprite? Maybe something stronger?”
“Just another Sprite,” she said.
They had talked about going to the movies tonight, and went over the possibilities waiting for them at a nearby multiplex. Nothing sounded very good, but it was fun hearing why Vince dismissed this possibility or that one. He was very knowledgeable about movies, which wasn’t surprising, since his insurance agency catered to the industry.
She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, and when she returned, a little jug of sake was waiting.
“I shouldn’t,” she said.
“Oh, why not? You work hard. Relax a little.”
He’d already poured her a cup.
She sipped it — it was warm, a little vinegary, but smooth.
She touched his hand. “If you’re trying to get me drunk, to take advantage of me... it’s going to work.”
“Ha. You’re naughty tonight.”
“We’re both going to be naughty tonight, Vince. That I promise you.”
He sipped his own sake. “I’ll follow your lead,” he said. “Like this place?”
“Oh yes. Kyuui’s one of my favorites. But this doesn’t exactly make me a cheap date...”
“That’s okay. You’re worth it.”
In Harrow’s office, he and Anna sat at his desk watching the Deluxe Sunset security video on a thirty-two inch flat-screen monitor.
They had watched Rousch walk down the hall probably fifty times now. Stop at his door, put in the keycard, turn as a woman stepped up behind him. Seconds later, he starts bouncing like a marionette, then falls out of frame, into his room, while two figures, little more than silhouettes, follow him in and shut the door.
All they could tell for sure about the man and woman was that one wore a black dress and the other dark male attire, and that was it. Everything else was little more than a blur.
Jenny Blake popped in. “Think we found something, Boss.”
“What?”
“Don Juan’s female victims had no common e-mail addresses in their address books.”
“Well, that’s not good news.”
“No, but this is — the IP address of one computer popped up in all the women’s records.”
“Pretend I don’t know what an IP address is.”