“It’s the Internet service provider’s way of recognizing your computer — like your house number.”
Harrow frowned. “So — what you’re saying is, the same computer contacted all of these women?”
“Yep.”
“Do we know who that computer belongs to?”
“Various e-mail accounts all come back to a Louis St. James.”
Anna said, “Sounds like two towns scrambled together.”
Harrow asked Jenny, “What do we know about him?”
“His website says he’s a movie producer with an office in Westwood.”
He grinned. “Jenny, you’re the best.”
She smiled in a thanks-but-I-knew-that manner.
He said to her, “Step outside for a moment, would you?”
“Sure.”
Jenny did, and Harrow faced Anna, both still seated.
“There are several ways we can play this,” he said. “One, we could call the FBI with this new information. Two, we could call somebody you trust at the LAPD, your partner Polk maybe, who would run with it, bring us in, and not call the feds.”
“Tell me about the third way.”
“The third way is, we’ve been working hard for hours now, and it’s about time to take a break. Maybe go for a nice ride on a cool evening.”
“A ride sounds good.”
On the way out of his office, Harrow said to Anna, “Odds of four women having only one common e-mailer, and have it not be the killer, seem slim.”
Jenny, standing there, said, “Not just slim. Crazy impossible.”
The computer goddess fell in with Harrow and Anna as they walked briskly down a corridor lined with big framed portraits of stars that included both himself and Jenny.
“Remember,” Anna said, in a devil’s advocate way, “all the victims were connected to the movie business, and it could be coincidental — Louis St. James is a producer, after all.”
“Is he?” Harrow said.
Jenny said, “There may be a way to nail this down — we can try matching the IP address from Louis St. James to Carmen’s private e-mail account.”
“That’s right,” Anna said. “Don Juan e-mailed her two videos.”
Harrow asked Jenny, “Where is Carmen?”
“Out with her boyfriend.”
Nice to hear Carmen was getting back in the swing, finally. “Well, try her on her cell and ask her permission. If you don’t get her, go ahead and do it, anyway.”
“Roger that. Should I call the feds and let them know what we’ve found?”
“We don’t know if we have anything to tell them. Wait for my go-ahead.”
“Always.”
“You have a home address for Louis St. James?”
“Working on it.”
“ASAP, Jen.”
“ASAP.”
She went off toward her office.
In the elevator, Anna asked, “If Jenny matches Louis St. James’s computer address to Carmen’s computer, we have our killer, don’t we?”
“The Don Juan half, anyway.”
“Well, wouldn’t that be a nice start.”
They had barely begun the journey to Westwood in his Equinox when Jenny Blake called.
“What?”
“Louis St. James’s computer sent the Don Juan e-mails to Carmen, all right.”
“Home address yet?”
“Working on it.”
“But we have an office address.”
“We do. In Westwood.”
“Okay, round up Laurene and Billy, fill them in, and send them over there. Toot sweet.”
“You got it. And I’ll get you a home address or you can dock my pay.”
“Deal.”
They clicked off.
Harrow pulled over into the parking lot of a strip mall.
Anna frowned at him. “What?”
“It’s after seven. St. James might be at the office, or he might be at home. Which is our better shot, you think?”
“He’s probably headed home.”
“Right. So we wait here while Billy and Laurene hit his office.” Harrow indicated a fast-food joint nearby, a Subway. “Want anything?
“J.C., you sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
He got them coffee.
Before long Jenny called to report in.
“Nothing yet,” she said. “Laurene and Billy say the office is closed, which is to be expected at this hour, but they didn’t see anyone around, either.”
“Okay. I know you have more.”
“Louis St. James isn’t registered with the DMV. I got a picture of him from his website and loaded it into the DMV’s facial recognition program, but nothing’s come back yet.”
“Louis St. James doesn’t really exist, does he?”
“I don’t think so, boss — his website’s bio is all stuff that’s either impossible to trace or just links to other websites.”
“What about IMDb?”
“Internet Movie Database thinks he’s real, and that’s a very reputable website, but it’s also humongous, and someone with, say, my kind of skills? Could hack in and add bogus entries without raising suspicion.”
“So what makes you suspicious?”
“All of it. For example, the films listed in his credits all have websites of their own.”
Harrow frowned. “Well, that means they’re real, right?”
“Not necessarily. They’re bare-bones sites, descriptions of film plots, cast lists of unknowns, a few generic pics.”
“Isn’t that true for a lot of little films?”
“It is, but most films, even little indie ones, you can buy somewhere. They’ve been in some film festival. St. James’ productions, you can’t buy ‘em at Amazon or Barnes and Noble or any other website.”
“Google?”
“Google search brings up websites but nothing else. There’s no buzz about these films. No blogs, no reviews, no chats, no nothing. If these epics exist, no one has ever seen them yet. I mean no one.”
Harrow thought for a moment. “But there’s enough online to convince a hungry, aspiring young actress that he’s real.”
“On the nose, boss.”
“Any idea who this guy really is?”
“Facial recognition software’s drawing a blank... wait. Here we go. Louis St. James is listed in the county recorder’s office. He has a bungalow in Chatsworth, near the reservoir.”
She gave him the address.
“Okay,” he said. “Anna and I are on our way there. Tell Laurene and Billy what you’ve found and keep at it.”
He clicked off, filled Anna in.
She got on her cell to call her captain and have him order a SWAT team to the St. James bungalow in Chatsworth.
In the bathroom at Kyuui, Carmen heard her cell phone chirp in her purse. She took it out, saw it was Jenny, and almost answered.
But tonight was her night, a special night, and work could wait. It wasn’t like she was one of the superstar forensics investigators — she was just “talent.” She shut the phone off, tucked it in her purse, checked herself in the mirror, then headed back to the table.
Vince had another cup of sake poured, but she was giddy already. Soon their dinner came — she had a nigiri assortment, Vince a spider roll — and they sampled each other’s food.
They decided not to take in a movie, though what they’d do instead remained up in the air.
As they exited the restaurant, Carmen felt a little wobbly.
“You okay?” he asked. “Too much sake?”
Actually, she’d held it to one cup.
“Too much work, too little sleep.”
“Do we need to call it a night? I was kind of hoping you might come over to my place. You’ve never seen it, after all.”
The valet was bringing Vince’s car around.
She twitched a smile his way. “How can I pass it up?”