But before he hit speed dial, the phone vibrated, Jenny beating him to the punch.
“Boss,” she said, and her voice had a new brittle energy, “are you at St. James’s?”
“Yes. Nobody home.”
“Goddamnit!”
Coming from Jenny, that outburst hit him like a board.
“I think Carmen is in trouble.”
Was she crying?
“Settle down, Jen. What?”
“I was fooling with Photoshop, changing hair and eye color on the Louis St. James website — there was something familiar about him, those prominent cheekbones. I’m pretty sure Louis St. James is Vince Clay.”
“Who is Vince Clay?”
“Carmen’s boyfriend. She’s out with him right now.”
“Shit.”
“And she’s not answering her cell.”
“Shit!”
“What do we do?”
“You keep digging — find out anything you can. Did you leave Carmen a voice mail?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“Just ‘Call Jenny. It’s urgent.’ I didn’t know if somebody might be listening.”
“Good. Now get me something.”
He clicked off, then hit Carmen’s number, got voice mail, left a message that there’d been a break in the Don Juan case and she was needed back ASAP.
His cell vibrated in his hand again — JENNY.
“I have Vince Clay’s address,” she said. No emotion now. All business.
She gave it to him. It was way across the city.
Anna emerged from the house to see what Harrow was up to.
He filled her in.
“I know that part of town,” she said. “Damn — take us over an hour to get there, if there’s any traffic at all. We’ll bring in the locals.”
“I want to be there.”
“So do I. Any ideas?”
He frowned. “Maybe one... Let’s take your car.”
“Where to?”
“Toward that address.”
Soon they were in the Crown Vic, leaving Polk behind. Anna put the rollers on but no siren. Harrow was on his cell.
“Dennis, I need the local affiliate’s traffic helicopter.”
The executive didn’t fool around — Harrow’s tone said not to. “All right. Want to tell me why?”
Harrow quickly filled him in.
“I’m on it,” Byrnes said. “But you’re coming back next season.”
That actually got a smile out of Harrow. “You drive a hard bargain.”
Harrow clicked off, and Anna said, “Helicopter, huh? Where you gonna have it land?”
“You tell me.”
She thought. “Fallbrook Mall. We passed it on the way.”
Harrow got Byrnes back, and gave him the address. The exec said the copter would be in the parking lot by the time they got there.
It was.
They left the unmarked car in the lot and ran into the wind of the chopper blades. Harrow and Amari climbed in, and the pilot, a seasoned vet with the confidence and smile of a retired astronaut, said, “J.C. Harrow! Welcome aboard — where to?”
“Whittwood Mall in Whittier,” Anna said.
As the chopper rose and swung southeast, Harrow called Jenny.
“Laurene and Billy are on their way back from Westwood,” she said. “They can meet you.”
“Good,” he said, yelling over the noise, and told her where.
The pilot was pushing the helicopter, the city a glittery blur below. No question they were moving fast.
But fast enough?
Chapter Thirty-six
When the helicopter descended into the parking lot of the Whittwood Mall, Harrow could see Choi’s BMW M6 convertible, top down, tearing through the lot. The copter touched pavement as Choi and Chase screeched to a stop. Harrow and Anna climbed from the chopper, its churning blades whipping up wind and a deafening din.
The pilot yelled, “Happy hunting,” as the craft lifted while Harrow and Anna ran to the convertible, and piled over the sides in the back.
The copter was still close enough that Anna had to scream the address, but Choi merely nodded.
As they approached the mall stoplight, the copter noise already distant, Choi said, “You’re gonna have to guide me.”
Anna said, “No problem. Run the light and take a left.”
Choi did, then said, “I’m not a cop anymore. No siren or rollers.”
“I got a badge,” Anna said. “Break all the laws you want.”
“Came to the right guy.”
The convertible tore down the street toward Vince Clay’s neighborhood, weaving in and around startled traffic.
In the back, Harrow thought, Hang on, Carmen, hang on, even as he hung on himself, Choi swerving around a car whose occupants didn’t have time to swear at them before the BMW rocketed round the next corner.
Vince Clay led Carmen Garcia into a dimly lit room with a big brass bed, a mirror on the wall to its left, and a nightstand with a vase of a dozen roses.
Her first thought was: How romantic.
Her second thought was: Black Pearl roses!
Even in the vague light of a shaded table lamp, Carmen recognized the distinctive flowers, and all wooziness drained away as the pieces fell in place and she only hoped the sirens screaming in her brain didn’t show in her expression.
“What’s the matter?” Vince asked.
What’s the matter? I’m standing here in my panties with a serial killer at my side!
“Nothing,” she said, and in that moment she had a choice — going into full-on panic or survival mode.
She kissed him. She put all the acting skills she’d developed over the last year as an on-air personality and forced passion and love into it, though she knew she was kissing a monster, knew she had been a fool but also that she couldn’t afford to be a fool any longer...
He walked her gently to the brass bed, gestured for her to recline, and she did.
She’d seen this bed. In the Don Juan videos. How many women had died on this goddamn bed?
He stripped to his silk briefs, letting the clothes drop, then positioned himself on the bed next to her and stroked her breasts, kissed her neck, her cheeks, her mouth.
She moaned as if with pleasure and kissed him back like her life depended on it. Which of course it did, as until she could see an opportunity to make a break for it, or somehow put this bastard out of commission, she had to play along, kissing a killer. The adrenalin rush had passed and a certain grogginess tried to crawl back, her muscles aching, as if a bad case of the flu had just set in.
“You are so lovely,” he said.
“We waited a long time,” she said. “I’m glad we waited. This has to be just right.”
“I know. I know, my darling...”
He seemed about to mount her when she touched his chest gently and said, “I hate to spoil the moment, but... I need to use the restroom before we go on.”
“Oh. Well, sure. It’s right there...”
He pointed to a door that might have been a closet but wasn’t.
She slipped off the bed, trotted over without seeming too hurried about it, and shut herself in.
The bathroom was small and white and hospital clean. The pebble-glass window looked just big enough for her to climb out, but when she unlocked it and tried to slide it open it, the thing wouldn’t budge — maybe painted or nailed shut...
She quickly searched the cubicle for anything she might use as a weapon — maybe a safety razor, so she’d have a nice sharp blade to slash this bastard...
No — no razor at all! What the hell?
She tried the medicine cabinet — seeking a glass bottle, of medicine or aftershave maybe, that she could smash into shards or give a jagged neck to, while she ran water to cover the sound...