“Did you check the control box?”
“With the spotlight, yeah, but it was locked.”
She nodded. “What did you do next?”
“Called 911.”
“You unlocked the gate?”
“Yeah, when the first squad car got here. They wanted to make sure she was dead.”
“So, the gate was locked, when you got there.”
“Yeah.”
“And right now, all the electronics are working, the camera and the motion detectors?”
Wyler nodded vigorously. “I even called in to the security center after I called 911. They said everything was working fine and they didn’t see anything.”
Polk was shaking his head. “Smart mother. Hacked the system somehow.”
Amari asked, “And the control box was definitely locked?”
“Oh yeah,” Wyler said, nodding vigorously. “It was locked. Definitely locked. I didn’t—”
Wyler was cut off by the approach of a tech from the crime scene. Marty Rue — mid-forties, dark hair, black glasses — approached Amari. They had worked on several cases together over the years.
“Morning, Anna,” he said.
“Marty, any jewels among those squashed acorns?”
“Footprints around the body are a mess, as you promised. You folks got the USC marching band working your crime scenes for you now?”
If Wyler understood he was part of that insult, it didn’t register. He had the happy look of an amateur suddenly accepted by a group of professionals.
“Marty,” she said, “what about those roses?”
“I’ll know more when I get them back to the lab, but I bet you’d like a look at that card.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You’re gonna love this.” He held out a cellophane bag.
Amari took it and read the card within: With Love, Don Juan.
She heaved a long sigh and passed the bag to Polk.
Polk read it and said, “I mean, I know these sick killers leave a signature — but an actual signature?”
“He’s got an ego,” she said. “We’re gonna see more of him.”
Polk frowned. “Lieutenant, could this be the same killer as West Hollywood? I realize that was a male victim, but they both were stabbed, they’re both dead, they’re both naked. Maybe killed after sex?”
“That’s good thinking, LeRon. Really is. But the signatures are different... including this very specific signature of roses and a hand-signed note. Eyeballing it, I’d say different weapons. For this to be the same killer, particularly if your scenario were to hold, we’d have something very unusual — a bisexual serial killer.”
She asked Wyler, “Do you have a key for the control box?”
“Yeah,” he said, unconsciously jingling the ring attached to his belt. “Why?”
She asked Rue, “You lifted footprints from in front of the control box yet?”
“Nope.”
“Well, do that, then let’s have a look at that box. My guess is our killer got into it somehow. He had to defeat the camera and the motion detector.”
Rue nodded, and was gone.
Amari said, “All right, Mr. Wyler, spell out a typical night for me.”
Wyler smiled at the thought of helping his fellow pros. “I come on at eleven. I’m here by eleven thirty, then pretty much every hour and a half or so after that. Usually, around one, two-thirty, four, five-thirty, then one last pass on my way back to the barn at seven.”
“Earlier, you told us you were here between five and five-thirty.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Maybe twenty after or so. I was a little early, but not much.”
“You noticed the tire tracks on your five-thirty trip,” Amari said. “Is it possible you missed them earlier?”
Wyler considered that. “No, I don’t think so, really don’t. Tracks in the dust on the blacktop? That’s something I look for every time I’m up top. I would have seen ‘em if they were here before that.”
“That means the killer was here between four and five-thirty.”
“Had to be,” Wyler said, nodding.
To Polk, Amari said, “Which tells us she was dead before that — bled out, cleaned up, ready for display. Killer drove her here in his car.”
“Risky,” Polk said.
“But if the killer knew he had ninety minutes and had cased the area, he could minimize the risk.”
From the control box, Rue gave them a wave.
“All right,” Amari said. “Which key is it?”
Wyler took the ring off his belt and handed it to her by the box key.
As they walked back down the path to the box, Polk said, “Killer opened it, did whatever he did, then locked it up again.”
“Yeah,” Amari said, “and we want to see what he did.”
Polk put a hand on her forearm and stopped her. “What if he booby-trapped the frickin’ thing?”
She thought about that.
“Why lock it back up,” Polk insisted, “if it’s not booby-trapped?”
“To slow us down?”
“Right. And what would slow us down more than it blowing up in our damn faces?”
“Shit,” she said.
Polk was right.
They conferred with Marty Rue and, in the end, did the smart thing.
Called the bomb squad.
Chapter Nine
The network president wore his dark hair clipped close, his lightweight gray suit no more expensive than Harrow’s first car. He was smiling, but the gray-green eyes were cold stones in the well-tanned, conventionally handsome face.
Dennis Byrnes said, “Let’s get right to it, shall we, J.C.? With the ratings Crime Seen’s enjoyed, you are right to expect certain rewards. Including a raise.”
Seated opposite the network president, Harrow said, “I’ve had another offer.”
Byrnes raised a hand. “I’m sure you have, J.C. You were bound to. Assembling your forensics team, taking them on the road, that was smart showmanship. Plus you got lucky, and some great television happened. The kind that will be written about and studied for years. So I don’t play down your contribution.”
“Dennis...”
“Now, J.C., I’m being straight up with you. But despite all this success, you know what kind of economy we’re facing, and your road trip was extremely expensive. So I don’t want you to be offended if the increase seems unduly modest, and—”
“I said, I’ve had another offer.”
“J.C., don’t be ridiculous. You know your contract includes an iron-clad non-compete clause.”
“Not quite iron-clad, Dennis.”
“... Explain.”
“The non-compete clause applies only to other offers in broadcasting.”
“Actually, J.C., it’s more than just broadcasting — you do know it includes cable.”
“All of television, sure.”
“And radio, and really anything in media. Throughout the universe, if I remember the language.”
“It’s not a job on Mars, Dennis, that I promise you.”
“Where then?”
“Iowa.”
Byrnes frowned, as if Harrow had said Mars. “That’s where you used to work.”
“Right. In law enforcement.”
Byrnes had a flummoxed look. “Well, J.C., regional, local broadcasting, that’s covered by non-compete, too.”
“I’m aware.”
“Who’s made you an offer, anyway?”
“You don’t know them.”
“And it’s not television?”
Harrow gave him a single head shake.
“How much is the offer, then?”
“Twenty-seven five.”
Byrnes erupted in something that was vaguely a laugh. “You’re making seventy-five thousand per show, J.C. And I’m about to offer you one hundred.”