She caught Polk cocking his head, frowning slightly.
“What can I do?” Harrow asked.
The elevators doors opened and they got aboard, Polk hitting the button for the lobby, keeping an eye on the other two, like they were kids up to no good.
Amari said to Harrow, “We’re on another murder, too, a brutal thing — took place about ten days ago.”
“You do work sex crimes, right? Not homicide?”
“Right. But this is like Don Juan — it falls on our side of the line.”
“However we can help,” Harrow was saying, “we will.”
“Okay,” she said. “A week ago Friday we caught a homicide at the Star Struck Hotel. Very nasty. Male victim, emasculated and stabbed to death.”
Harrow just listened.
“That’s in West Hollywood,” Polk put in.
Amari said, “Room registered to Jeff Bailey. Body we found does not match the security video of the guy who checked in as Bailey the day before.”
The doors opened and they walked in lockstep into the lobby, footsteps making little gunshot echoes.
“And you have a dead body with no ID,” Harrow said, “and I’m guessing no clues as to the identity of the killer, or the man who checked into the hotel in the first place.”
“Sums it up,” she said.
“Well,” Harrow said with an easygoing shrug, “we could broadcast pictures of your vic and the man who checked into the room.”
“That might really help,” Amari said. “A forensic artist has done a drawing of the victim — it’d be better that than a photo of the corpse.”
“Agreed.”
“Just so you know, we already ran it on the local news and got bupkes.”
“I did see that,” Harrow said. “You didn’t let the papers know about the emasculation aspect.”
“Right.” She’d actually slipped, revealing that; but she found herself feeling cop-to-cop with Harrow.”And that’s off the record.”
“No problem.”
A petite ponytailed blonde in a T-shirt and jeans materialized.
Harrow said, “Lieutenant Anna Amari, this is Jenny Blake, our resident computer guru.”
Amari smiled and extended her hand. “I recognize Ms. Blake from your show, of course.”
Handshakes and introductions over, Jenny and Polk went off to work out the LAPD getting the Don Juan video and access to UBC computers.
Meanwhile, Amari and Harrow stood near the glass doors onto the street.
“I’ll get you a copy of the artist’s drawing and the pertinent hotel security video,” Amari told him. “How soon can you get them on the air?”
“Friday night,” Harrow said. “I’ll showcase it right at the top. We have a hell of a lot bigger audience than local news.”
She smiled. “Well, thank you.”
“Not a problem. Always ready to look after a fellow officer’s interests.”
“Only you’re not a fellow officer anymore.”
“Really, I am. Better you get to know me, more you’ll see that.”
“This assumes I get to know you better.”
“Call it wishful thinking.”
“You’re not trying to soften me up, are you?”
“Moi?”
That coming from this craggy ex-cop made her laugh; it echoed a little in the lobby. Then she turned solemn.
“J.C., you’re not going to stay out of this Don Juan thing.”
“Was that a question?”
“Not really. I was paying attention when that sleazeball boss of yours and his pet lawyer were making all those promises... and you? J.C., you weren’t saying shit.”
Harrow didn’t say shit in response, either.
“I know you’re pissed this Don Juan prick has singled you and your show out. I get that. This guy is trying to blackmail you. He’s taking the good things you’ve done on Crime Seen and twisting them into something ugly, something dark. But surely you can’t imagine that, in some weird way, you’re to blame for what he’s done.”
“I don’t,” Harrow said simply.
“... Really? Not playing with me, J.C.?”
“No.
I don’t blame myself for the actions of this evil son of a bitch. Anna, you and I are both cop enough to know this one would be killing whether or not Crime Seen even existed.”
She only nodded.
Then she said, “Okay, here’s the deal. You get in my way, I mow you down — got it?”
“Sounds fair.”
“You air anything you find without bringing it to me first, I’ll run your ass in for obstruction.”
“Promise?”
“Are you flirting with me, J.C.?”
“Maybe. But there’s one thing we can agree on.”
“What’s that?”
“Don Juan has to go down — soon. He has all the earmarks of somebody who will kill and kill and kill again.”
“No argument.”
He extended his hand.
They shook. His hand felt warm, not at all moist, strong, reassuring.
“Go get him,” Harrow said.
Chapter Thirteen
At six-foot-three, weighing in at around one-eighty, Danny Terrant sometimes felt that in his Santa Monica police uniform he resembled nothing so much as a sandy-topped, navy-blue number-two pencil.
This morning, he and his partner Bobby Nucci had caught a domestic disturbance call at an apartment on Euclid — their first of the day, but one of countless in their experience.
Short, plump, black-haired Bobby was Oliver Hardy to Danny’s Stan Laurel. The pair had buddied up at the academy and, not long ago — after stints for both with older, more seasoned partners — had found themselves back together.
When they got to the Gruner residence, the wife met them at the door, one hundred pounds of frazzled punching bag for the angry three hundred pounds of husband looming behind her. Patsy was a thirtyish bottle blonde and husband Lloyd was a helmet-haired behemoth in a XX–L Knicks T-shirt.
Nobody was screaming, which was good, but Danny could sense the Gruners were merely resting between rounds. As Danny took Patsy’s statement, Nucci led the husband to a neutral corner in the cracker-box apartment. This was not far enough away to prevent Lloyd from hearing his beloved refer to him disparagingly — i.e., “That fat-ass son of a bitch hits me all the goddamn time and I’m sick and goddamn tired of it.”
And the bell rang and the battle was on again.
Burly Lloyd, his lank brown hair running down over his shoulders, made like a bull and charged past Nucci, heading for the kitchen table where Danny and Patsy sat.
Nucci got knocked out of the way by the husband and could do nothing to halt the giant except grab a handful of hair and another of Knicks tee and hang on, getting dragged like Randolph Scott behind an Indian’s horse.
Rising from the table, right hand going for his hip holster, Danny just managed to get between husband and wife as Gruner barreled into him, cabbage-sized punches coming from every angle as the giant and Danny crashed into Patsy and sent furniture and bodies careening to the floor in a cracking crunch that the lanky cop hoped was wood and not bones.
Although Patsy managed to roll clear, Terrant hit the tile floor hard, Gruner landing on him, still punching, Nucci jumping on top of Gruner and trying to restrain him. Danny felt like he’d been working under a Buick and somebody kicked the jack out.
For a moment the skinny cop thought he might die, the air driven from his body by the weight of the pair wrestling on top of him, a big fat man and a small fat man. It probably looked way more comical than it felt...
Danny struggled to get out from under, grappling with the pepper spray at his belt, while Patsy was getting to her feet. Hoping she might supply some sort of help, Danny was dismayed when her contribution turned out to be leaping atop Nucci, pulling the policeman’s hair, and yelling shrilly to “leave my poor husband alone!”