The laptop was to Jenny what the utility belt was to Batman — whatever she needed was in there.
She raised an eyebrow and her expression indicated she was a trifle insulted by the question.
He asked, “Can you hack DMV records and match a frame from that video to a driver’s license photo?”
“But that’s illegal,” she said, with a lyrical lilt.
“I didn’t ask if it was legal.”
“Take some time,” she said, with a shrug. “Have to try to isolate a frame where she’s not screaming... and preferably has her eyes open. But you know what the little train said.”
“I think I can?”
She nodded and smiled.
Wow, he thought, she’s come a long way...
He glanced at his watch. “I have a, uh, an appointment this evening. But call me when you’ve got something.”
She was already at it.
He would wait for another time to suggest she add a visitor’s chair to her office ensemble.
In the corridor, his phone vibrated.
“It’s six-thirty-five,” she said. “You’re late. I’m in a yellow zone. Shake it.”
Anna clicked off.
He did, too, getting into the elevator. He liked this woman. She didn’t take any crap nor was she afraid to dish some out, and there was a nice spiky sense of humor underneath.
When he stepped into the late afternoon sun, Harrow found Anna in a silver Mazda Miata, top down — the car’s, not hers, unfortunately...
She bestowed him a faintly mocking smile as he approached. “I said shake it, big shot. Don’t make me give myself a ticket.”
He was chuckling as he climbed in.
Anna wore a home Dodgers jersey, the white shirt’s blue lettering a striking contrast with her dark hair, olive complexion, and red-glossed lips. Blue shorts showed off perfect tanned legs. Oh my.
Harrow had the sudden realization that he wasn’t going to a ball game with a fellow officer, but a beautiful woman. And a second realization, dawning slowly not suddenly, said: You haven’t had a date since... since you were a goddamn kid going out on dates...
As she goosed the gas and the car leapt away from the curb, Harrow tried to think of something to say. He had the awful feeling that he would never again think of anything to say...
“I was a little early,” she admitted, “and almost came up to your office. But in this wardrobe, maybe your team would get the wrong idea.”
He glanced at her legs, then looked at the sky, where the sun was making its escape.
She threw a look at him, amused, stopped at a light. “Are you getting an idea?”
“I might be.”
“Well, there’s no crime in that. Ideas aren’t illegal.”
“Some should be.”
She smiled, studied his face even as she drove. “You look uncomfortable.”
“You don’t. You look real comfortable. Very comfortable. Look, I haven’t been on a date for a while. You’re gonna have to forgive my awkwardness.”
“I’m not going to forgive it. I’m going to exploit it. I’m going to give you a very hard time.”
He was already having a hard time.
She hung a left onto Sixth Street, headed for the 110 and the short-distance, time-consuming ride to Dodger Stadium.
Anna laughed, her dark hair streaming in the breeze that the Miata was kicking up. “I wish you could see your face.”
“That right?”
“You look like you can’t decide whether to shit or go blind.”
He broke out laughing. “I never heard a woman say that before.”
“Get used to it.” She smiled. “I was hoping you’d have a sense of humor.”
“Heaven help the cop who doesn’t.”
The car was going too fast as she swept up the ramp onto the 110, and Harrow felt like he was racing to try to catch up.
He asked, “What made you think I might not have a sense of humor?”
“Because you are sooooo serious on that show of yours.”
The wind was really flapping her hair now as she sped up to, and caught, the rush-hour traffic. But within seconds, as so often happened in Los Angeles, they were sitting at a dead stop.
“So you’re a fan,” he said. Teasing now.
“A Dodgers fan? Sure.”
“I mean a Crime Seen fan. You obviously watch the show.”
“I’ve seen it.”
Kidding on the square now, he said, “Just because I’m not cracking jokes on Crime Seen doesn’t mean I’m some kind of humorless—”
“You’re serious right now, aren’t you?”
He stuck his tongue out at her.
She laughed. “Why don’t you do that on your show? You’re always Mr. Stone Face.”
“Oh, right — coming up next, the story of a man who butchered his coworkers when his boss failed to give him a raise, and then somebody gets hit with a pie?”
“Might boost ratings.”
He smiled. Just a little. “Can I be serious now?”
“Can I stop you?”
“It’s the work at Crime Seen that’s no nonsense. If you do watch, you know that. But that doesn’t mean I have a stick up my butt in my personal life.”
“Do you have one?”
“A stick up my butt?”
“A personal life?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There’s this woman in my life.”
“Really? Tell me about her.”
“Well, she’s very serious about her work, but she has a fun, silly side. She’s probably pushing forty, but her body didn’t get the memo. Looks maybe... twenty-five.”
“I hate this woman.”
“Then don’t look in the mirror.”
She didn’t. She looked at him. She leaned over and gave him a kiss. It was just threatening to last awhile when a horn honked behind them as traffic finally started to move.
“I am basically a serious type,” she admitted, looking at the road, not Harrow. “But you have to laugh. All cops know that, otherwise they go nuts or eat their piece.”
“No argument.”
“Like those numb-nut uniforms who came up with ‘Billy Shears’ as a nickname. I get it. You can’t be in a job that makes you look at death on a regular basis and not develop a sense of humor.”
“Working sex crimes must be tough.”
She nodded. “You run into just about every nasty kink in the human psyche that you ever heard of. And then you run into some more. It’s when kids are involved that I have to self-medicate.”
“How do you do that?”
“White zin, mostly.”
“And beer over a Dodger Dog?”
“And beer over a Dodger Dog.”
Traffic crept forward.
“I don’t do sick humor,” he said. He sounded almost ashamed of himself.
Her eyes narrowed. “You never went to an electrocution and came out saying, ‘That came as a shock to the bastard’?”
“Nope.”
“Never caught an asphyxiation vic and told your partner, ‘Takes my breath away’?”
He shook his head.
“Bullshit, J.C.”
He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Never? Never never?”
Sheepishly, he said, “I got called to a crime scene once — when I was with DCI? A dead accountant. He had screwed up a guy’s taxes and the client got so pissed, he stabbed the CPA with a letter opener. Twelve times.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah,” Harrow said. “I said to the detective, ‘Bet he never figured on this.’ ”
“I knew you were as sick as the rest of us!”
“Actually, I wasn’t. I just said it and accidentally made a stupid joke. Hey, I’m not funny. But I have a sense of humor. A sense of humor doesn’t mean you’re funny, it means you understand funny.”