Frowning, Pall asked, “Who waits almost ten minutes before he leaves a crime scene?”
Choi put in: “And what the hell was he doing for ten minutes?”
“Nine,” Jenny said. “Calling the media?”
Her associates paused; then both nodded.
Soon she’d hacked the DMV to learn the plates on the Ford Focus were registered to a rental company’s silver Nissan.
Another dead end.
Like the card stuck in the flowers — a run-of-the-mill greeting, available in a hundred flower shops around the Southland.
The roses, on the other hand, were rare. Michael Pall was able to identify them as Black Pearls, an uncommon variety.
Utilizing interns and production assistants, Harrow’s team contacted the over seventeen hundred retail and wholesale florists in the greater Los Angeles area. None had received orders for that particular type of rose.
“He’s got to be getting them somewhere,” Harrow said to Pall and Jenny. “Either he has a rose garden, a greenhouse, or works at one. Find out who sells Black Pearl roses and start digging from that direction.”
Meanwhile, Amari was keeping Harrow posted on what was now being called the Billie Shears case — the gay angle of the first killing apparently a red herring courtesy of a killer, who was likely female.
Internet searches for Jeff Baileys generated just under one hundred thousand hits. The computer search for Al Roberts — the guest in whose room Danny Terrant died — yielded another forty-three thousand hits. A mountain of information to scale.
As he sat at his desk, morning of show day, Harrow didn’t have anything resembling a workable plan. Too much information was almost as bad as no information.
His cell vibrated — Amari.
“We have another apparent Don Juan victim.”
The bastard had finally made good on his promise. Double-feature indeed...
Harrow felt sick. “Where?”
“7008 Hollywood Boulevard. In front of a coffee shop. Body’s sprawled across several Walk of Fame stars — including Errol Flynn’s.”
“Cute,” Harrow said bitterly. “Errol Flynn played—”
“Don Juan, yeah. Plus, she’s diagonally across the street from Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Our guy’s a showman, if nothing else.”
For this early in the day, he felt awfully weary. “Nude? Bouquet of roses? Same as before?”
“Almost. Brunette. And that damn card again.”
“And no one saw anything.” Not a question.
“Not that we know of,” Amari said. “I’m getting video from the traffic cams.”
“I can think of another difference — besides the hair color.”
“Which is?”
“Crime Seen didn’t get a video before the body was found.”
“Maybe he sent it to somebody else.”
“Or is he accelerating and getting hurried, even sloppy?”
“That sounds like wishful thinking.”
He sighed. “You want me down there, Anna?”
“No. No, there’ll be media, and while the chief likes us cooperating with you, discreetly, he doesn’t want the public to think the LAPD is leaning on a TV show.”
“That sounds like a paraphrase.”
“Yeah. I skipped the colorful qualifiers. You’re a Midwest boy. Tender sensibilities... Keep you posted.”
“Please.”
He had barely clicked off when Dennis Byrnes stormed in, unannounced.
“Morning, Dennis.”
Byrnes arranged himself in the visitor’s chair opposite Harrow, sitting straight, trying to assume his natural superiority despite being stuck on the wrong side of the desk.
“I need your word,” he said.
“About?”
“You have to stay on script tonight.”
“Where Don Juan is concerned, yes, understood. But we haven’t finalized it yet.”
“I expect you and the writers to have something to me by two o’clock. Lucian Richards at legal needs to clear it, and he says that will take time.”
“Two o’clock might not be practical.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s been another Don Juan murder.”
“Christ!”
Harrow filled the exec in.
“So you want to cut it closer to the wire,” Byrnes said, thinking, “since this is breaking news... Okay, I’ll talk to Richards. Everyone is agreed that no portion of any of these videos can be shown on the air — third one hasn’t shown up yet?”
“No.”
“For once I wouldn’t mind if the competition had it instead of us. This is dangerous, J.C. Delicate. The network’s financial life could be at stake.”
“So are the lives of innocent women — three have died so far.”
“Don’t go self-righteous on me. I’m a husband and a father, not a monster. A lot of people depend on this network for their living, I’ll have you—”
Harrow stopped him with a raised palm. “Understood.”
Byrnes nodded crisply, rose, then stopped at the door. “Listen, J.C. I want your word — don’t go adlibbing us into another crusade.”
“Last time I did that, your precious network made a fortune.”
“Just don’t. We’ll behave responsibly, we’ll behave professionally... and if you and your people, working with the LAPD, can bring this bastard in, I’ll revel in it. I’ll see to it you a get nice fat bonus, just... tonight? Stay on script.”
“Sure. Soon as we have one.”
Byrnes closed his eyes, nodded. “When we have one.”
He was gone.
Show day was a pain for Harrow — as star and executive producer of Crime Seen, he had to view and approve edits of segments, a process that took many hours, often right up to air time. With live segments on tap, he also suffered through script read-throughs and (eventually) hair and makeup.
Today, after lunch, he sequestered himself back in his office for a session of answering fan mail.
Usually, he wouldn’t mess with this on show day, but he needed a distraction. Though most of his business and personal correspondence was e-mail now, fan mail remained the old-fashioned, snail-mail variety — fifty or so letters a week still came his way, sometimes more.
He escaped into the task, finding it oddly relaxing, reading half a dozen letters, mostly requests for autographed photos; just one marriage proposal this week.
The next letter had his name and the network’s address computer-printed on the envelope with no return address. Within was a single sheet of white bond with a short message, probably off the same laser printer.
JC
You are some straight Harrow. Ha! Ha!
When the lab geeks test this, they will see it’s really me.
I just wanted to drop you a line to say I’m a fan of the show and to thank you for the coverage.
Like the old story goes, it doesn’t matter what they’re saying as long as they’re talking about you.
One more thing, you know the trophy I take.
I want to add yours to the collection, that would be juicy. But you will have to wait your turn.
BS
He wished he hadn’t touched it, but he had.
The “trophy”-taking aspect of Billy Shears (as the media was still spelling it) had been withheld; the letter writer apparently knew what he — or she — was talking about.
Setting the thing back on his desk, cognizant of where he had touched the paper, his first call was to Laurene Chase, their in-house crime scene investigator. She could bag it and tag it.
“I want everybody else on this,” he told her on the phone. “I know it’s show night, but I’m the only one going on live. I want every kind of test on the letter, plus let’s invent some new ones.”
“You don’t think there’s any way this could be a hoax?”