Heading toward the crime scene, Amari said, “You did grow up in Los Angeles, right?”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?”
A voice behind them called, “Wait up!”
They turned to see Special Agent Mark Rousch trotting up. Middle of the night or not, the agent wore a dark suit, white shirt, crisply knotted tie, and “Werewolves of London” perfect hair.
Did Rousch ever sleep, Polk wondered, or need a shave?
“Another Don Juan victim,” the FBI man said.
Not a question.
As they drew closer, an answer came anyway. Uniformed cops bookended the unclad brunette sprawled at the observatory’s entrance. A bouquet of Black Pearl roses draped her left arm, as if Miss America had just been crowned.
Eyes closed, dark hair fanned out, framing the pretty face...
Polk had a twitch of memory.
“This is the youngest yet,” Rousch said, shaking his head, his expression as pale as moonlight.
“All murder victims are old,” Amari said.
Rousch looked at her.
“You can’t get older than dead.”
“Erica Thornton,” Polk said.
The others turned.
Amari frowned. “You know her?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I recognize her. She was the runner-up on the second season of Survival Island.”
“What the hell...?” Rousch said.
“Reality TV,” Amari explained and sighed. To Polk, she added, “Pretty sure?”
“Real damn sure.”
Amari asked the nearest uniformed officer, “Who found the body?”
The officer pointed down the building to a man in security-guard uniform, standing alone, hands fig-leafed.
“I’ll be damned,” Amari said.
Polk groaned. “Not our wannabe law enforcement professional...”
Rousch frowned. “Who is that clown?”
The security guard waved to them and smiled in a goofy embarrassed manner.
Amari said, “Clown is right — he found Wendi Erskine at the Hollywood sign and screwed up the crime scene by driving through it.”
“Christ,” the FBI man said.
“But wait, there’s more,” Polk said in infomercial style. “Then our friendly park ranger opens up the gate and lets some uniforms go down and gawk at a real live dead naked female.”
“He needs a new hobby,” Rousch said. “Let’s have a chat with the guy. Name?”
Simultaneously Amari and Polk blurted: “Jason Wyler.”
The fed made a beeline, and Amari and Polk followed, hanging back a little.
“And what,” Amari asked, voice low, “is the first rule of criminal investigation?”
“First on the scene,” Polk said, “first suspect.”
“And this sterling citizen has been first on the scene twice?”
“Could be a coincidence.”
“LeRon — do we believe in coincidences?”
“I’m just sayin’... it’s not Wyler’s fault if some crazy-ass killer decides to dump another corpse in Griffith Park.”
“We’ll see.”
The skinny security guard pushed his wire-frame glasses farther up his nose, smiling nervously. As the trio of detectives planted themselves before him, Wyler was bouncing foot to foot, an excited puppy blessed with three masters.
Rousch was displaying his ID, but Wyler didn’t seem to notice, homing in on Amari.
“Lieutenant,” Wyler said, “you’ll be proud of me.”
“Will I?”
“I stayed away from the body, just like you told me that other time — down at the sign?”
Like they needed prompting to remember the previous Don Juan victim Wyler discovered.
“Good for you, Jason,” Amari said dryly. “Tell us what happened this time.”
“I was making my rounds, just like always. Saw some teenagers partying over there.” He pointed past the entrance. “I told them to move on.”
“And?”
“And they did. I stopped back later to check up on ‘em. That’s when I saw... you know, the body. At the door?”
Prompting again. Oh, that body...
Polk said, “And you didn’t touch her?”
A sharp head shake. “Learned my lesson last time.”
Amari said, “What time did you see the kids?”
“Just after midnight.”
“Sure about the time, Mr. Wyler?”
Eager nod. “Checked my watch, in case I had to write up a report. On those kids?”
“Okay. When did you get back?”
“An hour and a half. Like usual.”
Amari rubbed her forehead. “So, you didn’t check back until your next round?” “Right.”
“So the killer had ninety minutes between you shooing off the party animals and coming back?”
“Sounds right.”
“You see anything unusual when you were pulling up?”
“First time or second time?”
“Second time. Checking on the kids.”
“Nothing unusual or suspicious, no. Except for the body.”
That was fairly suspicious, Polk thought. Maybe even unusual...
Rousch said, “Possible the kids saw something.”
Amari asked the security guard: “Did you get any of their names?”
“The kids? No.”
Polk asked, “They have a car?”
“Oh yeah — black and shiny. Looked fast.”
“Make?” Amari asked. “Model?”
“Well, I think it was a convertible. Foreign, maybe. Japanese?”
Amari was studying Wyler. Maybe deciding whether to pistol whip him or not.
Polk said, “Did you get a license number?”
“No.”
So they had no suspects, and thanks to their fellow professional here, they didn’t even have potential witnesses to interview.
Amari and Rousch asked Wyler a few more questions, getting nowhere. Then they told him to wait, and he nodded, grateful to be needed by fellow pros.
As the trio returned to the body, Amari said, “We’ve got an inept if punctual security guard, and a park exhibit that’s closed tomorrow.”
Rousch said, “Point being?”
“Don Juan had a ninety-minute window for a body dump that required maybe three minutes.”
“What about security video?”
Polk said he’d check, but added, “Knowing our buddy Don Juan, either there won’t be any vid, or he found a way to circumvent it.”
Amari said, “Once you’ve checked, LeRon, grab Security Guard Wyler and give him the pleasure of a ride to a real honest-to-goodness police station.”
Polk shook his head. “What do you think we’re going to get out of him? He’s a dipshit.”
“Is he? Or is that an act? Either way, he’s the tie to two of the bodies in this investigation... and that earns him the right to be interviewed for real. Sweat him. Keep him there all day, if you have to. But find out whether he’s an idiot or just a good actor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Polk said dejectedly. “But if this guy’s acting this stupid, he’s too good for reality TV. He needs his own series.”
“Don Juan has his own series,” Amari reminded him.
Chapter Thirty-one
Carmen Garcia did not feel safe.
Doors locked, alarm system set, lights on, TV too (some stupid infomercial), but alone and on her couch, cell phone at her ear (ringing, ringing, ringing) and not feeling safe at all...
On the coffee table before her, laptop open, the innocuous if suggestive file name with its small black letters somehow screamed at her.
Finally Harrow’s voice came: “Carmen, what do you need?”
“You, I’m afraid... Don Juan e-mailed me again.”