No One Will Hear You

Chapter Seventeen

The PA whispered, “Five, four, three...” and, at “... one,” touched Harrow’s sleeve and the host stepped past the edge of the curtain.

Bright lights burned as he strode out into the studio, the applause like friendly fire as he approached his mark.

He couldn’t see the audience well. Just movement, colors, faces lost in the blur. These occasional live broadcasts were perhaps the most surreal aspect of the Crime Seen experience.

“For there to be a war on crime,” Harrow said, beginning with his famous catchphrase, “we must all be warriors... Ladies and gentlemen, good evening.”

Another round of applause preceded Harrow’s seemingly off-the-cuff but wholly scripted preamble.

“This is another of our rare live broadcasts,” Harrow said. A typical sweeps week stunt, actually. “You may be surprised that UBC would allow me on the air live again, after last year...”

A knowing laugh rippled across the audience. And even Harrow had a wry smile. But the subtext was not at all comical: that memorable moment in broadcasting history when J.C. Harrow went on the air live to call out the killer of his family.

How he wished tonight he could do the same thing with Don Juan — the maniac who had targeted Crime Seen itself to fuel his own sick fame-seeking.

But Harrow had promised Anna Amari otherwise.

And what he did instead — as the teleprompters instructed — was start the show with a piece on Billy Shears, including the video footage from the Star Struck and the forensic artist’s victim sketch.

As he glanced at the stage-right monitor, he could see that drawing with the show’s eight hundred number and website on the Chyron below.

After the segment, Harrow introduced Carlos Moreno, former White House correspondent, reporting on gang violence in Taos, New Mexico, and how Crime Seen was aiding local law enforcement in their efforts.

Throughout the hour broadcast, Harrow would periodically return to introduce segments, none involving the Killer TV team. Dennis would be unhappy about that, but the team was focusing on Don Juan, including the very popular Carmen Garcia, probably the most conspicuous in her absence.

As the final segment — a report on bankers using government bailout funds to invest in white slavery — played on an offstage monitor, Harrow wondered if his Billy Spears segment had served to get the phones ringing. The crime-scene photos showed the victim wearing a wedding ring. Somewhere in America, someone would be missing this man.

As the segment wound down, Harrow’s assistant Vicki approached him to whisper: “Both the tip line and the website are going crazy.”

“Good. Spread the word — we work late tonight.”

“Yes, J.C.”

“Oh, and call Lieutenant Amari at the LAPD.”

“She’s already here. I’ll have her meet you at your office.”

She disappeared and the PA materialized, mouthing, “Thirty seconds.”

Thirty seconds suddenly seemed an eternity.

He could still go out there and call out Don Juan, just as he had the killer of his family. Tell this bastard that J.C. Harrow was coming and bringing his superstar CSIs with him. In seconds, he would be live, on air, and he could let fly, like Gary Cooper opening a six-shooter on a brace of bad guys.

But he wasn’t Gary Cooper. He was a broadcaster and the team leader of professionals who trusted him, and betraying Anna Amari was just not possible. Not professionally. Not personally.

Still, it galled him knowing that Don Juan would undoubtedly be in their viewing audience. Watching. Waiting to see what J.C. Harrow would do about him...

Then he had a jarring, even frightening thought: What if Don Juan was in tonight’s studio audience? Harrow would have the Killer TV profiler, Michael Pall, go over the studio’s security video.

Thirty seconds were up.

And Harrow went on without mentioning Don Juan, reading the scripted tease for next week’s show, repeating his “war on crime” catchphrase. Then the LIVE sign switched off and he all but ran from the set, filled with the frustration of not using tonight’s bloody video pulpit in the way he would have liked.

In seconds he was out a rear door onto the loading-dock area, and let out the f-bomb he had been holding in, bathed in the sickly amber security lighting of the parking lot with the twinkling darkness of the Los Angeles night hovering like storm clouds threatening lightning.

He took two quick steps to a Dumpster and delivered it a swift kick; it didn’t seem to mind, though his foot protested a little.

A female voice behind him said: “Feel better?”

Embarrassed, he turned and saw Lt. Anna Amari.

“Busted,” he said.

She wore a dark sleeveless silk top with just a hint of cleavage. Tight jeans and sneakers. An unlikely cop with dark hair framing a lovely face, lush lips lightly touched with lip gloss.

She smiled, ambling toward him, offering a pack of cigarettes — his brand.

“You a smoker, too?” he asked.

“Yeah. But ex. Been years since I kicked.”

“I’ve cut way back, but sometimes...”

“Your girl Vicki said you come out and have a smoke when you’re stressed. I was watching the show backstage on a monitor — I saw that vertical line between your eyebrows.”

“And figured that was stress. You’re a detective.”

“You were dying to tell Don Juan to go screw himself, weren’t you? Right there on live TV.”

“Maybe.”

“Like Wyatt Earp telling the Clantons, ‘Hell is coming.’ ”

“Could be.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I promised somebody I wouldn’t.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Harrow plucked a cigarette out of the deck, which he started to hand back to her, but she shook her head. He pocketed the pack, lighted up; he stood there sharing the smoke with his lungs and the night awhile. She fell in beside him.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just... I feel like the son of a bitch outsmarted me.”

“Don Juan?”

“Yeah.”

“And you hate that.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not really. Just because he made the first move doesn’t mean he wins.”

“He killed a woman.”

“Yeah, he was going to do that even if there was no Crime Seen and no J.C. Harrow to challenge. Somebody told me that once.”

He laughed, dropped the cigarette to the asphalt, and heeled it out. “All right, I get it. Maybe living in LA has made me self-centered like the rest of the citizens.”

“From where I stand, you’re doing all right. Hey, I’ve lived here my whole life, J.C. I’ve seen self-centered, and trust me, you don’t qualify.”

Her smile was teasing. He had to kiss her. He had to kiss her right now. He leaned in...

That floral-scented perfume, not heavy, just tickling his nostrils...

His hand on her shoulder, he asked, “Anna — what is that scent? Don’t mean to be personal.”

“Oh, it’s a local fragrance. Little boutique I go to. Lily of the Valley, stuff’s called.”

No wonder the aroma was familiar. Lilies. Like the ones on Ellen’s coffin.

Vicki leaned out the door and called, “Boss, you’re going to want to get back in here!”

“A moment!”

Vicki was gone, and Anna — still close enough to kiss — asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No. Not at all. We just better get to work. I bet something good’s come in on the tip line...”

So the moment was over. He didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. He just knew he couldn’t tell this woman that he hadn’t kissed her because she’d suddenly reminded him of his wife’s funeral...

Just inside, backstage, Anna caught up to Vicki and asked, “Have you got something?”

But Vicki didn’t answer, glancing back at Harrow to say, “Everybody’s in the conference room, boss...”

When he and Anna entered the conference room, Jenny Blake, Laurene Chase, Michael Pall, Billy Choi, Chris Anderson, and Carmen Garcia were all seated around the big table.

Anna paused and said, under her breath but knowing Harrow could hear, “The Killer TV elite. Impressive.”

Harrow quickly made introductions, then took the “daddy” chair, which had been left waiting for him. He nodded to a seat for Anna, nearby but not at the table proper. She sat.

Chase launched into a summation of what had transpired during air time.

“As soon as that drawing went on the air,” she said, “calls started pouring in.”

“Hundreds,” Jenny said.

Choi added, “Damn near crashed the switchboard.”

“Same with the website,” Jenny said. “The hits just keep coming.”

Harrow asked, “Any helpful ones?”

Chase nodded. “Greatest number from Ohio.”

“Huber Heights, Ohio,” Jenny added. “Suburb of Dayton, largest community of brick homes in the United States.”

Nobody reacted — such trivia came with the Jenny Blake territory.

Harrow asked, “We learn anything germane to Lieutenant Amari’s case?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Pall said, “one of the calls we recorded is the victim’s wife.”

From the sidelines, Anna popped in: “Why are you ‘pretty sure,’ Mr. Pall?”

“Have a listen,” Chase said, nodding toward Jenny.

Who tapped a key on her laptop, and they all sat in uncomfortable silence as a weeping woman said, “Please, please, please help me.“

“How can we help?” The Crime Seen operator was female and professional yet sympathetic. “And could you give us your name, please?”

“Vicker. Becky Vicker. The drawing... on your show... I just know it’s my husband. Brent.”

“You feel you recognize the drawing as a likeness of your husband?”

“Yes. Yes. I know my own husband when I see him.”

“Mrs. Vicker, I must ask your patience. Our lines are inundated with calls, from individuals claiming to recognize that likeness.”

“But I’m his wife.”

“You are not the first call to make that assertion, Mrs. Vicker. That’s why need to gather certain information to narrow down the possibilities.”

“Yes, yes, anything.”

“When did you last see or hear from your husband?”

There was a long pause.

“We... we’re separated, Brent and I. We have been for almost two months. I spoke to him last week. He said he was going to California on a business trip.”

“Who does he work for?”

“Springfield Pump Corporation. Here in Huber Heights. They have a subsidiary office in Van Nuys. When we spoke... Brent said he’d like to come back home, after the California trip. He said he was willing to go to a marriage counselor. He’s always refused in the past. We don’t have any children, you know, so sometimes I think it’s just not worth it to...”

“He didn’t call from California?’

“No.”

“Do you think he may have changed his mind about—”

“No! He was adamant about giving us a second chance. But there won’t be a second chance, will there? There won’t be...”

The woman broke down again.

The conversation resumed for another several minutes, but no new information came from it.

When Jenny had switched off the recording, Anna said, “I wonder if she’s really our victim’s wife?”

“I would say so,” Pall said.

Anna frowned at the short, muscular man. “You’re a DNA expert, right, Mr. Pall? That’s your field?”

Harrow said, “Michael’s also been through extensive profiling training at Quantico.”

Pall continued: “Her grief seems genuine, and the details Mrs. Vicker discussed closely follow what we know of this case.”

Jenny said, “Several calls came in from employees of Springfield Pump, all remarking on the resemblance of the drawing to Brent Vicker — who had not checked in with his company in several days.”

“That,” Choi said, arching an eyebrow, “is not exactly a surprise.”

Chase slapped the tabletop. “It’s our best lead — no contest.”

Anna rose, stood next to Harrow. “Okay,” she said. “First thing in the morning, I’ll get my boss to get the locals out to talk to her.”

Harrow glanced a question at Chase, who nodded.

In the pre-show meeting, they had discussed what to do if this particular scenario played out. Harrow didn’t want to overstep with the LAPD, but they were the ones who had come to Crime Seen for help with this murder.

That meant Byrnes and the network were involved and the president would insist — not without justification — that the show get something out of the deal. And what Harrow had in mind could serve the purposes of both UBC and the LAPD.

“I can do you one better,” Harrow said.

Anna’s expression was openly wary. “Is that right?”

“Laurene is a seasoned police interviewer. She and our top reporter, Carmen Garcia, can be on the network’s corporate jet tonight, flying to Ohio.”

Anna frowned, but Harrow raised a hand.

“We’re willing to have you join our two team members. That is, unless the LAPD has unlimited funds for flying investigators around the country to chase down leads?”

“You know it doesn’t,” she said flatly.

“You can even lead the interview. Obviously, we want a story, but the most important thing for us is that you solve your homicides.”

The detective considered this.

Chase said, “Wouldn’t your boss rather you did the interview than some unknown Ohio cop?”

Anna said, “Let me make a call.”

Cell in hand, she stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her.

Harrow asked, “Any other prospects? They were identifying a drawing, not a photograph, remember.”

Pall shook his head. “This is the guy — I’d bet a month’s salary... mine, boss, not yours.”

“All right,” Harrow said, nodding. “We’ve helped the LAPD with their John Doe, now let’s have a quick update on Don Juan.”

Jenny said, “You already know I couldn’t track the e-mail he sent to us — trail went cold in Siberia.”

Choi said, “Everything’s cold in Siberia.”

Jenny was saying, “Money he emptied from Wendi Erskine’s accounts is gone from the Caymans, too. That trail’s gone cold, too.”

“Despite the beaches,” Choi said.

Harrow said, “Have we passed that info on to the police yet?”

Jenny nodded. “I called Detective Polk earlier with an update.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Just that I’ll try to be ready if Don Juan contacts us again — maybe we can get lucky.”

“We’d sure be better off,” Anderson said, “if we could get a look at the evidence.”

Harrow shrugged. “I doubt that Lieutenant Amari will go for it, but I’ll give it a shot. If we can get her to go along with the Ohio excursion, and she sees how helpful we can be, things will go smoother, after.”

Anna came back in. “You fly me out,” she said, “I’ll interview Mrs. Vicker.”

“And then?” Laurene asked.

“Then it’s your turn. Talk to her in front of cameras, if she’ll let you. We don’t care.”

“Good,” Harrow said. “You need to go home and get a bag or anything?”

“We’ll be back tomorrow?” Anna asked.

“ASAP,” Carmen piped in. “I’ve got a date.”

“I’ll alert the media,” Choi said.

“Then I’m cool,” Anna said. “Consider me packed.”