No One Will Hear You

Chapter Thirty-four

The feds descended.

The Killer TV team and even the LAPD were relegated to don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you status, the big boys taking over. Anna and Polk got assigned to other cases; when Anna balked, her captain generously granted her a week’s vacation she hadn’t requested.

A media-fueled panic burned through the city. Gun sales were up, sales of pepper spray and guard dogs, too, and the mayor and city council were exploring a curfew — an idea Harrow pronounced doomed to failure.

Although Billie Shears might pick her victims somewhat randomly, Don Juan’s prey were chosen with care, and no telling how many victims were already in his queue. Even with a curfew — really, a laughable concept in LA — Don Juan still had access to any victims already scouted.

Of course, Harrow and his team still kept digging, FBI be damned. Chase was looking for connections with acting classes, producers, press agents, or any group Don Juan might troll. With all the evidence in federal hands, Pall and Anderson were left without lab work, and instead helped Chase scale her mountain of possibilities.

Choi, who had identified Billie’s shears as hedge clippers, now sought a specific item — model, brand name, anything. Back at the LAPD, Polk had ruled out Jason Wyler — alibis on several of the murders.

The reluctantly vacationing Anna was helping Harrow scrutinize Jenny-fabricated copies of the Deluxe Sunset security tapes, the originals having been seized by the FBI. They started with the attack on Rousch in the corridor, but the camera was far away and details were sketchy.

Only Carmen had no work to do on the investigation. She alone was taking care of business, i.e., supervising pre-taped Crime Seen segments for their next show. Unlike everybody else, her hours were merely horrible, not horrific, and she was even managing something of a social life.

When Vince had suggested sushi for dinner, she leapt at the chance. Post-Kansas, she mostly ate at home, and she loved Japanese food. The restaurant Vince selected was kind of a high-profile place, which had its risks.

Vince walked her through a gauntlet of paparazzi as they approached the entrance, camera flashes strobing them.

“Sorry,” he said, with a concerned frown, as they stepped inside. “I forget you’re a TV star. That stuff must be a pain.”

“I’ve avoided it lately,” she admitted. “But it’s about time I crawled out of my shell.”

“I don’t know how you can stand it. I’m happy to be a nobody and have some privacy in my life.”

Vince looked his usual hawkishly handsome self, sharp in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie with geometric pattern.

At their table, he said, “I don’t blame them for wanting your picture, though — you look especially lovely tonight.”

He didn’t look so bad himself — his short brown perfect hair, his pale blue eyes leaping out of the dark tan.

But he wasn’t lying — she looked good, and knew it. She’d worn a little black dress withheld for special occasions, and this was one — their three-month anniversary. The dress was almost mini-short and its neckline wasn’t designed for a shy girl. They had been together all this time, and kissed and petted, like kids... but nothing more.

Tonight would be the night. He would not escape. He was in her crosshairs, and he didn’t have a chance...

When their drinks arrived — gin and tonic for him, Diet Sprite for her — Vince asked, “Still hectic at the show?”

“Oh yes. And my workload is, well, it’s getting out of hand.”

“Why?”

“Everybody else is still working on those... those cases. You know.”

“You said the FBI swooped in and—”

“You think that’s going to stop J.C. Harrow?” She laughed, sipped her soft drink.

“So you’re working on other stories.”

“Right. I mean, right now we don’t even know whether we can even mention those two.”

“Don Juan? Billie Shears? Why not? Everybody’s talking about them.”

“Even you and me, right now. Well, there are legal battles going on. I’m operating on the assumption that we need to put together a full week’s worth of show without those two maniacs to lean on.”

He half smiled, swirled his drink. “Ignoring them won’t work. It’ll only drive them harder.”

“That’s what J.C. says. You know, I appreciate your interest in my career, but we can talk about other, more interesting, more pleasant, things.”

The corner of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “Oh, yeah, right. The insurance business. Everybody’s favorite cocktail-hour conversation... I’m ordering another drink. Another Sprite? Maybe something stronger?”

“Just another Sprite,” she said.

They had talked about going to the movies tonight, and went over the possibilities waiting for them at a nearby multiplex. Nothing sounded very good, but it was fun hearing why Vince dismissed this possibility or that one. He was very knowledgeable about movies, which wasn’t surprising, since his insurance agency catered to the industry.

She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, and when she returned, a little jug of sake was waiting.

“I shouldn’t,” she said.

“Oh, why not? You work hard. Relax a little.”

He’d already poured her a cup.

She sipped it — it was warm, a little vinegary, but smooth.

She touched his hand. “If you’re trying to get me drunk, to take advantage of me... it’s going to work.”

“Ha. You’re naughty tonight.”

“We’re both going to be naughty tonight, Vince. That I promise you.”

He sipped his own sake. “I’ll follow your lead,” he said. “Like this place?”

“Oh yes. Kyuui’s one of my favorites. But this doesn’t exactly make me a cheap date...”

“That’s okay. You’re worth it.”

In Harrow’s office, he and Anna sat at his desk watching the Deluxe Sunset security video on a thirty-two inch flat-screen monitor.

They had watched Rousch walk down the hall probably fifty times now. Stop at his door, put in the keycard, turn as a woman stepped up behind him. Seconds later, he starts bouncing like a marionette, then falls out of frame, into his room, while two figures, little more than silhouettes, follow him in and shut the door.

All they could tell for sure about the man and woman was that one wore a black dress and the other dark male attire, and that was it. Everything else was little more than a blur.

Jenny Blake popped in. “Think we found something, Boss.”

“What?”

“Don Juan’s female victims had no common e-mail addresses in their address books.”

“Well, that’s not good news.”

“No, but this is — the IP address of one computer popped up in all the women’s records.”

“Pretend I don’t know what an IP address is.”

“It’s the Internet service provider’s way of recognizing your computer — like your house number.”

Harrow frowned. “So — what you’re saying is, the same computer contacted all of these women?”

“Yep.”

“Do we know who that computer belongs to?”

“Various e-mail accounts all come back to a Louis St. James.”

Anna said, “Sounds like two towns scrambled together.”

Harrow asked Jenny, “What do we know about him?”

“His website says he’s a movie producer with an office in Westwood.”

He grinned. “Jenny, you’re the best.”

She smiled in a thanks-but-I-knew-that manner.

He said to her, “Step outside for a moment, would you?”

“Sure.”

Jenny did, and Harrow faced Anna, both still seated.

“There are several ways we can play this,” he said. “One, we could call the FBI with this new information. Two, we could call somebody you trust at the LAPD, your partner Polk maybe, who would run with it, bring us in, and not call the feds.”

“Tell me about the third way.”

“The third way is, we’ve been working hard for hours now, and it’s about time to take a break. Maybe go for a nice ride on a cool evening.”

“A ride sounds good.”

On the way out of his office, Harrow said to Anna, “Odds of four women having only one common e-mailer, and have it not be the killer, seem slim.”

Jenny, standing there, said, “Not just slim. Crazy impossible.”

The computer goddess fell in with Harrow and Anna as they walked briskly down a corridor lined with big framed portraits of stars that included both himself and Jenny.

“Remember,” Anna said, in a devil’s advocate way, “all the victims were connected to the movie business, and it could be coincidental — Louis St. James is a producer, after all.”

“Is he?” Harrow said.

Jenny said, “There may be a way to nail this down — we can try matching the IP address from Louis St. James to Carmen’s private e-mail account.”

“That’s right,” Anna said. “Don Juan e-mailed her two videos.”

Harrow asked Jenny, “Where is Carmen?”

“Out with her boyfriend.”

Nice to hear Carmen was getting back in the swing, finally. “Well, try her on her cell and ask her permission. If you don’t get her, go ahead and do it, anyway.”

“Roger that. Should I call the feds and let them know what we’ve found?”

“We don’t know if we have anything to tell them. Wait for my go-ahead.”

“Always.”

“You have a home address for Louis St. James?”

“Working on it.”

“ASAP, Jen.”

“ASAP.”

She went off toward her office.

In the elevator, Anna asked, “If Jenny matches Louis St. James’s computer address to Carmen’s computer, we have our killer, don’t we?”

“The Don Juan half, anyway.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be a nice start.”

They had barely begun the journey to Westwood in his Equinox when Jenny Blake called.

“What?”

“Louis St. James’s computer sent the Don Juan e-mails to Carmen, all right.”

“Home address yet?”

“Working on it.”

“But we have an office address.”

“We do. In Westwood.”

“Okay, round up Laurene and Billy, fill them in, and send them over there. Toot sweet.”

“You got it. And I’ll get you a home address or you can dock my pay.”

“Deal.”

They clicked off.

Harrow pulled over into the parking lot of a strip mall.

Anna frowned at him. “What?”

“It’s after seven. St. James might be at the office, or he might be at home. Which is our better shot, you think?”

“He’s probably headed home.”

“Right. So we wait here while Billy and Laurene hit his office.” Harrow indicated a fast-food joint nearby, a Subway. “Want anything?

“J.C., you sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

He got them coffee.

Before long Jenny called to report in.

“Nothing yet,” she said. “Laurene and Billy say the office is closed, which is to be expected at this hour, but they didn’t see anyone around, either.”

“Okay. I know you have more.”

“Louis St. James isn’t registered with the DMV. I got a picture of him from his website and loaded it into the DMV’s facial recognition program, but nothing’s come back yet.”

“Louis St. James doesn’t really exist, does he?”

“I don’t think so, boss — his website’s bio is all stuff that’s either impossible to trace or just links to other websites.”

“What about IMDb?”

“Internet Movie Database thinks he’s real, and that’s a very reputable website, but it’s also humongous, and someone with, say, my kind of skills? Could hack in and add bogus entries without raising suspicion.”

“So what makes you suspicious?”

“All of it. For example, the films listed in his credits all have websites of their own.”

Harrow frowned. “Well, that means they’re real, right?”

“Not necessarily. They’re bare-bones sites, descriptions of film plots, cast lists of unknowns, a few generic pics.”

“Isn’t that true for a lot of little films?”

“It is, but most films, even little indie ones, you can buy somewhere. They’ve been in some film festival. St. James’ productions, you can’t buy ‘em at Amazon or Barnes and Noble or any other website.”

“Google?”

“Google search brings up websites but nothing else. There’s no buzz about these films. No blogs, no reviews, no chats, no nothing. If these epics exist, no one has ever seen them yet. I mean no one.”

Harrow thought for a moment. “But there’s enough online to convince a hungry, aspiring young actress that he’s real.”

“On the nose, boss.”

“Any idea who this guy really is?”

“Facial recognition software’s drawing a blank... wait. Here we go. Louis St. James is listed in the county recorder’s office. He has a bungalow in Chatsworth, near the reservoir.”

She gave him the address.

“Okay,” he said. “Anna and I are on our way there. Tell Laurene and Billy what you’ve found and keep at it.”

He clicked off, filled Anna in.

She got on her cell to call her captain and have him order a SWAT team to the St. James bungalow in Chatsworth.

In the bathroom at Kyuui, Carmen heard her cell phone chirp in her purse. She took it out, saw it was Jenny, and almost answered.

But tonight was her night, a special night, and work could wait. It wasn’t like she was one of the superstar forensics investigators — she was just “talent.” She shut the phone off, tucked it in her purse, checked herself in the mirror, then headed back to the table.

Vince had another cup of sake poured, but she was giddy already. Soon their dinner came — she had a nigiri assortment, Vince a spider roll — and they sampled each other’s food.

They decided not to take in a movie, though what they’d do instead remained up in the air.

As they exited the restaurant, Carmen felt a little wobbly.

“You okay?” he asked. “Too much sake?”

Actually, she’d held it to one cup.

“Too much work, too little sleep.”

“Do we need to call it a night? I was kind of hoping you might come over to my place. You’ve never seen it, after all.”

The valet was bringing Vince’s car around.

She twitched a smile his way. “How can I pass it up?”

He slipped an arm around her, kissed her cheek.

“Once in a lifetime,” he said.