Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

Back in Iowa, he had work friends extending from the sheriff’s department to the DCI, and through his wife and son, other friendships had been forged. None had lasted beyond the Christmas-card level, after he moved out here. He’d heard that when couples divorced, friendships with other couples fell away; but he’d never have guessed the same was true when a spouse died .

So he found himself oddly excited by the prospect of an evening out with Anna Amari. But was it because she smelled good (for a cop)? Or because he was hoping to get an update on Don Juan? Probably both, as he really did have that madman on his brain.

Since the snuff video on Monday, they had received no further communication from Don Juan; and the Killer TV team’s discreet efforts to track him down were getting nowhere.

Other than the video, the police had a lock on all the evidence, so there just weren’t that many directions to go. If the LAPD had made a victim ID, they hadn’t shared it with the media. And Crime Seen , like the rest of the press, had acquiesced to the chief’s request to keep the details of the murder to themselves. For now.

On her Tuesday visit, Anna had responded to Harrow’s seemingly casual inquiry about Don Juan with a single piece of information: “The dead woman’s fingerprints aren’t on file anywhere.”

Which meant not in any applicable database — law enforcement, local licensing, federal government, you name it.

As the afternoon wound down, Harrow stopped by Jenny Blake’s office and found the small, tidy space empty.

Jenny had reduced the standard desk, filing cabinet, and trio of chairs to just desk and chair. If not for the open laptop on her desk, Harrow might have thought the office vacant.

The laptop, however, meant she was still at work — it was an appendage of hers, and you don’t leave an arm or leg behind.

So he was not surprised when the petite blonde appeared in the doorway, popping the top of a diet soda.

“What’s up, boss?” she asked.

“The Hollywood sign victim — still unidentified?”

Jenny, with her hacking skills, was always the first to know.

“Yep,” Jenny said. She passed Harrow, moved behind her desk, and sat. “Why?”

He stood opposite her, folded his arms. “How good is our facial recognition software? By ‘our,’ I mean yours.”

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.”