Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

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?”