Макс Коллинз: No One Will Hear You

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?”