No One Will Hear You

by Matt Clemens

  As Harrow was addressing the group, network president Dennis Byrnes—in a dark brown suit, looking sharp as to attire but otherwise ragged—slipped in a door toward the back and, leaving a seat between them, deposited himself near Carmen.

  Harrow said, “Thanks for joining us, Dennis.”

  The executive nodded, but said nothing.

  “I’ll get the lights,” Harrow said.

  He did.

  Carmen averted her eyes as Harrow showed the video of the second Don Juan murder, uncomfortably large on the wall screen behind him and Amari.

  The rest watched with cold, clinical eyes, and if any emotions showed among these seasoned investigators, shock or horror weren’t among them—only controlled anger and resolute purpose.

  Lights up again, Harrow said, “Lieutenant Amari understands that this crime has come to our doorstep. Literally and figuratively. She is willing to work with us.”

  Quiet expressions of thanks all around the table were accepted by Amari with a single nod.

  Chase said, “So we get to work?”

  “We get to work,” Harrow said. “Billy, go down to security. You’ll find Detective Polk waiting there for you. Get all the security footage. No way this maniac got this close carting a dead body and those roses without getting snagged on video.”

  Choi nodded and went.

  Harrow said, “Michael, you’re our profiler. What’s your read?”

  “He’s going to kill again,” Pall said with a matter-of-fact shrug.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. It’ll be soon.”

  Chase said, “Then we need to find something fast. This guy has us chasing shadows and smoke. Maybe at least this grandstand stunt will give us some real clues to work with.”

  Harrow asked, “What about Wendi Erskine’s finances?”

  Jenny said, “Money’s gone. Not in the Caymans anymore either. And the trail is cold.”

  “Do we have anything?”

  Nobody offered a response.

  “Do we think there’s a connection between Don Juan and Billy Shears?”

  Chase shook her head, but nobody else responded.

  Then Pall said, “I grant you there are similarities—the sexual aspect, chiefly. But remember Don Juan was self-named and the cops came up with Billy Shears. Two serial killers of this stripe turning up simultaneously strains credulity, I admit, but the signatures are decidedly, distinctly different.”

  “First thing tomorrow,” Amari said, “we’ll be looking into the second Shears victim, the off-duty Santa Monica officer, Danny Terrant.”

  Chase said, “You’ll have to talk to his cop buddies. That’ll be touchy. They may have payback on the brain.”

  “We could interview them,” Carmen said, way down the table. “Might take the edge off any cop-to-cop strain.”

  “No, Detective Polk and I will handle that,” Amari said. “You’d just be media to them.”

  Carmen raised her eyebrows and nodded.

  Byrnes was just sitting there, taking it all in.

  Harrow said, “I understand Vicker’s family and friends insist he was straight.”

  “Supposedly a regular … Casanova,” Chase said.

  Chris wondered if she’d almost said Don Juan.

  Harrow asked, “Do we know Officer Terrant’s sexual proclivities?”

  “Haven’t got that far,” Amari admitted.

  “Okay,” Harrow said, took in air, let it out. “Let’s look hard at Officer Terrant. … You don’t mind, Lieutenant Amari?”

  Amari answered by asking a question—of Chris. “Do you guys have a mass spectrometer?”

  “Yeah, we got a mass spec,” Chris said. “Mr. Harrow got us all kinds of toys last year, and it wasn’t even Christmas. Whatever lab equipment you need, we should have.”

  “So … if I were to bring you, say, a hair from a crime scene …?”

  Chris frowned at her. “But wouldn’t bringing us evidence from a homicide break your chain of custody?”

  She smiled at Chris in a tight, businesslike fashion. “The chief himself has given us permission to utilize whatever resources your show can provide.”

  Jenny said, “Cool.”

  Still not wholly on board, Chris said, “Ma’am, that doesn’t answer my question about chain of custody.”

  Amari arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t you, technically at least, still on leave from Shaw and Associates?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, handing evidence to an employee of a certified lab wouldn’t be breaking chain of custody, would it?”

  “No. No, it wouldn’t.”

  Harrow assigned several other duties to various team members, then said to the group, “We have two homicidal maniacs preying on innocent citizens of this city. Let’s nail these bastards before either of them kills again.”

  They were about to break up when Byrnes cleared his throat and all eyes went to him; a few people who were getting up sat back down.

  “I’m pleased to see Crime Seen and the LAPD working together,” the network president said. His voice had an unsettling surface calm. “But we need to discuss the network’s response—and your show’s response.”

  Harrow said, “The priority here is stopping these—”

  “Fine! Yes, of course. But we have a madman who has dumped his grotesque handiwork, as has been noted, on our very doorstep. So I want you, J.C., to record a video that can go out immediately to every national news outlet, network and cable, stating simply that all the resources of Crime Seen’s superstar forensics team will be brought to bear upon the serial killer calling himself Don Juan.”

  Raising a finger, Chris said, “Uh, sir—the FBI won’t consider Don Juan a serial killer until he has accumulated three victims, and—”

  “Mr. Anderson,” Byrnes said acidly, “I don’t believe semantics is our concern right now. And this is not a request or a suggestion. J.C.—I don’t often say this, but this is an order.“

  All eyes went to Harrow.

  “Fine,” Harrow said.

  All eyes went to Byrnes.

  “What?” Byrnes said.

  All eyes went to Harrow.

  “You’re right, Dennis. Give him a little attention, and maybe we can save a life, or at least slow him down a little.”

  Amari said firmly, “You’re not broadcasting any Don Juan videos.”

  Harrow said, “Not suggesting that. If we appear to be conceding, he might demand even more.”

  “Such as?” Byrnes asked.

  “He wants to be a regular segment on our show, doesn’t he, Dennis? And what does Crime Seen do, during a sweeps week? To generate our top ratings? Our biggest audience?”

  “Oh Christ,” Byrnes said.

  “Right,” Harrow said. “Show that video, and we’re on the path to Don Juan demanding we broadcast his next kill live.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Amari hated interviewing other cops. First, they were a tight-mouthed group when it came to talking about their own. Second, they spent so much time with lying lowlifes, they became masters of the craft themselves.

  Chief Scovill at the Santa Monica Police Department, however, was friendly and cooperative, providing a look into Danny Terrant’s file, which included neither commendations nor complaints. The chief also gave them the officer’s cell phone number, so Amari could run the phone records.

  In the hallway outside Scovill’s office, Polk said, “I don’t think that guy ever met Danny Terrant.”

  “No argument,” Amari said.

  Next up was Terrant’s partner, Bobby Nucci. They caught up with the youngish, dark-haired uniformed officer in Chess Park, just south of famed Muscle Beach. As they walked, a radio blared hip-hop, cars rolled by on Ocean Avenue, and chess players hunkered in silence under a warm sun in a gentle breeze.

  “Danny was kind of a loner,” Nucci said. “Don’t get me wrong—we always got along fine, and he was aces as a partner. … But he never let anybody get clo
se.”

  She asked, “Not even his own partner?”

  “I knew him going back to the academy, and he kept to himself back then. Nice, friendly, but on his own. We partnered up, what, two years ago? And I still don’t know shit about his personal life.”

  Amari was wondering if she should just come right out with it when Polk blurted: “So was he gay?”

  Nucci shot him a look. “I didn’t say that.”

  Polk said, “We’re not attacking him, Officer Nucci. It’s a murder investigation. Somebody killed your partner, and you want the bastard caught and we want the bastard caught.”

  “Of course we all want that. But truth is … I just don’t know if Danny was gay. I don’t think he was, but … I don’t really know.”

  Amari said, “Partners two years, and you can’t hazard an informed guess about whether or not the guy was straight?”

  “If he had a girlfriend, I never saw her. If he had a boyfriend I never saw him.”

  Polk said, “Did he seem to like the ladies?”

  Nucci shrugged. “If I’d say, ‘Wow, nice rack’ … sorry, Lieutenant, just making a point … he’d say, ‘Yeah, sure is’ or some such. But he was never the one pointing out the nice rack, if you know what I mean.”

  She knew. “I take it you two didn’t socialize away from the job.”

  “Not hardly at all. Like I said, Danny was private, and me, I got a wife and two baby girls—twins.”

  Polk said, “Got your hands full.”

  “Do we ever. Anyway, I’ll say this for Danny. He saw I was worn down by a busy home life—midnight feedings, you know? And I always knew he had my back. Just because we didn’t hang out off the job, that don’t mean I didn’t value the guy.”

  Amari asked, “You have no idea why he kept so much to himself?”

  “Only thing I can think of—he was a tall, skinny dude, and he got some ribbing over it. Some guys, when they get a hard time like that, on the job? They give it right back. Other guys, they kind of pull in. Danny pulled in.”

  Polk pressed. “But you wouldn’t be surprised to find out he was—”

  “Look, man—if he was gay or bisexual or a goddamn Ken doll down below, what the hell’s it to me? He was my partner—dude probably saved my life very day he got killed.”

  “Yeah?”

  Nucci told them the story of the domestic call that had turned dangerously violent.

  “Sounds like a stand-up guy,” Amari said. “I know you want to protect him, but he’s past that now. If you know something about his private life, hiding it from—”

  “You think if I had the faintest idea how this could have happened to Danny I wouldn’t tell you? I loved him as a partner. As a brother. You two don’t look like you hang out together, off the job—but I’d bet my next paycheck you watch each other’s backs.”

  There was nothing to say to that.

  They collected a few names of other officers with whom Terrant had been friendly (a short list); then Amari handed the cop her card.

  She and Polk were heading back to the car when Nucci called after them.

  They met each other halfway.

  Nucci waved Amari’s card at her. “This reminded me—while back, we got business cards from this robbery victim. She runs a western store on the Third Street Promenade.”

  Polk said, “This sticks out in your memory why?”

  “We responded to the alarm, Danny and me. Caught the guy, woman got her money back.”

  “Okay,” Amari said patiently.

  “Gal was so happy, she gave us each a business card and said she would make us a ‘real deal’ on some ‘fine-ass’ boots. I threw my card in a receptacle on the street, but when I climbed behind the wheel, in the squad? Danny climbed in, tucked that stupid card away in his wallet, like it was … I dunno, a goddamn prize or something.”

  Amari smiled at the officer. “Bobby, you wanna come along with us and talk to the boots lady?”

  “Try to stop me.”

  Third Street Promenade was a three-block-long, tree-lined shopping area—over sixty stores and twenty-five restaurants, popular with tourists and locals alike.

  Bart’s Bunkhouse was midway in the promenade. As they entered, with Nucci in the lead, Amari was pleasantly assaulted by the smell of leather. The store was rife with western apparel—shirts, jeans, hats—and leather items—jackets, purses, belts, boots. Lots and lots of boots.

  Several sales people were on hand, and perhaps half a dozen shoppers, but they were immediately approached by an attractive, slender, fortyish woman with dark, blonde-highlighted hair. She rushed over to give Nucci a big, sad hug.

  “So sorry about Danny,” she said. She wore skintight jeans, a huge silver belt buckle, and a red T-shirt inscribed in white: SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY. “Oh, Bobby, I’m so sorry….”

  As the hug broke, Nucci seemed a shade embarrassed as he said, “That’s why we’re here, Megan.”

  Nucci made the introductions. Megan Fields was the owner.

  “Ms. Fields,” Amari said, “we’d like to talk to you about Officer Terrant.”

  “Poor Danny. Hell of damn thing. He was so sweet. … Come on, let’s sit.”

  An area for trying on boots wasn’t currently populated, and they sat, the owner next to Amari with Polk and Nucci just across the way.

  “You offered a discount on boots to Danny Terrant,” Amari said. “Did he take you up on that?”

  “Sure did. He knew just what he wanted.”

  Nucci was frowning in confusion.

  Amari prompted her. “He did?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was a dyed-in-the-wool line dancer, you know.”

  Nucci’s eyes popped. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, he probably thought you’d give him a hard time. People are either into things, or they aren’t, right?”

  “Right,” Amari said, not really sure she followed that.

  “See, I could tell he knew his stuff, because of the questions he was asking me, and how he knew the different styles and brands. So I said, ‘You’re into line dancing, aren’t you? How cool!’ And he said, ‘I surely am.’ “

  “Did he order the boots? Did he pick them up?”

  “Oh yes. I can show you the boots he chose. Real beauties.”

  “Please.”

  She had a pair in stock, smaller than the ones Terrant bought: dark red with white and green highlights forming white lilies.

  Polk, at Amari’s shoulder, whispered, “This is gay, right?”

  “Not necessarily,” Amari whispered back.

  After the western store, Nucci headed back to work and the two detectives continued their interviews.

  Other officers echoed Terrant’s partner—Danny was a good cop, nobody knew him off the job. If he was gay, he didn’t advertise it. Two openly gay officers said they had only known Terrant to say hello.

  And when asked, “Did you know Officer Terrant was into line dancing?” the answer was uniformly the same: “What the eff?”

  Amari had a search warrant for Terrant’s apartment, since he might not live alone (the officer’s SMPD file listed no next of kin, and no family member had stepped forward to claim the body). The manager at the small complex on Twenty-eighth Street seemed to barely know his tenant.

  Terrant paid his rent. It was nice having a cop in the building. Terrant didn’t entertain much if at all.

  “Saw him on his way out,” the white-haired, potbellied manager said, “dressed like a cowboy every now and then. But to each his own. … Just pull that door shut when you’re done. It’ll lock automatically.”

  Terrant’s apartment had the sort of anonymity that might belong to a closeted gay afraid that some work friend or other acquaintance might drop by. Small, neat living room with an entertainment center—no magazines, a few books on a shelf (paperback westerns), no stacked-up mail, no photos.

  Kitchen counter was bare save for a coffeemaker, the only personal touch a magnet on the refrigerator for a Resed
a bar called Prairie Lights. Fussily neat bathroom. Two bedrooms, one a home office with a laptop computer that they would bag and tag—maybe to turn over to Jenny Blake rather than the backlogged LAPD crime lab.

  Other bedroom was neat (big surprise), the closet orderly, two extra uniforms, an array of cowboy shirts, jeans, and even T-shirts on hangers. A safe in the closet probably held his service weapon; crime-scene unit would find out.

  One empty hanger among the cowboy shirts, another among the jeans. An empty spot among the shoes and boots.

  “This place,” Polk said, “reads gay to me.”

  “No. Just secretive. What’s missing here?”

  “Well, I don’t see his off-duty piece, and it sure as hell wasn’t in that Reseda motel room.”

  “Right. Did the killer get it?”

  “Could be. What’s the other missing thing?”

  “Where are those custom cowboy boots from Bart’s Bunkhouse?”

  “Not here.”

  “What do we know, LeRon?”

  “Dude played his cards close to the vest.”

  “Agreed. See anything personal at all in this pad?”

  He thought. “No.”

  “How about that refrigerator magnet?”

  “What refrigerator magnet?”

  “Come with me,” she said. He did, and she showed him.

  “So,” Polk said, eyes bright, “he has a favorite place to do this line-dancing shit.”

  “Would appear so.”

  “And he left here wearing some of his cowboy duds.”

  “Seems like.”

  “So he was going line dancing?”

  “Yup. A man has to do what a man has to do, you know.”

  “And he had to go to Reseda to line dance.”

  “And what else did he do in Reseda?”

  “Got his ass killed?”

  “Got his ass killed.”

  There were two good things about heading to Reseda in the late afternoon. One, Prairie Lights would be open, which meant there would be people to talk to, and two, the parking lot was still pretty empty, meaning it didn’t take long for Amari to find what she was looking for.

  “New Mustang,” she said as she pulled in next to it. “What kind of car did Terrant have?”