No One Will Hear You

by Matt Clemens

  Behind living room curtains, a yellow glow burned; a red Mitsubishi Eclipse perched in the carport. Harrow turned his car around, and he and Anna parked on the other side of this quiet residential cul-de-sac, a short distance from Louis St. James’s house.

  No sign of the SWAT team, but Harrow wasn’t surprised. SWAT might be fabled for fast response, but they weren’t just sitting around poised for action. A team had to be rounded up, piled into the van, then make the long drive to Chatsworth.

  And only about forty minutes had elapsed since Anna had called her boss, Captain Womack.

  Harrow asked, “So, you figure Womack called the FBI?”

  “About fifty-fifty,” she said. “He’s under orders to, but he also doesn’t love the bum’s rush the Fibbies gave us.”

  Harrow nodded.

  Anna fidgeted. “I don’t know where the hell that search warrant is.”

  “We have promising information,” he said with a shrug, “but it’s no smoking gun. It could take time.”

  She sighed.

  “His car is there. He’s not going anywhere.”

  The windows were down and a cool breeze whispered through. They didn’t speak. Just another stakeout, if they hadn’t been holding hands.

  Ten minutes later, Anna answered her vibrating cell.

  “Good,” she told it, clicked off, and said to Harrow, “Polk. On his way with the warrant. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  Ten more minutes passed before the unmarked SWAT van appeared, coming their way, not hauling ass, attracting no attention.

  Anna said, “Flash your lights.”

  He did so.

  The van rolled to a stop opposite.

  A tall, blonde officer in the black fatigues of the SWAT unit climbed out on the driver’s side. He had a craggy, pockmarked face but wasn’t old—maybe mid-thirties. Name tag read LT. MCCLELLAN.

  He came over and leaned in like a carhop—a dangerous-looking one. He looked past Harrow. “Good evening, Lieutenant Amari.”

  “Hello, Mac. That’s the house—on your side. Two doors up.”

  McClellan nodded.

  “You know whose place that is?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And why you’re here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Make it ‘Anna.’ I’m not your mother.”

  He found a grin. His teeth were better than his complexion. “Okay, Anna. Warrant here?”

  “On its way. Any time now.”

  “Suspect in the house?”

  “Unconfirmed,” Harrow said. “I’m J.C. Harrow.”

  “I recognize you, sir. I can see lights on.”

  “Yeah. And his car’s there. I think he’s home. I just hope he isn’t entertaining a guest while we sit here on our asses.”

  “Glad to kick that door in, if you can give me probable cause.”

  Anna answered: “Can’t cut that, Mac. We’ll wait for the warrant.”

  As if on cue, Polk drove up in their Crown Vic, and hustled the warrant over.

  “Time to saddle up,” McClellan said, and crossed the street.

  More black-fatigued SWAT officers piled out.

  They made out on the couch. As always, there was something youthful about it, like teenagers in a drive-in as they kissed and kissed, and finally, finally, Vince’s fingers risked unzipping her dress, and then he was kissing her breasts. So expert. So gentle.

  After all the hesitation, and so much restraint over these months, at last Vince was revealing a passionate side—or anyway an experienced one. Still, he seemed to be holding back part of himself—even with his mouth at her breast, she felt he was withholding emotion.

  But if Vince’s technique was mechanical, it did the trick, and as his hands made a perp out of her, with a full-body search, she felt better, more into it, the queasiness gone, the fuzziness still there but lending a nice soft-focus feel….

  She’d never dreamed shy Vince Clay could be like this.

  Such a great lover.

  She kicked off her shoes as he buried his face in her neck, like a shy vampire, and with the top of her dress bunched around her waist, Carmen felt warm and ready. Should she slip out of the dress entirely, and just let him take her there, on the sofa?

  He read her mind, coming up for a breath to say, “Maybe it’s time to take this to the bedroom….”

  She stood, stepped out of her dress, in nothing but sheer panties, with her hand outstretched to her host.

  The SWAT team neared the house, staying low and quiet, half going to the front, the rest circling around the back.

  Anna brought up the rear, with Harrow trailing at McClellan’s request. A TV star getting shot on a raid would not be a career-booster for the SWAT leader.

  They crept closer to the door; then one of the officers lost his balance, his gun barrel scraping aluminum siding.

  Everybody froze.

  They were walking hand in hand across the cool living room floor, school kids again despite the hot-and-heavy on the sofa, Vince with his shirt off and in his socks, Anna in her panties.

  A noise outside the house spooked them both.

  Vince released her hand and went to the picture window, and peeked behind the curtains.

  “Nothing,” he said, and shrugged. “Kids.”

  “Whatever it was, sounded close.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He undid his trousers, stepped out of them, leaving them behind as he returned to guide the slightly wobbly woman to the bedroom.

  The assault force waited.

  Long, terrible, heartbeat-pounding moments passed, a living but not breathing freeze frame.

  Then McClellan used hand signals, counting down, Three … two … one …

  … and two team members with a battering ram crushed the front door in.

  As if an echo, the sound of another ram breaching the door in back told Harrow these men knew what the hell they were doing.

  When the team stormed in, Anna and Harrow were right behind them, and both the LAPD detective and the UBC host had handguns ready.

  They met the other half of the team where the dining and living rooms met. Nothing in those rooms.

  SWAT officers moved room to room, shouts of “Clear!” ringing through the bungalow.

  McClellan shook his head. “Nobody home.”

  “Damn it,” Harrow said. “Damn car’s here!”

  Anna said, “Well, he isn’t.”

  Nonetheless, Anna brought Polk in and they took advantage of the warrant to search the place. McClellan rounded his people up outside. They would not go till Anna released them.

  Harrow bummed a smoke off McClellan and got his cell out, to bring Jenny up to speed.

  But before he hit speed dial, the phone vibrated, Jenny beating him to the punch.

  “Boss,” she said, and her voice had a new brittle energy, “are you at St. James’s?”

  “Yes. Nobody home.”

  “Goddamnit!”

  Coming from Jenny, that outburst hit him like a board.

  “I think Carmen is in trouble.”

  Was she crying?

  “Settle down, Jen. What?”

  “I was fooling with Photoshop, changing hair and eye color on the Louis St. James website—there was something familiar about him, those prominent cheekbones. I’m pretty sure Louis St. James is Vince Clay.”

  “Who is Vince Clay?”

  “Carmen’s boyfriend. She’s out with him right now.”

  “Shit.”

  “And she’s not answering her cell.”

  “Shit!”

  “What do we do?”

  “You keep digging—find out anything you can. Did you leave Carmen a voice mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Just ‘Call Jenny. It’s urgent.’ I didn’t know if somebody might be listening.”

  “Good. Now get me something.”

  He clicked off, then hit Carmen’s number, got voice m
ail, left a message that there’d been a break in the Don Juan case and she was needed back ASAP.

  His cell vibrated in his hand again—JENNY.

  “I have Vince Clay’s address,” she said. No emotion now. All business.

  She gave it to him. It was way across the city.

  Anna emerged from the house to see what Harrow was up to.

  He filled her in.

  “I know that part of town,” she said. “Damn—take us over an hour to get there, if there’s any traffic at all. We’ll bring in the locals.”

  “I want to be there.”

  “So do I. Any ideas?”

  He frowned. “Maybe one. … Let’s take your car.”

  “Where to?”

  “Toward that address.”

  Soon they were in the Crown Vic, leaving Polk behind. Anna put the rollers on but no siren. Harrow was on his cell.

  “Dennis, I need the local affiliate’s traffic helicopter.”

  The executive didn’t fool around—Harrow’s tone said not to. “All right. Want to tell me why?”

  Harrow quickly filled him in.

  “I’m on it,” Byrnes said. “But you’re coming back next season.”

  That actually got a smile out of Harrow. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  Harrow clicked off, and Anna said, “Helicopter, huh? Where you gonna have it land?”

  “You tell me.”

  She thought. “Fallbrook Mall. We passed it on the way.”

  Harrow got Byrnes back, and gave him the address. The exec said the copter would be in the parking lot by the time they got there.

  It was.

  They left the unmarked car in the lot and ran into the wind of the chopper blades. Harrow and Amari climbed in, and the pilot, a seasoned vet with the confidence and smile of a retired astronaut, said, “J.C. Harrow! Welcome aboard—where to?”

  “Whittwood Mall in Whittier,” Anna said.

  As the chopper rose and swung southeast, Harrow called Jenny.

  “Laurene and Billy are on their way back from Westwood,” she said. “They can meet you.”

  “Good,” he said, yelling over the noise, and told her where.

  The pilot was pushing the helicopter, the city a glittery blur below. No question they were moving fast.

  But fast enough?

  Chapter Thirty-six

  When the helicopter descended into the parking lot of the Whittwood Mall, Harrow could see Choi’s BMW M6 convertible, top down, tearing through the lot. The copter touched pavement as Choi and Chase screeched to a stop. Harrow and Anna climbed from the chopper, its churning blades whipping up wind and a deafening din.

  The pilot yelled, “Happy hunting,” as the craft lifted while Harrow and Anna ran to the convertible, and piled over the sides in the back.

  The copter was still close enough that Anna had to scream the address, but Choi merely nodded.

  As they approached the mall stoplight, the copter noise already distant, Choi said, “You’re gonna have to guide me.”

  Anna said, “No problem. Run the light and take a left.”

  Choi did, then said, “I’m not a cop anymore. No siren or rollers.”

  “I got a badge,” Anna said. “Break all the laws you want.”

  “Came to the right guy.”

  The convertible tore down the street toward Vince Clay’s neighborhood, weaving in and around startled traffic.

  In the back, Harrow thought, Hang on, Carmen, hang on, even as he hung on himself, Choi swerving around a car whose occupants didn’t have time to swear at them before the BMW rocketed round the next corner.

  Vince Clay led Carmen Garcia into a dimly lit room with a big brass bed, a mirror on the wall to its left, and a nightstand with a vase of a dozen roses.

  Her first thought was: How romantic.

  Her second thought was: Black Pearl roses!

  Even in the vague light of a shaded table lamp, Carmen recognized the distinctive flowers, and all wooziness drained away as the pieces fell in place and she only hoped the sirens screaming in her brain didn’t show in her expression.

  “What’s the matter?” Vince asked.

  What’s the matter? I’m standing here in my panties with a serial killer at my side!

  “Nothing,” she said, and in that moment she had a choice—going into full-on panic or survival mode.

  She kissed him. She put all the acting skills she’d developed over the last year as an on-air personality and forced passion and love into it, though she knew she was kissing a monster, knew she had been a fool but also that she couldn’t afford to be a fool any longer….

  He walked her gently to the brass bed, gestured for her to recline, and she did.

  She’d seen this bed. In the Don Juan videos. How many women had died on this goddamn bed?

  He stripped to his silk briefs, letting the clothes drop, then positioned himself on the bed next to her and stroked her breasts, kissed her neck, her cheeks, her mouth.

  She moaned as if with pleasure and kissed him back like her life depended on it. Which of course it did, as until she could see an opportunity to make a break for it, or somehow put this bastard out of commission, she had to play along, kissing a killer. The adrenalin rush had passed and a certain grogginess tried to crawl back, her muscles aching, as if a bad case of the flu had just set in.

  “You are so lovely,” he said.

  “We waited a long time,” she said. “I’m glad we waited. This has to be just right.”

  “I know. I know, my darling….”

  He seemed about to mount her when she touched his chest gently and said, “I hate to spoil the moment, but … I need to use the restroom before we go on.”

  “Oh. Well, sure. It’s right there….”

  He pointed to a door that might have been a closet but wasn’t.

  She slipped off the bed, trotted over without seeming too hurried about it, and shut herself in.

  The bathroom was small and white and hospital clean. The pebble-glass window looked just big enough for her to climb out, but when she unlocked it and tried to slide it open it, the thing wouldn’t budge—maybe painted or nailed shut….

  She quickly searched the cubicle for anything she might use as a weapon—maybe a safety razor, so she’d have a nice sharp blade to slash this bastard….

  No—no razor at all! What the hell?

  She tried the medicine cabinet—seeking a glass bottle, of medicine or aftershave maybe, that she could smash into shards or give a jagged neck to, while she ran water to cover the sound …

  … only all the bottles—aspirin, aftershave, tubes of theatrical makeup, contact lens solution—were plastic.

  Choi parked a hundred yards short of Clay’s house. There were few neighbors, the nearest a good fifty yards. Woods rose behind and came around one side of Clay’s place.

  As they approached, guns drawn, using the trees for cover, the house was mostly dark.

  Harrow said, “Anna and I’ll take the front, you two take the back.”

  Chase and Choi nodded.

  Carmen turned back to that bathroom window—she would have to break it.

  She lifted the porcelain lid off the toilet tank and swung it into the glass.

  It shattered first try.

  On the other side of the bathroom door, a muffled voice, female, yelled, “Son of a bitch!”

  Don Juan’s partner, Billie Shears! Behind that mirror by the bed? Two-way glass?

  No time to waste wondering.

  She didn’t know what was outside; she didn’t care. Two killers were inside.

  Nicked a dozen times by the window’s teeth, she dropped into a shallow backyard, bleeding and nearly nude, her feet crunching on glass. In a moment her eyes adjusted to the darkness, trees surrounding, thick and tall—if she bothered screaming, no one would hear her.

  But she heard a scream, and reflexively swung around to see a bald naked woman framed in the window, a wild-eyed figure baying like a wounded animal�
��.

  Carmen knew she’d been roofied—was she hallucinating?

  Then the woman was gone.

  Not coming out the window through that jagged glass after her, the naked harpy must be heading for a door … giving Carmen time, a little time….

  Her bare feet (soles already nicked landing on shards) weren’t on grass, rather hard dirt covered with spiny weeds and God knew what else. Carmen had to run, but barefoot through the woods? Not if she could avoid it.

  To her left, up a gentle slope, nestled among the trees, loomed a greenhouse—a place to hide.

  She sprinted the short distance, found the door unlocked, slipped in and quietly closed the door behind her.

  When Harrow had heard that glass break, followed by the sound of someone wailing in agony, it initially frightened him. … Then he thought it through and a tight smile came.

  Something had gone wrong, and that meant Carmen was likely still alive.

  He fired a round into the front door’s dead bolt, shattering it.

  He shouldered his way into the living room, Anna right behind him.

  Empty—a dim table lamp let them see as much—and as he swept the barrel of his .38 around, he saw a purse on the floor.

  “Carmen’s here,” he said.

  Moonlight fingered in through all that glass as Carmen crept down a central aisle. Wooden benches were arrayed with flower pots, Black Pearl roses all around, their rich red looking black by night, highlighted ivory by filtered moon glow.

  She was in the midst of a mammoth bouquet of death.

  Outside, she heard someone running.

  A woman screaming, “You bitch! You ruined

  everything!”

  She was coming, the bald naked woman was coming, and Carmen, in her weakened state, with no clothes on but her panties, not even frigging shoes, knew she had to find a way out of the trap she’d run herself into….

  Harrow moved through the living room—the dining room looking empty, as did what he could see of the kitchen beyond, no light on in there. Anna was checking the rest of the house.

  He remembered moving through another house in the darkness, only to find his son and his wife murdered.

  Not this time. Not this time.

  Breathing hard, ignoring her screaming feet and burning bloody cuts, Carmen ran down the aisle to the greenhouse back door.