Макс Коллинз: No One Will Hear You

Kaylan froze, agape.

Polk, perhaps happy to find someone below him in the pecking order, said, “Were you absent that day?”

“Uh... what day?”

“The day they did footprints at the Academy?”

“We... uh... we...”

“Round up your friends,” Amari said quietly, not wanting to start a stampede, “and get up the hill. Send the crime-scene unit down when they get here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said.

“Nobody leave. CSU will want your shoes.”

“Shoes?”

Polk asked, “First crime scene?”

The young officer nodded.

Amari told him, “Now that you’ve all walked through an active crime scene, and had a good long look at a nude dead woman, CSU will need your shoes... so they can separate your footprints from those of the killer.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” the rookie said.

“Don’t cry. Just get up the hill and keep an eye on that security guard — we’ll want to talk to him after we’ve had a look at the body.”

“Will do.”

“Don’t yell over to them! Go over and quietly round them up and tell them to watch where they step.”

Kaylan nodded, went over, and passed along Amari’s orders to the others, who looked back at her in various ways (alarm, resentment, fear, confusion), then led the parade back up the hill.

“Damn rookies,” Polk said.

Amari felt it was to her credit that she didn’t smile.

Thing of it was, civilians weren’t the only ones who gawked at a crime scene. Often, it was cops, too. Not just young ones — you could be a cop for a long time in a city this big and never encounter a murder scene... particularly one with a nude woman as its HOLLYWOOD star.

Last night

Appraising herself in the restroom mirror in Kyuui — LA’s trendiest new sushi bar — twenty-five-year-old Wendi Erskine felt nervous, excited, and fortunate all at once.

The diminutive blonde — born in Hermon, Maine, near Bangor — had gotten out of the snow belt and come to Hollywood only two weeks after high school graduation.

Now, seven (often frustrating) years later, she was at a chic LA eatery with a movie producer (slash prospective boyfriend) waiting for her in a dining room far swankier than those at the half dozen restaurants where she’d been a waitress in this very tough town.

She granted herself a final look in the mirror. Her hair just right, eye makeup fine, lip gloss emphasizing the natural fullness of her mouth. And the little black dress showed off her shapely, slender figure to fine advantage without making her look slutty. She wanted to look desirable to Louis, but not available.

Anyway, not readily available...

When he had ordered a second round of drinks before dinner, she’d excused herself to the ladies’ room. This was a date, definitely, but there would be business talk as well, and she wanted to stay sharp.

She hoped when she returned to the table, their dinner would beat her there, and she could nurse the second cosmopolitan through the meal. Of course these fancy-schmancy restaurants took their time serving up meals. Come on , she thought, how long does it take to prepare raw fish, anyway?

The way his smile blossomed, seeing her return, was really cute. But “cute” didn’t quite cut it for the suave filmmaker. Lacking this town’s usual tan, Louis had longish black hair, a nicely trimmed matching goatee, alert brown eyes, and dimples when he showed off those blindingly white teeth.

Probably caps, but who cared? She had implants, didn’t she? Hollywood was always part illusion.

Her date’s natural good looks were amplified by his well-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit, off-white shirt, and geometrically patterned black-and-gray tie.

Louis St. James had approached Wendi after seeing her in a showcase production of Bus Stop at a little theater in Santa Monica where she had played Cherie, the Marilyn Monroe part (actually, Kim Stanley part). After the show, he’d come backstage, introduced himself, and told her he thought she had a big future.

Instead of hitting on her, he had given her a business card.

“There are a lot of lovely girls in this town,” he’d said. “But only a handful have your sensitivity. And if the camera can capture the charisma that comes across on stage... do give us a call.”

Seemed sincere, but a lot of creeps in LA were capable of smooth lines like that — town was full of actors, after all — and back when she’d first got off the bus, Wendi might well have fallen for it.

But not now.

She checked out Louis St. James on the Internet Movie Database, where he looked legit, and a link was provided to his website. He had plenty of producing credits and several projects “in development” and a several more “in pre-production.”

Admittedly, most of his credits were lower-budget indies she’d never heard of; but then the two movies she’d been in would fall into that same category.

And a faker would have made himself look like a bigger shot than this. His credentials seemed legit enough.

He’d turned out to be articulate, and sophisticated, with a genuine interest in her, and not just her body. Mostly he wanted to know about roles she’d played, on stage and the handful in movies and TV. Even the infomercials that had been her steadiest gig, outside of waitressing.

“I have the perfect role for you,” he’d said several times, once calling it “the role of a lifetime.”

When she reached the table, he rose, held her chair for her, and only returned to his own place when she was seated. Wow — a gentleman. In Los Angeles, California, yet.

“You look especially beautiful tonight,” he said, with a gentle smile. “You have a glow.”

“Stop it,” she said, returning the smile.

He gestured toward her cosmo, which had come while she was gone. She took a tentative sip.

“I thought our food would be here by now,” she said. “I don’t like to drink on an empty stomach.”

“Shouldn’t be long. You know these places — they put ambience ahead of appetite.”

She laughed lightly and took another sip.

“You know,” he said, “you did a fine job in that infomercial. It’s a thankless task, but you really came across well.”

“Which infomercial?” she asked. She was grateful he didn’t look down on her for doing them; infomercials paid well, and gave her the opportunity to act, sort of.

“The tortilla press,” he said.

“The Sancho!” she said. “Whenever did you see that?”

“Oh, at three a.m. a couple nights ago, when I was fighting insomnia.”

“That’s prime time,” she said with a half smile, “in the infomercial biz.”

“Well, I’ve seen a lot of your work, thanks to sleepless nights — Snuggie, ShamWow... You rocked the Flowbee.”

“Now you’re teasing,” she said.

“No. You did a good job with what was not exactly Shakespeare. Not even Mamet. Anyway, I’m a professional, and I admire professionalism. Here’s to you, Wendi.”

He raised his glass and she did hers, and they both drank.

Finally dinner arrived. They made small talk through the meal. Wendi finished her second drink and allowed herself a third, though Louis was still nursing number two. She was not a heavy drinker and wasn’t surprised when, as they left the restaurant, she felt a little tipsy.

Still, she hadn’t had that much, and Wendi wondered if maybe the sushi was bad. She knew all about restaurants selling fish that was off.

“I hope we know each other well enough,” Louis said, “that I can suggest we go back to my place, and look at that script.”