Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

“Dead sex partners? Stab wounds?”

“No sexual mutilation on the female victim. And we’d have to have a bisexual killer.”

“Is that impossible?”

“No, but it’s rare. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

“Two killers,” Amari said, as if that were the final word, which she thought it was. “No prints on the exit nearest the motel room, but our crime-scene tech thinks Shears must have used that door, since it appeared wiped clean of prints. And that, I am sad to say, is that.”

“Thanks for filling us in,” Carmen said.

“Least I can do. This Ohio trip may jump-start a stalled investigation. First real break was identifying Victim Number One — that was your doing.”

Chase said, “Care to fill us in on the Don Juan investigation now?”

Amari finished her coffee, smiled, said, “No,” and returned to her seat.

She also didn’t tell her new colleagues from Crime Seen that Captain Womack seemed a heartbeat away from taking both cases away from her. And that the chief would likely appoint a task force combining the cases, and call in the FBI, if for no other reason than to cover his ass.

On the ground, they found a cool overcast spring day waiting, and a driver with car on the tarmac. Amari got out her cell, checked her messages — nothing from Harrow but one from Polk, wishing her luck.

Today Polk would be working with the bank where Don Juan had somehow gotten to Wendi Erskine’s money, chasing down the security breach.

She clicked off to join the other two women in the late-model Lincoln. So much for budget cuts. Since Carmen and Chase had taken the backseat, Amari slid in front.

The driver, an older guy with wire-frame glasses, short gray hair, and an extra thirty pounds, screamed ex-cop. His black suit fit him pretty well, considering his girth.

“Anna Amari, LAPD.” She offered him a hand to shake and he did. “How long were you on the job?”

The hint of a smile appeared. “Twenty-seven years, Dayton PD. Gus Lewin.”

“Mr. Lewin, how did we happen to get you for a driver?”

“Don’t miss much do you, Detective Amari?”

“It’s Lieutenant, Gus, but you can call me Anna. I try not to miss anything. Somebody think I need a bodyguard?”

They glided off the tarmac, and through a gate, before he said, “Your Mr. Harrow thought I might be able to smooth the way some, need be.”

Chase in back sat forward. “You know the family, Gus? I’m Laurene, by the way.”

To Amari, Lewin said, “This one doesn’t miss much either.”

“Waco PD,” Amari told him. “How do you know the family?”

“Rebecca’s my goddaughter. Becky’s dad, Ben Cummings and me, we were pals.”

“Ben also a cop?”

A nod. “In Huber Heights. Dropped dead of a heart attack, year from retirement. I tell everybody, take that Social Security soon as you can. You never know.”

They were on the interstate now, I-70, heading east. After one exit, Lewin pulled off.

Amari asked, “You know Brent?”

“Kind of a screwup, but a nice kid.”

“Screwup how?”

“Nothing major. Some guys just don’t know how good they got it, is all.”

She withdrew a photo of the deceased John Doe from her pocket, passed it to the driver.

“Shit,” Lewin said, handing it back. Suddenly he was concentrating very hard on his driving.

Amari glanced in back where Chase and Carmen were both nodding. They would take this reaction as a positive ID.

“Sorry for your loss, Gus.”

“I said he was a screwup.”

“You okay?” She could see his eyes were tearing up, but the emotional rain wasn’t quite falling.

“I feel bad for Becky. She loved the idiot. Gonna break what’s left of her heart. You know, they was talking about getting back together.”

“Okay, Gus. One more question. Something I’d rather not ask Mrs. Vicker cold.”

“You mean, was Brent doing drugs?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Twenty-seven years as a cop. When you’re worried how a survivor’s gonna take it, it’s usually either drugs or...”

He didn’t seem able to complete the sentence.

Amari, in a way, did it for him: “Brent died in bed at a hotel that caters to a gay male clientele.”

Lewin frowned. “Did he like boys? I can’t say it’s impossible. I know he ran around on Becky, some. I never heard that about him, or saw any signs.”

From the backseat, Chase said, “Closeted gays can be very discreet, Mr. Lewin.”

“Well, I don’t buy it.”

Amari said, “I need to ask Mrs. Vicker that question. How is she likely to react?”

“I have no idea,” Lewin admitted.

“Okay. I assume you still have Huber Heights PD contacts.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s get some locals out here. You’ve made the guy in the photo as Vicker, so they’ll want to talk to Mrs. Vicker. And they can leave somebody with her.”

He made the call.

That was all the talk before Lewin pulled up at a squat brick ranch-style like every other house in Huber Heights, Ohio. The driver got out to get the door for his two backseat passengers while Amari climbed out on her own.

A van from the local UBC affiliate pulled in behind them.

The camera crew piled out — a skinny guy about thirty in a Bengals sweatshirt and jeans, lugging the Sony cam, and a heavier, older dude in jeans and a Reds away jersey, hauling the boom.

Amari let Carmen take the lead as the three women approached the two men. Introductions were made.

Carmen said, “Lieutenant Amari does her interview first. Don’t even turn the camera on till we say it’s kosher — got it?”

Both men nodded.

A Crown Vic pulled up and parked across the street. Unmarked car , Amari thought. Two guys got out, jeans, button-down shirts, ties, cheap sport coats. Detectives .

She approached them, displaying her ID. “Lieutenant Anna Amari, LAPD.”

“Hamilton,” a middle-aged, dark-haired detective said, shaking her hand, not bothering with ID.

His young blond partner introduced himself as “Deeter,” and he and Amari merely exchanged nods.

The blond cop was looking at Carmen and Chase, who were discussing logistics with the camera crew on the lawn.

“That’s Carmen Garcia,” he said, wide-eyed. “And Laurene Chase!”

Amari gave him a look. “Oh, then you do get the tee vee out here in Ohio.”

The young cop gave her a puzzled look, and the older one an embarrassed one.

Soon the small army trooped up to the front door, Amari and the Crime Seen duo trailed by the cops and techs, and driver Lewin, too.

The LAPD detective had barely knocked when the door was opened by a thirtysomething blonde woman in a black blouse and black slacks. Had Becky Vicker consciously chosen widow’s weeds?

The three women stepped inside, and introductions were made, the men remaining grouped on the porch. The woman was holding it together, but when she glimpsed Lewin, that triggered tears. For a moment, Amari thought the woman might collapse.

She and the ex-cop must have had the same thought, because Lewin slipped inside and both he and Amari grabbed an arm and swept Becky Vicker into her living room, depositing her on a sofa.

Lewin produced a handkerchief and gave it to his weeping friend, he and Amari bookending the woman. Finally the two detectives filed in, camera crew still on the porch.

Chase and Carmen took chairs opposite the sofa in the modest living room with its contemporary furnishings. An end table bore a photo of

Brent and Becky Vicker taken perhaps five years ago.

When Mrs. Vicker stopped crying, Lewin introduced the two Huber Heights detectives, who stood in the nearby entryway.