Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

“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 Reseda 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?”

“New Mustang,” Polk said. He was already running the plates. “It’s his. You’re good, Lieutenant.”

“We’re good.”

Soon Amari was using a slim jim to open the door. She unlatched the trunk from inside the driver’s compartment.

She told her partner, “Check the glove box — I got the trunk.”

Terrant’s off-duty piece, a snub-nose .38, lay holstered in the spare-tire compartment of an otherwise empty trunk.

“Got it,” she called, relieved.

Polk came around with the car’s registration and Terrant’s insurance card — both laminated.

“This guy may not’ve been gay,” Polk said, “but he sure was a neat freak. I mean, who the hell gets this shit laminated?”

“A very careful man,” Amari said.

“Not that careful,” Polk said. “He’s dead.”

“Yeah, and doesn’t it bother you?”

“Cop getting killed bothers hell out of me.”

“Right, but you’re not seeing it. I don’t think the killer knew Terrant was on the job.”

Polk studied her.

Amari said, “He’s very careful, our Terrant.”

“Okay...”