Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

The lovemaking was over.

When the team finally broke up Sunday night, everybody running on fumes, Harrow had been surprised to hear himself ask Anna over to his place. And astonished to hear her say yes.

It was a casual evening, delivery pizza and a Dodgers game on ESPN. They watched on the sofa, with her curled up next to him. She seemed so small, so young with her dark hair ponytailed back, almost elfin in T-shirt and jeans and bare feet.

When he fell asleep during the game, she elbowed him. Laughter had followed, and kissing and fondling and then they were in the bedroom and the lovemaking had been slow at first, amazingly so considering how long it had been for him, and then frantic at the conclusion, and now she was asleep and he was at the window, looking out into the abstraction of Los Angeles by night.

He felt empty and guilty and generally like shit.

“Are you all right?”

He jumped at her voice. Hadn’t heard her get out of bed, much less come up behind him.

Looking nicely rumpled, Anna smiled. “Did I just make the heroic Harrow jump?... Or are you... hey, are you ...?”

Crying?

She didn’t say it.

He just nodded.

She kissed the tears away and said, “I understand.”

“I shouldn’t have done this tonight... I’m sorry...”

“Damnit, don’t you apologize. This was what you needed, and what I needed. Understand? And whether we never do it again, or if we wind up together for the next twenty years, it doesn’t matter. Nothing can take tonight away from us, and it doesn’t take a goddamn thing away from all your other nights, when you were married.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Quit apologizing. Damn! Come back to bed.”

She led him there and he lay on his back and she cuddled him.

Her voice was soft, soothing. But there was still something cop in it.

“You had a marriage that worked,” she said. “I had a marriage that went south. But what we have in common is, we don’t have anybody now.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“So quit being such a big baby.”

That made him laugh, and he was kissing her when a cell phone vibrated nearby.

“Yours or mine?” she asked.

“Mine,” Harrow said, reaching across her to pluck the dancing thing off the nightstand. Caller ID box read: CARMEN GARCIA. He glanced at the clock: 2:38 A.M. in blood red LED.

Warmth had filled this room seconds ago; now Harrow felt a chill.

No way this was good news.

And when Amari’s phone jumped in vibration, too, he knew his suspicion had been validated.

When the call came, and another body had turned up in Griffith Park, Detective LeRon Polk took no chances. He hit the observatory parking lot in black T-shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots.

And when Amari showed up, moments later, in typical smart work attire — charcoal gray blazer, black silk blouse, and dark gray slacks — he figured he finally put one over on teacher.

She gave him the once-over. “Going camping?”

“Call was Griffith Park,” he said, cocky with confidence. “You won’t see me ruinin’ another new pair of Bruno Magli’s.”

She nodded toward the concrete parking lot and long, manicured lawn of the Griffith Park Observatory. “As a trained detective, LeRon, you may notice this is not the crest of Mount Lee.”

She had a point.

A couple of patrol cars and the coroner’s wagon were parked nearby, on the circular drive. No lights were flashing. A uniformed officer stood guard near the astronomer’s monument maybe fifty yards from the north entrance of the wide white observatory with its three dark domes.

With the building and statue lit up against a clear sky, a nearly full moon wielding its ivory brush, the scene had a stark beauty interrupted by a single work light and two officers near the door. They stood over a body deposited atop the building’s front steps.

Heading toward the crime scene, Amari said, “You did grow up in Los Angeles, right?”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?”

A voice behind them called, “Wait up!”

They turned to see Special Agent Mark Rousch trotting up. Middle of the night or not, the agent wore a dark suit, white shirt, crisply knotted tie, and “Werewolves of London” perfect hair.

Did Rousch ever sleep, Polk wondered, or need a shave?

“Another Don Juan victim,” the FBI man said.

Not a question.

As they drew closer, an answer came anyway. Uniformed cops bookended the unclad brunette sprawled at the observatory’s entrance. A bouquet of Black Pearl roses draped her left arm, as if Miss America had just been crowned.

Eyes closed, dark hair fanned out, framing the pretty face...

Polk had a twitch of memory.

“This is the youngest yet,” Rousch said, shaking his head, his expression as pale as moonlight.

“All murder victims are old,” Amari said.

Rousch looked at her.

“You can’t get older than dead.”

“Erica Thornton,” Polk said.

The others turned.

Amari frowned. “You know her?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I recognize her. She was the runner-up on the second season of Survival Island .”

“What the hell...?” Rousch said.

“Reality TV,” Amari explained and sighed. To Polk, she added, “Pretty sure?”

“Real damn sure.”

Amari asked the nearest uniformed officer, “Who found the body?”

The officer pointed down the building to a man in security-guard uniform, standing alone, hands fig-leafed.

“I’ll be damned,” Amari said.

Polk groaned. “Not our wannabe law enforcement professional...”

Rousch frowned. “Who is that clown?”

The security guard waved to them and smiled in a goofy embarrassed manner.

Amari said, “Clown is right — he found Wendi Erskine at the Hollywood sign and screwed up the crime scene by driving through it.”

“Christ,” the FBI man said.

“But wait, there’s more,” Polk said in infomercial style. “Then our friendly park ranger opens up the gate and lets some uniforms go down and gawk at a real live dead naked female.”

“He needs a new hobby,” Rousch said. “Let’s have a chat with the guy. Name?”

Simultaneously Amari and Polk blurted: “Jason Wyler.”

The fed made a beeline, and Amari and Polk followed, hanging back a little.

“And what,” Amari asked, voice low, “is the first rule of criminal investigation?”

“First on the scene,” Polk said, “first suspect.”

“And this sterling citizen has been first on the scene twice?”

“Could be a coincidence.”

“LeRon — do we believe in coincidences?”

“I’m just sayin’... it’s not Wyler’s fault if some crazy-ass killer decides to dump another corpse in Griffith Park.”

“We’ll see.”

The skinny security guard pushed his wire-frame glasses farther up his nose, smiling nervously. As the trio of detectives planted themselves before him, Wyler was bouncing foot to foot, an excited puppy blessed with three masters.

Rousch was displaying his ID, but Wyler didn’t seem to notice, homing in on Amari.

“Lieutenant,” Wyler said, “you’ll be proud of me.”

“Will I?”

“I stayed away from the body, just like you told me that other time — down at the sign?”

Like they needed prompting to remember the previous Don Juan victim Wyler discovered.

“Good for you, Jason,” Amari said dryly. “Tell us what happened this time.”

“I was making my rounds, just like always. Saw some teenagers partying over there.” He pointed past the entrance. “I told them to move on.”