Макс Коллинз: No One Will Hear You

Only they had passed this floor’s ice and vending machines, and no Rousch.

“Hold up, Billy.”

Choi noticed the ajar door, too. He slipped a hand under his black leather jacket and came back with a .38 snubby.

Harrow approached the door but did not touch the knob. “Mark! Mark, it’s Harrow!”

Nothing.

Harrow, frowning, got out his cell. “I’m going to check in with Anna.”

“What for? We’re big boys.”

Harrow didn’t answer Choi, getting Anna right away.

“We may have a problem,” he told her.

“What?”

He laid it all out for her.

“Do not,” she said sternly, “go through that door.”

Choi was already angling to peer in the crack.

“Gimme a break,” Harrow said. “We do know how to handle crime scenes.”

“I know, but—”

“But Agent Rousch may need our help, other side of this door. We’re going in.”

“No!” Anna said. “Don Juan has bomb-making skills — remember the box he rigged at the Hollywood sign. This could be a—”

Choi shouldered the door open, and Harrow hit the deck, with Anna’s voice in his ear: “... trap!”

No explosion.

Choi, 38 pointing upward, gazed curiously down at Harrow. “What’s your problem?”

Harrow gathered himself, and his dignity, told Anna that Billy had already kicked the door open, that nothing and nobody had been blown to pieces, and that they were going in to check on the FBI man.

“Don’t hang up!” she ordered, and Harrow hung up.

He slipped the cell in his pocket, trading it for his own .38, not a snubby.

Choi led the way. The bedroom area was around to the right, past the bathroom, blocked from view in the short hallway.

Then Choi stopped dead.

Almost bumping into the younger man, Harrow said, “What the hell?”

Then he saw “what the hell” — or maybe he just saw hell ...

Special Agent Mark Rousch lay bound and gagged on the bed, blood-spattered and naked. Blood was everywhere, the bed, the floor, even the ceiling. The grotesque signature — the deep fatal wound, the butcher-shop emasculation — said Billie Shears, though the amount of blood indicated the killer had not waited for lividity to set in, rather had taken her trophy shortly after the killing blow .

The blood was so fresh, it still gleamed red, and a coppery scent lingered.

“Christ,” Choi said. “They did this with us in the building — we were eating our damn burgers when...”

The cocky ex-cop suddenly looked ill.

Harrow said, “They probably walked right by us in the lobby.”

He turned his back on the charnel house and got Anna on the cell. “Rousch is dead. Looks like Billie Shears. M.O.’s a little different, but... it’s unmistakable.

“On our way,” she said.

He clicked off. Turned to Choi. “Let’s wait in the hall. This is a messy enough crime scene. Let’s not contaminate it.”

Choi nodded.

In the hall, the two men milled restlessly. Frustration and anger had them by the collars, shaking them. Both knew that Don Juan and Billie Shears might well have been in an elevator going down when they were going up.

“Screwing with us,” Choi said. “Screwing with us.”

“I know. But they’re getting bold, which means they’re getting sloppy.”

“Oh yeah,” Choi said with a sneer. “We got ‘em right where we want ‘em...”

The feds descended.

The Killer TV team and even the LAPD were relegated to don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you status, the big boys taking over. Anna and Polk got assigned to other cases; when Anna balked, her captain generously granted her a week’s vacation she hadn’t requested.

A media-fueled panic burned through the city. Gun sales were up, sales of pepper spray and guard dogs, too, and the mayor and city council were exploring a curfew — an idea Harrow pronounced doomed to failure.

Although Billie Shears might pick her victims somewhat randomly, Don Juan’s prey were chosen with care, and no telling how many victims were already in his queue. Even with a curfew — really, a laughable concept in LA — Don Juan still had access to any victims already scouted.

Of course, Harrow and his team still kept digging, FBI be damned. Chase was looking for connections with acting classes, producers, press agents, or any group Don Juan might troll. With all the evidence in federal hands, Pall and Anderson were left without lab work, and instead helped Chase scale her mountain of possibilities.

Choi, who had identified Billie’s shears as hedge clippers, now sought a specific item — model, brand name, anything. Back at the LAPD, Polk had ruled out Jason Wyler — alibis on several of the murders.

The reluctantly vacationing Anna was helping Harrow scrutinize Jenny-fabricated copies of the Deluxe Sunset security tapes, the originals having been seized by the FBI. They started with the attack on Rousch in the corridor, but the camera was far away and details were sketchy.

Only Carmen had no work to do on the investigation. She alone was taking care of business, i.e., supervising pre-taped Crime Seen segments for their next show. Unlike everybody else, her hours were merely horrible, not horrific, and she was even managing something of a social life.

When Vince had suggested sushi for dinner, she leapt at the chance. Post-Kansas, she mostly ate at home, and she loved Japanese food. The restaurant Vince selected was kind of a high-profile place, which had its risks.

Vince walked her through a gauntlet of paparazzi as they approached the entrance, camera flashes strobing them.

“Sorry,” he said, with a concerned frown, as they stepped inside. “I forget you’re a TV star. That stuff must be a pain.”

“I’ve avoided it lately,” she admitted. “But it’s about time I crawled out of my shell.”

“I don’t know how you can stand it. I’m happy to be a nobody and have some privacy in my life.”

Vince looked his usual hawkishly handsome self, sharp in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie with geometric pattern.

At their table, he said, “I don’t blame them for wanting your picture, though — you look especially lovely tonight.”

He didn’t look so bad himself — his short brown perfect hair, his pale blue eyes leaping out of the dark tan.

But he wasn’t lying — she looked good, and knew it. She’d worn a little black dress withheld for special occasions, and this was one — their three-month anniversary. The dress was almost mini-short and its neckline wasn’t designed for a shy girl. They had been together all this time, and kissed and petted, like kids... but nothing more.

Tonight would be the night. He would not escape. He was in her crosshairs, and he didn’t have a chance...

When their drinks arrived — gin and tonic for him, Diet Sprite for her — Vince asked, “Still hectic at the show?”

“Oh yes. And my workload is, well, it’s getting out of hand.”

“Why?”

“Everybody else is still working on those... those cases . You know.”

“You said the FBI swooped in and—”

“You think that’s going to stop J.C. Harrow?” She laughed, sipped her soft drink.

“So you’re working on other stories.”

“Right. I mean, right now we don’t even know whether we can even mention those two.”

“Don Juan? Billie Shears? Why not? Everybody’s talking about them.”

“Even you and me, right now. Well, there are legal battles going on. I’m operating on the assumption that we need to put together a full week’s worth of show without those two maniacs to lean on.”