Макс Коллинз: No One Will Hear You

“Not necessarily. They’re bare-bones sites, descriptions of film plots, cast lists of unknowns, a few generic pics.”

“Isn’t that true for a lot of little films?”

“It is, but most films, even little indie ones, you can buy somewhere. They’ve been in some film festival. St. James’ productions, you can’t buy ‘em at Amazon or Barnes and Noble or any other website.”

“Google?”

“Google search brings up websites but nothing else. There’s no buzz about these films. No blogs, no reviews, no chats, no nothing. If these epics exist, no one has ever seen them yet. I mean no one.”

Harrow thought for a moment. “But there’s enough online to convince a hungry, aspiring young actress that he’s real.”

“On the nose, boss.”

“Any idea who this guy really is?”

“Facial recognition software’s drawing a blank... wait. Here we go. Louis St. James is listed in the county recorder’s office. He has a bungalow in Chatsworth, near the reservoir.”

She gave him the address.

“Okay,” he said. “Anna and I are on our way there. Tell Laurene and Billy what you’ve found and keep at it.”

He clicked off, filled Anna in.

She got on her cell to call her captain and have him order a SWAT team to the St. James bungalow in Chatsworth.

In the bathroom at Kyuui, Carmen heard her cell phone chirp in her purse. She took it out, saw it was Jenny, and almost answered.

But tonight was her night, a special night, and work could wait. It wasn’t like she was one of the superstar forensics investigators — she was just “talent.” She shut the phone off, tucked it in her purse, checked herself in the mirror, then headed back to the table.

Vince had another cup of sake poured, but she was giddy already. Soon their dinner came — she had a nigiri assortment, Vince a spider roll — and they sampled each other’s food.

They decided not to take in a movie, though what they’d do instead remained up in the air.

As they exited the restaurant, Carmen felt a little wobbly.

“You okay?” he asked. “Too much sake?”

Actually, she’d held it to one cup.

“Too much work, too little sleep.”

“Do we need to call it a night? I was kind of hoping you might come over to my place. You’ve never seen it, after all.”

The valet was bringing Vince’s car around.

She twitched a smile his way. “How can I pass it up?”

He slipped an arm around her, kissed her cheek.

“Once in a lifetime,” he said.

When Carmen and Vince got to his house, the place was dark. He turned a single table lamp on and they sat on the sofa. His digs — at least the living room — were furnished in a surprisingly spare fashion, more appropriate for an apartment than a bungalow.

The sofa was white with black-and-white striped pillows, the floor waxed wood with throw rugs, the eggshell-white walls hung with a handful of movie-star prints, Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause mode, Cary Grant in a tuxedo, Marlene Dietrich in a tuxedo.

She was still feeling a trifle out of sorts from dinner. Something hadn’t settled right — whenever she had an upset tummy after sushi, all she could think of was that deadly blowfish from Japan.

Right now she was both queasy and a little drowsy.

This did not dissuade her in her mission, however — she would take this relationship to the next level, or know the reason why not...

Behind living room curtains, a yellow glow burned; a red Mitsubishi Eclipse perched in the carport. Harrow turned his car around, and he and Anna parked on the other side of this quiet residential cul-de-sac, a short distance from Louis St. James’s house.

No sign of the SWAT team, but Harrow wasn’t surprised. SWAT might be fabled for fast response, but they weren’t just sitting around poised for action. A team had to be rounded up, piled into the van, then make the long drive to Chatsworth.

And only about forty minutes had elapsed since Anna had called her boss, Captain Womack.

Harrow asked, “So, you figure Womack called the FBI?”

“About fifty-fifty,” she said. “He’s under orders to, but he also doesn’t love the bum’s rush the Fibbies gave us.”

Harrow nodded.

Anna fidgeted. “I don’t know where the hell that search warrant is.”

“We have promising information,” he said with a shrug, “but it’s no smoking gun. It could take time.”

She sighed.

“His car is there. He’s not going anywhere.”

The windows were down and a cool breeze whispered through. They didn’t speak. Just another stakeout, if they hadn’t been holding hands.

Ten minutes later, Anna answered her vibrating cell.

“Good,” she told it, clicked off, and said to Harrow, “Polk. On his way with the warrant. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

Ten more minutes passed before the unmarked SWAT van appeared, coming their way, not hauling ass, attracting no attention.

Anna said, “Flash your lights.”

He did so.

The van rolled to a stop opposite.

A tall, blonde officer in the black fatigues of the SWAT unit climbed out on the driver’s side. He had a craggy, pockmarked face but wasn’t old — maybe mid-thirties. Name tag read LT. MCCLELLAN.

He came over and leaned in like a carhop — a dangerous-looking one. He looked past Harrow. “Good evening, Lieutenant Amari.”

“Hello, Mac. That’s the house — on your side. Two doors up.”

McClellan nodded.

“You know whose place that is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And why you’re here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Make it ‘Anna.’ I’m not your mother.”

He found a grin. His teeth were better than his complexion. “Okay, Anna. Warrant here?”

“On its way. Any time now.”

“Suspect in the house?”

“Unconfirmed,” Harrow said. “I’m J.C. Harrow.”

“I recognize you, sir. I can see lights on.”

“Yeah. And his car’s there. I think he’s home. I just hope he isn’t entertaining a guest while we sit here on our asses.”

“Glad to kick that door in, if you can give me probable cause.”

Anna answered: “Can’t cut that, Mac. We’ll wait for the warrant.”

As if on cue, Polk drove up in their Crown Vic, and hustled the warrant over.

“Time to saddle up,” McClellan said, and crossed the street.

More black-fatigued SWAT officers piled out.

They made out on the couch. As always, there was something youthful about it, like teenagers in a drive-in as they kissed and kissed, and finally, finally , Vince’s fingers risked unzipping her dress, and then he was kissing her breasts. So expert. So gentle.

After all the hesitation, and so much restraint over these months, at last Vince was revealing a passionate side — or anyway an experienced one. Still, he seemed to be holding back part of himself — even with his mouth at her breast, she felt he was withholding emotion.

But if Vince’s technique was mechanical, it did the trick, and as his hands made a perp out of her, with a full-body search, she felt better, more into it, the queasiness gone, the fuzziness still there but lending a nice soft-focus feel...

She’d never dreamed shy Vince Clay could be like this.

Such a great lover.

She kicked off her shoes as he buried his face in her neck, like a shy vampire, and with the top of her dress bunched around her waist, Carmen felt warm and ready. Should she slip out of the dress entirely, and just let him take her there, on the sofa?

He read her mind, coming up for a breath to say, “Maybe it’s time to take this to the bedroom...”