No One Will Hear You

Chapter Fifteen

Amari kept a change of clothes in her trunk. You could never know when a night out might be interrupted by a work call, so with the Dodgers on their way to an easy win — and J.C. Harrow maybe on the verge of scoring himself — she found herself leaving the stadium behind and pulling into the nearest gas station.

When she returned from the ladies’ room to the convertible — now in cotton shirt, jeans, sneakers, and LAPD Windbreaker — she opened the rider’s side door, unlocked the glove compartment, removed her holstered Glock, and clipped it to her belt.

She had only asked Harrow how he came up with the name Wendi Erskine to cover her bases (well, and her ass). She never expected a straight answer, and — while the way he’d come upon the info was infuriating — his frankness had floored her. Such honesty was a pleasant change from men she’d dated in recent years.

On the other hand, she’d never considered telling him that Captain Womack had called to say a second Billy Shears victim was waiting on a bed of blood in a motel in Reseda.

She took the 101, the Hollywood sign zipping by on her right, just before she turned onto the Ventura Freeway to get to the 405 for the drive to Reseda. Driving fast to get to a crime scene was a favorite perk. She flew through the cool evening, no siren but the red light on the dash flashing a path... some traffic even moved to the right, out of her way, like they were supposed to.

When she got off the 405, she turned west on Sepulveda and sped past the Van Nuys Airport. Before long the motel popped up on the left, its parking lot arrayed with emergency vehicles flashing blue and red.

She parked two spaces down from Polk, who was just getting out of the Crown Vic. They fell in step together as they crossed the lot.

Her young partner looked typically sharp in a black pinstripe suit with an Oxford shirt and red-and-gray striped tie. A gray fedora topped the outfit and gave him a Capone mob aspect. Should she break it to him that Big Al and the boys were stone-cold racists? Naw.

“What got ruined for you tonight, Lieutenant?”

“Dodgers — Cardinals game. Up six to one. You?”

“Dinner with a very fine lady.”

“Same fine lady as last week?”

”One I met this week.”

Amari glanced from the dapper-dressed Polk to their nondescript unmarked.

“How fine can she be,” she asked with good-natured skepticism, “if you took her to dinner in our wheels?”

“Told her my Benz is in the shop.”

“What Benz?”

He flashed a grin. “Exactly.”

This was a mom-and-pop inn that had once been part of the Ramada chain, and she and Polk might have been walking into 1993.

The lobby furniture was decent, if threadbare and/or scuffed. A couple of couches shared space with a coffee table (strewn with complimentary newspapers and things-to-do pamphlets) and a corner credenza with a coffee machine. The carpeting was worn but clean. Near the front desk, a wall-mounted tube TV showed CNN, volume off.

In this exhibit at the Hall of Ancient Accommodations, Amari was pleased to note two video cameras aimed at the front door and the desk.

A uniformed officer, name tag: LEE, met them as they came in.

“Brutal one,” the Asian American cop said, after the introductions.

“So I hear,” Amari said.

“Looks like our boy Billy Shears again. Killer collected the victim’s package.”

Shuddering, Polk said, “You know, I wanted to be a fireman.”

“You’re young,” Amari said. “Never too late for a career change.”

They followed Lee through the lobby and up the stairs to the second floor and down a hallway, stopping at the top of its T, where cameras pointed in either direction.

Good, she thought.

“Room’s on the right,” Lee said, “all the way to the end.”

Amari asked, “Who found the body?”

“One of the owners — Mrs. Olmstad.”

Polk said, “Don’t tell us Mrs. Olmstad changes all the sheets herself.”

“It’s not that small an operation, but it’s on the cheesy side, all right.” Lee shrugged. “Clock radio went off full blast tonight, at seven, and just kept blaring. Guest next door phoned the desk to complain. Mrs. Olmstad came down to check and, when she got no answer, used her key to get in and, surprise — dead frickin’ guest.”

They took the right and started down the corridor, Lee out front.

“Anybody see or hear anything,” Amari asked, “besides that alarm going off?”

Lee shook his head. “A couple of my guys did a prelim canvas of the few guests who are in. Of course, some have checked out recently and, as you’ll see, this guy checked out a while ago. Plus, this joint’s got more vacancies than a Clippers game.”

“The current guests have anything for us?”

“Nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything, nobody wants to get involved.”

“Who’s the room registered to?”

“Al Roberts. Of Chicago, Illinois. No street address.”

“Is Roberts our victim?”

They were at the room now; a uniformed officer stepped aside so they could enter.

“No ID,” Lee said, letting the two detectives go in first. “Everything’s gone — clothes, wallet. No car in the parking lot that’s unaccounted for, either by a guest or the staff. You’re the lucky winners of a John Doe.”

This room, fairly good-sized, was more generic than the one at the Star Struck — no San Francisco whorehouse touches. The major similarity was the nude male corpse sprawled dead-center on the bed, a sheet draped from the waist down, a large black-bloody hole, mid-torso.

A crime-scene tech in the bathroom was working with an electrostatic footprint lifter, while balding assistant coroner Devin Talbot sat at the shabby little writing desk on the far side of the room.

“Working nights, Dink?” Amari asked cheerfully. “Who did you piss off?”

“Nobody, if you can believe that.” He shrugged. “Couple people on vacation — we’re stretched thin.”

“So I noticed. Got anything that might make my life easier?”

“Not really,” Talbot said, rising to move to the bed. “Fewer wounds this time, but the first one is deeper, certainly fatal. This perp is strong.”

“So,” Polk said, “he was less angry this time?”

“Maybe,” Talbot granted. “More likely, he’s just getting better at it. Looks to me like he’s more confident than last time.”

Amari asked, “What makes you say that?”

“Last time there were secondary wounds we attributed to extreme rage.”

“Yeah?”

Bending over the body, Talbot said, “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe on that first one? He wasn’t sure he’d gotten the job done with that first blow, and kept at it. This time, well, his first try was the kill shot.”

“If it’s not about anger,” Polk asked, “what is it about?”

“Not saying anger doesn’t enter in,” Talbot said. “But this kill is also about control... control and power — over both the victims and himself.”

“Control,” Polk said, like he was tasting the word.

“Over life and death,” Talbot said. “Whether the victim lives is the killer’s choice. But this is also about... shall we call him Billy Shears?”

Amari sighed. “Why not? Everybody else is.”

“Well, this is about Billy Shears and how he sees himself. This time, when he took his trophy of the victim’s genitalia, the cut was more assured, more controlled.”

Having a peek under the sheet, a grimacing Polk said, softly, “It was more jagged last time.”

“Right,” the coroner’s man said. “Billy hesitated a couple of times. Not this time — we’re talking one smooth stroke. Like a tree surgeon cutting off a leafy branch.”

Polk shuddered again and let the sheet down.

Talbot was saying: “Billy waited longer this time, too, before trophy time. Less blood. Your boy’s getting better at his job.”

“A fast learner,” Amari said with quiet disgust. She sniffed, turning her head as she did so. “Smells like smoke again, too.”

The crime-scene tech emerged from the bathroom — Glenn Madlin, an old vet Amari knew well, tall, thin, silver-haired, nearing retirement.

“Smells like more than one cigarette,” Madlin said in his unemotional tenor, “judging from the bathroom.”

“Hi, Glenn,” Amari said. “He flush them?”

“Hi, Anna. Seems to be the case. No fingerprints on anything, and the only footprints are from shoe-covered booties.”

“So,” Polk said, with an awful sigh and a worse smile, “we got nothin’ again?”

“Nothing on my end,” Madlin admitted.

Amari asked, “What say you, Dink?”

“Nothing yet,” Talbot said. “Maybe another hair’ll turn up. When I get back, I’ll run the prints and do a tox screen. My guess is Mr. Shears roofied this one, too. Who knows, maybe we can at least ID the poor bastard.”

“Shit,” Polk said. “Nothing?”

He was asking the coroner’s man, but Amari answered.

“Something,” she said. “We have at least four video cameras. One had to catch something — I don’t care how careful Billy Boy was.”

Lee had been lurking around the doorway. Now he stepped in deeper... and he looked sick. “Umm, guys — there isn’t any video.”

Amari blurted an f-bomb, then calmed herself. “Sergeant, how is that possible? I saw four cameras.”

“Seven,” Lee said with a shrug, “if you count the ones outside — it’s just... the system was installed when the hotel was still part of the Ramada chain. When the main tape deck... it’s tape, not DVD... busted, about six months ago? The Olmstads didn’t spend the money to fix it.”

Amari glared at the sergeant. “And you saved this sweet tidbit for me till now why?”

“It slipped my mind. You didn’t ask and... sorry, Lieutenant.”

She raised a hand to silence any further apology.

“They’re waiting in the office, just off the front desk.”

To the coroner’s assistant, Amari said, “Call me when you’ve got something, Dink.” “Will do.”

In the corridor, Amari accessed the geography — the victim’s room was near the end of the hall. A doorway to the stairs down to the parking lot was nearby. She stuck her head back in the room.

Madlin and Talbot both looked up.

Amari said, “Glenn, make sure you dust this exit door, will you? My guess is the killer used it.”

“You got it, Anna.”

Madlin was not one of those techs who got irritated when you told them how to do their jobs. Not that either Amari or Madlin expected Billy Shears to leave his prints behind...

“These cameras being defunct,” she said, pointing at one, as they headed back down the corridor, Sergeant Lee bringing up the rear. “That might tell us something.”

Polk smirked. “That we are unlucky as hell?”

“No. That Billy Shears does his homework...”

Soon Amari and Polk — leaving Lee behind — joined the motel owners in the small, cluttered office off the desk.

Mr. Olmstad was paunchy but in decent enough shape for his age, his hair barely graying. He must have been working the desk, because he was in a navy blazer with what Amari guessed was a yellow turtleneck dickey.

In a yellow blouse and navy slacks, Mrs. Olmstad was thin, her shortish hair bottle blonde, bifocals on a black cord around her neck. She was dabbing at red eyes with a tissue, sitting at the metal desk in the small space, her husband towering behind her.

“I know this was very unpleasant for you,” Amari said.

Mrs. Olmstad nodded. “We’ve had deaths here before. All hotels do. But this... this...”

“The guest who was killed — was it Al Roberts?”

“Who?” Mr. Olmstad asked.

“Al Roberts is the name on your guest register. Of the man who checked in.”

Olmstad gave a facial shrug, but his wife said, “No, that was not Mr. Roberts. Mr. Roberts I checked in on Wednesday afternoon. His room is paid for through tomorrow morning.”

Amari nodded. “How did he pay?”

“Cash,” Mrs. Olmstad said.

“No credit card for incidentals?”

“No. He paid for two nights.”

“Don’t you usually insist on a credit card for incidentals?”

“We don’t have room service.”

“Couldn’t you get nicked on long-distance calls?”

“Yes, but, uh...”

“But what, Mrs. Olmstad?”

“He gave me one hundred dollars on deposit. Said he wasn’t planning on making any long-distance calls, and I could keep the deposit, either way.”

Polk asked, “What did he look like?”

“Not too tall. Kind of heavyset, and you might call him handsome, only he had a scar on his left cheek. Ugly one, too. First thing you saw about him.”

Amari asked, “Could you describe the scar?”

“Long... jagged. Ran clear from his eyebrow almost all the way to his chin.”

“Eye color?”

“Brown, I believe.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Yes, brown.”

“Hair?”

“Brown. Kinda on the long side, but well groomed.”

This sounded nothing like guy who’d checked into the Star Struck.

“Do you think you could describe the man who checked in to one of our forensic artists?”

“Certainly.”

“Now, about the security cameras...”

Mr. Olmstad jumped in. “I am so sorry about that. We never thought we’d need them here. We just never have any problems.”

Amari couldn’t help herself — she gave the man an arched eyebrow.

And he said, “Well... till this awful thing happened. We’re the kind of place you go when you forgot to make a reservation, or your hotel loses your reservation, or... frankly... if you meet somebody you want to spend a few hours with.”

“The cameras been down for six months?”

“Yes, ma’am, more or less.”

“Who might know they were broken?”

“Chiefly, just the staff. That’s me, the wife, and three part-time desk clerks and four maids.”

“We’ll need their names and contact information.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Olmstad said, fingertips touching her thin lips. “I can’t think any of our help would be involved with anything like this... They’re all so reliable. A few may not have their green cards. Will that be a problem?”

Polk said, “We’re not Immigration.”

Amari said, “Mr. Olmstad, could you tell me one thing — and I promise it won’t get you in trouble. You admitted this is the kind of hotel where couples can go to spend a few hours together.”

He shrugged uncomfortably.

“Did you ever have a guest ask about the cameras? Whether they worked? Maybe how long the tapes were kept before they were disposed of, or reused?”

“Well... sometimes guests say something in a kind of joking way. Guy checking in with a girl... or even a guy checking in with... a guy. Might kid me, and say something like, ‘I don’t have to worry about these cameras, do I?’ ”

“Oh-kay,” Amari said. “And what might you say?”

“I might... I guess I maybe might kid ‘em back.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I might say... don’t worry about those cameras. They been busted a long time.”

Amari and Polk traded tortured glances.

“But,” Amari said to Olmstad, “you wouldn’t know who any of those guests would be?”

“Sorry. No. Well, there’s probably some named ‘John Smith,’ that kind of thing. But as far as our staff, I’ve got a list out front that we can photocopy for you.”

“Oh,” Polk said innocently, “your photocopy machine works?”

“Oh yes.”

“That’s nice.”

Amari gave her partner a look, but she could hardly blame him for the dig, not that either of the Olmstads picked up on it.

“That staff list will be helpful,” Amari told the couple pleasantly. “We need to rule them out as suspects and see if any might’ve mentioned the broken cameras to anybody who innocently passed that information along.”

Soon Olmstad was handing Amari a photocopy of the single-page list, which she folded and slipped into a pocket of her Windbreaker.

“Thank you,” Amari said. Then to both: “Can you think of anybody not staff who might know the cameras were out of commission?”

“We don’t advertise that they’re not functioning,” Mr. Olmstad said, as if joking with guests about it didn’t qualify. “We figured if no one knew they were busted, the things’d still work as a, you know, deterrent.”

“All due respect, sir? You might want to reconsider that policy.”