No One Will Hear You

Chapter Nineteen

Amari felt a hand gently shake her shoulder and opened her eyes to the glow of sunshine around the edges of the drawn shade of the airplane window.

Laurene Chase said, “Welcome to Dayton, Ohio, where the time is ten-thirty a.m. Be on the ground in about an hour, Lieutenant.”

Then Chase was gone, and Amari was sitting up, stretching, yawning. She had the first-class-style seat to herself in the small, cream-colored cabin of the Cessna Citation XL, UBC’s small corporate jet. The only other passengers were Chase and Carmen Garcia, up in their own single-seat rows. No camera crew.

Carmen had explained that despite the success of the “Kansas thing,” network budget cuts meant the Dayton UBC affiliate would supply camera and sound.

Amari squeezed into the tiny bathroom and gazed into the tiny mirror. She cleaned up as best she could. She put a breath strip on her tongue, applied some fresh lip gloss, then pronounced herself human. Before boarding, she’d changed into a black suit with white blouse from the trunk of her Mazda.

Forward in the cabin was a conference area and this is where she found the other two women, having coffee. Garcia was in a gray designer suit and Chase in a lavender silk blouse and dark slacks; they looked professional, rested, ready.

Amari joined them and poured herself a cup, black.

“It might help,” Chase said, “if you brought us up to speed on Billy Shears.”

Amari hesitated only momentarily.

“We’ve found a number of people who vacated their hotel rooms,” she began, “leaving behind some or all of their luggage.”

Carmen frowned. “Is that typical?”

“Surprised me, too. Particularly since skipping out on a hotel bill is next to impossible these days, with credit card check-in.”

She filled them in on the second murder and its as-yet-unidentified victim.

“Staff at the former Ramada in Reseda checks out clean. Nobody remembers mentioning the busted security system to anyone, or anyway admitted as much. They all have more or less decent alibis for what appears to be a second Billy Shears killing.”

Carmen’s frown was both thoughtful and troubled. “Billy Shears. Don Juan. Two gaudy serial killers appearing at the same time. Anybody think this might be one case?”

Chase shook her head. “Signature’s too different.”

“Dead sex partners? Stab wounds?”

“No sexual mutilation on the female victim. And we’d have to have a bisexual killer.”

“Is that impossible?”

“No, but it’s rare. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

“Two killers,” Amari said, as if that were the final word, which she thought it was. “No prints on the exit nearest the motel room, but our crime-scene tech thinks Shears must have used that door, since it appeared wiped clean of prints. And that, I am sad to say, is that.”

“Thanks for filling us in,” Carmen said.

“Least I can do. This Ohio trip may jump-start a stalled investigation. First real break was identifying Victim Number One — that was your doing.”

Chase said, “Care to fill us in on the Don Juan investigation now?”

Amari finished her coffee, smiled, said, “No,” and returned to her seat.

She also didn’t tell her new colleagues from Crime Seen that Captain Womack seemed a heartbeat away from taking both cases away from her. And that the chief would likely appoint a task force combining the cases, and call in the FBI, if for no other reason than to cover his ass.

On the ground, they found a cool overcast spring day waiting, and a driver with car on the tarmac. Amari got out her cell, checked her messages — nothing from Harrow but one from Polk, wishing her luck.

Today Polk would be working with the bank where Don Juan had somehow gotten to Wendi Erskine’s money, chasing down the security breach.

She clicked off to join the other two women in the late-model Lincoln. So much for budget cuts. Since Carmen and Chase had taken the backseat, Amari slid in front.

The driver, an older guy with wire-frame glasses, short gray hair, and an extra thirty pounds, screamed ex-cop. His black suit fit him pretty well, considering his girth.

“Anna Amari, LAPD.” She offered him a hand to shake and he did. “How long were you on the job?”

The hint of a smile appeared. “Twenty-seven years, Dayton PD. Gus Lewin.”

“Mr. Lewin, how did we happen to get you for a driver?”

“Don’t miss much do you, Detective Amari?”

“It’s Lieutenant, Gus, but you can call me Anna. I try not to miss anything. Somebody think I need a bodyguard?”

They glided off the tarmac, and through a gate, before he said, “Your Mr. Harrow thought I might be able to smooth the way some, need be.”

Chase in back sat forward. “You know the family, Gus? I’m Laurene, by the way.”

To Amari, Lewin said, “This one doesn’t miss much either.”

“Waco PD,” Amari told him. “How do you know the family?”

“Rebecca’s my goddaughter. Becky’s dad, Ben Cummings and me, we were pals.”

“Ben also a cop?”

A nod. “In Huber Heights. Dropped dead of a heart attack, year from retirement. I tell everybody, take that Social Security soon as you can. You never know.”

They were on the interstate now, I-70, heading east. After one exit, Lewin pulled off.

Amari asked, “You know Brent?”

“Kind of a screwup, but a nice kid.”

“Screwup how?”

“Nothing major. Some guys just don’t know how good they got it, is all.”

She withdrew a photo of the deceased John Doe from her pocket, passed it to the driver.

“Shit,” Lewin said, handing it back. Suddenly he was concentrating very hard on his driving.

Amari glanced in back where Chase and Carmen were both nodding. They would take this reaction as a positive ID.

“Sorry for your loss, Gus.”

“I said he was a screwup.”

“You okay?” She could see his eyes were tearing up, but the emotional rain wasn’t quite falling.

“I feel bad for Becky. She loved the idiot. Gonna break what’s left of her heart. You know, they was talking about getting back together.”

“Okay, Gus. One more question. Something I’d rather not ask Mrs. Vicker cold.”

“You mean, was Brent doing drugs?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Twenty-seven years as a cop. When you’re worried how a survivor’s gonna take it, it’s usually either drugs or...”

He didn’t seem able to complete the sentence.

Amari, in a way, did it for him: “Brent died in bed at a hotel that caters to a gay male clientele.”

Lewin frowned. “Did he like boys? I can’t say it’s impossible. I know he ran around on Becky, some. I never heard that about him, or saw any signs.”

From the backseat, Chase said, “Closeted gays can be very discreet, Mr. Lewin.”

“Well, I don’t buy it.”

Amari said, “I need to ask Mrs. Vicker that question. How is she likely to react?”

“I have no idea,” Lewin admitted.

“Okay. I assume you still have Huber Heights PD contacts.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s get some locals out here. You’ve made the guy in the photo as Vicker, so they’ll want to talk to Mrs. Vicker. And they can leave somebody with her.”

He made the call.

That was all the talk before Lewin pulled up at a squat brick ranch-style like every other house in Huber Heights, Ohio. The driver got out to get the door for his two backseat passengers while Amari climbed out on her own.

A van from the local UBC affiliate pulled in behind them.

The camera crew piled out — a skinny guy about thirty in a Bengals sweatshirt and jeans, lugging the Sony cam, and a heavier, older dude in jeans and a Reds away jersey, hauling the boom.

Amari let Carmen take the lead as the three women approached the two men. Introductions were made.

Carmen said, “Lieutenant Amari does her interview first. Don’t even turn the camera on till we say it’s kosher — got it?”

Both men nodded.

A Crown Vic pulled up and parked across the street. Unmarked car, Amari thought. Two guys got out, jeans, button-down shirts, ties, cheap sport coats. Detectives.

She approached them, displaying her ID. “Lieutenant Anna Amari, LAPD.”

“Hamilton,” a middle-aged, dark-haired detective said, shaking her hand, not bothering with ID.

His young blond partner introduced himself as “Deeter,” and he and Amari merely exchanged nods.

The blond cop was looking at Carmen and Chase, who were discussing logistics with the camera crew on the lawn.

“That’s Carmen Garcia,” he said, wide-eyed. “And Laurene Chase!”

Amari gave him a look. “Oh, then you do get the tee vee out here in Ohio.”

The young cop gave her a puzzled look, and the older one an embarrassed one.

Soon the small army trooped up to the front door, Amari and the Crime Seen duo trailed by the cops and techs, and driver Lewin, too.

The LAPD detective had barely knocked when the door was opened by a thirtysomething blonde woman in a black blouse and black slacks. Had Becky Vicker consciously chosen widow’s weeds?

The three women stepped inside, and introductions were made, the men remaining grouped on the porch. The woman was holding it together, but when she glimpsed Lewin, that triggered tears. For a moment, Amari thought the woman might collapse.

She and the ex-cop must have had the same thought, because Lewin slipped inside and both he and Amari grabbed an arm and swept Becky Vicker into her living room, depositing her on a sofa.

Lewin produced a handkerchief and gave it to his weeping friend, he and Amari bookending the woman. Finally the two detectives filed in, camera crew still on the porch.

Chase and Carmen took chairs opposite the sofa in the modest living room with its contemporary furnishings. An end table bore a photo of

Brent and Becky Vicker taken perhaps five years ago.

When Mrs. Vicker stopped crying, Lewin introduced the two Huber Heights detectives, who stood in the nearby entryway.

Hamilton asked, “Is there someone you would like us to call, Mrs. Vicker?”

Her eyes were a lovely pale blue, the white filigreed red. “My mother. Melinda Cummings.”

The woman gave Hamilton the number and he excused himself.

Amari said, “Ms. Chase and Ms. Garcia have a camera crew outside. After we finish, they’d like to interview you on camera.”

“Can I... can I think about that?”

“Certainly,” Carmen said, jumping in. “We can step outside while you and Lieutenant Amari talk, if you like...?”

Mrs. Vicker’s eyes questioned Amari.

“I don’t mind them staying,” she told the woman. “I’m only here because of what their television program was able to do. We frankly hadn’t been able to identify your husband.”

“You sound... sound certain...”

“Mrs. Vicker, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. The man in that photo with you...” She indicated the end-table portrait. “... is our murder victim.”

That brought on a brief relapse of tears.

Then Amari said, “We do need to ask if you have something we can use to match DNA. Toothbrush, comb...”

The woman’s eyes flickered with hope, but Amari had to say, “It’s just a formality, really.”

Hope died.

In that all too familiar shell-shocked way, the victim’s wife said, “We were separated. For several months. I don’t think you’ll find any personal items like that here, though maybe you could.”

“Where was he staying locally?”

“A motel. I’ll give you that address. He was at a motel in Los Angeles, too, but it wasn’t... what was the name of that hotel mentioned on TV?”

“Star Struck. In West Hollywood.”

“He wasn’t staying there. Brent’s motel was in Van Nuys. That’s where SP’s subsidiary is.”

“SP?”

“Springfield Pump. Subsidiary is overstating it, really — just one IT guy, that was Brent’s field, information technologies. You know, he said he wanted to come back home and try again. He said he missed me, missed living with me...”

Two Billy Shears victims, each with a connection to Van Nuys, one staying there, one found nearby.

Amari asked, “What motel in Van Nuys?”

“It’s a chain Brent liked... Sleep and Stay? One of those long-term places that caters to business travelers. He was at a Sleep and Stay here too, out by the airport.”

“Mrs. Vicker, your husband’s body wasn’t discovered at a Sleep and Stay.”

“I know... You said that...”

“This is difficult, but there’s something unpleasant we have to deal with.”

The woman drew a deep if shaky breath; let it out. Her response was mildly defensive: “Lieutenant, my husband was murdered. How much more unpleasant could it be?”

Quite a bit more, actually.

Amari said, “The Star Struck in West Hollywood caters to a specific clientele — a mostly gay clientele.”

“... What? Are you asking me if my husband was a homosexual?”

“Could Brent have been gay, or possibly bisexual?”

“No! Absolutely not.” She laughed. It was shrill, unpleasant. “If you knew Brent, you’d know how foolish that notion is. His problem was women, Lieutenant, not men.”

“We’re merely trying to understand why he was found at this particular hotel.”

“Do you have to be gay to stay there? Do they ask for your gay membership card at the desk?”

This was getting uncomfortable, and it was getting out of hand. But Amari bet the Crime Seen gals wished their camera was rolling...

“I hate to upset you further, Mrs. Vicker,” Amari said. “But if I can find out why Brent was at the Star Struck, perhaps it will lead us to his killer.”

“I... I do understand,” Mrs. Vicker said, much more calm now. “But Brent was, if anything, a little... what’s the term? Anti-gay?”

Chase put in: “Homophobic.”

This was a slight breach of etiquette, as the Crime Seen pair wasn’t to participate in this initial interview. But Amari understood, and even appreciated, Chase’s point of view on this subject, and flashed her a look to give momentary approval.

Chase seized this permission and said, “Some gay men who are passing as straight will say hateful things about homosexuals. It’s part of trying to pass.”

But Mrs. Vicker began to shake her head halfway through that.

“No,” she said. “My husband... I won’t say this on camera, understand, but I will tell you right now — he was a letch.”

An awkward silence followed.

Amari glanced out the picture window at their backs. That cop Hamilton was meeting a car that was hurriedly pulling up. A woman in her sixties hopped out, in sneakers, jeans, and a kitty T-shirt.

Amari said, “Mrs. Vicker, I may have a few further questions, but I think perhaps you should go

ahead with the Crime Seen interview, if you’re willing.”

She was.

The techs came in and Carmen and Laurene began the process. Amari felt confident Carmen, after that traumatic Kansas episode, would handle the woman considerately.

Outside, Hamilton introduced Amari to Mrs. Cummings, then left them alone in the front yard.

The LAPD detective expressed her condolences, then asked Mrs. Cummings a few preliminary questions before getting to the same explosive subject that had so upset her daughter.

Mrs. Cummings coughed out a cigarette laugh even as she was lighting up a Camel. “Brent gay? I didn’t think I could ever laugh on this sorry day, lady, so thanks for the tickle.”

“I take it that’s a ‘no.’ ”

“That’s a hell no. That man was a certifiable poon hound. He’d screw mud.”

“But not other men?”

“Make it female mud. Dumb-ass even hit on me once. I mean, I was foxy in my day, but that day passed about twenty years back, being generous.”

“Did you tell Becky?”

“That he hit on me? No. That he was no good? Yes. But what can you do? She was in love. And if I may be crude?”

Hadn’t she been?

“Certainly,” Amari said.

“There were always females after that man. Word got around — my son-in-law’s hung like a horse.”

Not anymore.

Mrs. Cummings went inside to console her daughter, probably not to include a discussion of her late husband’s sex habits.

When Carmen and Chase emerged from the brick bungalow, they had the names of a couple of Brent’s coworkers. Lewin drove them around to interview them, and both Crime Seen reporters agreed that Brent Vickers was a lot of things, but gay or bi-curious weren’t likely among them.

At the airport Sleep and Stay, Hamilton and Deeter collected from Vicker’s room a comb and a toothbrush for Amari, no court order required.

As ex-cop Lewin drove the three women back to the airport, night coming on fast, they were whipped. Return trip, Chase sat up front, Carmen and Amari in back texting.

Carmen tucked her cell away and said across the aisle, “I’ve got a sweet one.”

“Sweet what?”

“Guy. Cancelled a date with him for about five minutes from now. Meeting him for breakfast tomorrow instead.”

“This is all the notice you give him, and he’s not cranky?”

“Naw. Vince is special. Who were you texting?”

“My partner. He’s a young black kid.”

“Cute?”

“Very.”

“Interested in you?”

“Naw. I’m way too old, plus there’s already somebody in his life.”

“Who?”

“Himself... Speak of the devil...”

Return message from Polk.

Checking Wendi Erskine’s savings and loan seemed a dead end, so far. No other accounts had been touched and the bank couldn’t track who’d made the wire transfer.

Maybe Harrow’s girl Jenny Blake will do better, Amari thought.

She returned to Polk’s text.

Billy Shears’s second victim, in the mom-and-pop motel in Reseda, had been made by fingerprints.

Daniel H. Terrant.

An off-duty Santa Monica police officer.

Amari’s return text was simply... WTF?