No One Will Hear You

Chapter Thirty-three

In a comfy plump leather booth at Willie D’s, Harrow and Choi were kicking back after a long day of, frankly, getting nowhere. The sports bar, a haunt of the Killer TV team, was off the lobby of the Deluxe Sunset Hotel just a few blocks from the UBC complex.

Both men were having after-burger beers when Harrow’s cell vibrated. Caller ID read ROUSCH, but the FBI man wasn’t on the line — it was a wrong number, a female voice.

What was a woman doing using Rousch’s cell phone? The agent was single, so it might have been a date who borrowed the cell and misdialed or something. But Rousch had been spending so much time on the case — much of it with Harrow and his team — when exactly had he had time to meet a woman?

Harrow was tempted to run upstairs and knock on the agent’s door — the FBI had booked their man into the Deluxe Sunset Hotel, for convenience.

Choi asked, “Rousch want something?”

“Wrong number.”

“Rousch dialed a wrong number?”

“Wasn’t him — some woman.”

“Maybe he got lucky.” Then Choi frowned. “But I don’t think so. Call him back.”

Harrow did.

“Rang once,” Harrow said. “Went to voice mail.”

“I don’t get it.”

“So he’s out with some gal, and she borrows the phone, hits redial or something and gets me, and now she’s made the right call, and she’s gabbing.”

“Gal. Gabbing. What are you, eighty years old? Listen, J.C., let’s just go upstairs. Knock on his goddamn door.”

“And if he’s in bed with her?”

“Then we embarrass his ass, and maybe get a glimpse of skin, hopefully not his.”

“And if he’s not in the room?”

“Then he’s not in the room. But at least we tried.”

“... You want to wait here?”

“Hell no. She might be cute. And the more effort I make to help you, the better chance you’ll buy the next round.”

Harrow grinned. “You win, Billy. It’s probably a fool’s errand, but...”

“But you got that cop tingle, right? On the back of your neck?”

Harrow nodded.

“Then let’s go. You packing?”

Harrow nodded. “You?”

“Always.”

Both had California concealed-carry licenses.

Soon they were at Rousch’s room — 832 — but Harrow noticed the safety catch wasn’t shut, the door slightly ajar, as if Rousch had stepped away to go for ice or something.

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...”