No One Will Hear You

Chapter Eight

The dead woman had long blonde hair, neatly brushed — remarkably pristine, as if she had been carried down from the top of the hill. A pretty face, eyes closed, Sleeping Beauty effect. Lipstick looked fresh, as if it had been applied after she got here.

Her carotid artery had been severed.

Seven jagged stab wounds in her chest and abdomen — the blood had been cleaned away, though; no sign of blood anywhere.

Amari frowned in thought. So she had been carried in and left here. Otherwise the ground would have been soaked with blood, and — unless the killer had washed the blood from her at the scene — she would be covered in it.

And she wasn’t.

Neatly draped over one arm, almost as if she were carrying them, were a dozen red roses — an actress at encore presented with a bouquet. A note protruded from the top of the gathered, still fresh-looking blooms.

That was one good thing about cop gawkers as opposed to the civilian variety — none of the children in blue had taken the note as a souvenir.

The dead woman’s body was white, lividity having taken the blood to the lowest parts of her body. Amari touched a finger to flesh — rigor mortis had set in.

“Probably sometime last night,” Amari said. “Coroner’s assistant can give us a better idea, when he gets liver temperature.”

They had a look at the surrounding footprints, but the police parade had turned the place into a mess, doubtful they would get anything worthwhile. She wanted to see, to read, the card on the bouquet, but had better sense. The crime-scene unit would have it bagged and tagged soon enough.

Murders were often described as having been committed “in cold blood;” but Amari knew that most were in the heat of rage. “In cold blood” better described her own rage, a detached but no less intense desire to remove from society the twisted individual who had stolen this young woman’s life.

Actually, not so young — this girl was dead, wasn’t she? And you didn’t get any older than that. Years, probably many, many years, had been stolen from her. That the killer had left her remains here, under the Hollywood sign, indicated a desire for the whole world to see the result.

Well, Amari had seen the result, all right, and she would do something about it.

As they headed up the hill, she and Polk passed the crime-scene team, coming down. Polk gave them the plastic bag with the wire casing. Amari indicated where they found it, and filled them in on the state of the crime scene. Then she and Polk continued on up.

Two patrol cars had pulled out. Remaining were the veteran Jackson and the rookie Kaylan, the coroner’s team, and the security guard, who leaned against the cop car.

Skinny, with military-short dark hair and wire-framed glasses, the security guard gave off the vibe of somebody who’d taken this job hoping he’d be issued a gun someday. His nameplate read WYLER.

Even so, the first question Amari had to ask was, “Name?”

“Jason Wyler,” the guard said, extending his hand.

Amari shook it, introducing herself and Polk, who (she told Wyler) would be recording their conversation.

“Cool with me,” the guard said. “Anything to help move the investigation along.”

“You discovered the body, Mr. Wyler?”

Almost whispering, as if this were a secret to be shared only between professionals, he said, “Yeah, I was the one. That was me.”

Patiently, Amari said, “Tell us about it.”

“Well,” he said, a little too eagerly, “it was between five and five-thirty this morning — I was on my regular rounds. I have regular rounds I make.”

Polk asked, “See any cars, coming in or out?”

“I didn’t see nobody. And I’m always looking. That’s part of my job. I’ve been working security for three years now.”

Amari said, “So you came up here like usual — what was different from any other time?”

“Nothing. It’s always kind of dead up here.”

He didn’t seem to realize what he’d said.

Amari said, “Think, Mr. Wyler. You’re a pro. There had to be something — do you always drive down there to check the sign on your rounds? Every single trip?”

“Well, no.”

“Then why did you this time?”

“I guess it was the tire tracks.”

Polk blurted, “What tire tracks?”

Wyler pointed toward the dirt road that wound down to the sign. “Over there. Those tire tracks.”

“Show us where exactly,” Amari said, already walking that way. Polk and Wyler trailed.

Catching up to fall in beside Amari, Wyler said, “Right at the top of the road, Lieutenant! I thought I saw tracks in the dust. I hadn’t seen them on any of my other rounds tonight. So, of course, I got suspicious.”

Looking at the blacktop lot, where the dirt road met the blacktop, Amari could see several tire tracks. “Did you, uh, drive through the tracks? To get down the hill, and check things out?”

“Yeah, well, sure I did,” Wyler said, confused. “That’s where the road is.”

Amari knew that showing this fool her temper would not help matters. So she calmly asked, “What did you find when you got down to the gate?”

“Everything looked pretty normal,” the security guard said. “At first, anyway.”

Polk asked, “Looked no different than usual?”

Wyler nodded. “Same-o, same-o.”

Amari asked, “How about the gate? Was it locked or ajar?”

“Yeah, it was shut, it was locked — that’s why I thought everything was okay, tire tracks or no tire tracks.”

With you on the job, Amari thought, it’s no tire tracks...

Polk asked, “Then why did you go have a look?”

“Just my... you know, cop instincts. Even though everything seemed okay, I still had that feeling.”

“That feeling?”

“That something wasn’t right, y’know? You musta had that feeling lots of times.”

“Oh yeah,” Polk said, with an encouraging nod.

“So, I started by using the spotlight...” Wyler pointed down at his car with its door-mounted spot similar to those on patrol cars. “I swept the scene, starting down at the D, then moving toward the H. That... that’s when I saw the woman’s feet sticking out. By the O.”

Wyler appeared nervous now. He’d turned a sick shade of white.

Amari said, “You’re doing fine, Mr. Wyler.”

“You know, just ‘cause I’m a pro, that doesn’t mean I’m not human. I don’t mind telling you, I about pissed myself right then and there. All these years on the job, and I never was around a real live dead body before.”

“Did you check the control box?”

“With the spotlight, yeah, but it was locked.”

She nodded. “What did you do next?”

“Called 911.”

“You unlocked the gate?”

“Yeah, when the first squad car got here. They wanted to make sure she was dead.”

“So, the gate was locked, when you got there.”

“Yeah.”

“And right now, all the electronics are working, the camera and the motion detectors?”

Wyler nodded vigorously. “I even called in to the security center after I called 911. They said everything was working fine and they didn’t see anything.”

Polk was shaking his head. “Smart mother. Hacked the system somehow.”

Amari asked, “And the control box was definitely locked?”

“Oh yeah,” Wyler said, nodding vigorously. “It was locked. Definitely locked. I didn’t—”

Wyler was cut off by the approach of a tech from the crime scene. Marty Rue — mid-forties, dark hair, black glasses — approached Amari. They had worked on several cases together over the years.

“Morning, Anna,” he said.

“Marty, any jewels among those squashed acorns?”

“Footprints around the body are a mess, as you promised. You folks got the USC marching band working your crime scenes for you now?”

If Wyler understood he was part of that insult, it didn’t register. He had the happy look of an amateur suddenly accepted by a group of professionals.

“Marty,” she said, “what about those roses?”

“I’ll know more when I get them back to the lab, but I bet you’d like a look at that card.”

“Oh yeah.”

“You’re gonna love this.” He held out a cellophane bag.

Amari took it and read the card within: With Love, Don Juan.

She heaved a long sigh and passed the bag to Polk.

Polk read it and said, “I mean, I know these sick killers leave a signature — but an actual signature?”

“He’s got an ego,” she said. “We’re gonna see more of him.”

Polk frowned. “Lieutenant, could this be the same killer as West Hollywood? I realize that was a male victim, but they both were stabbed, they’re both dead, they’re both naked. Maybe killed after sex?”

“That’s good thinking, LeRon. Really is. But the signatures are different... including this very specific signature of roses and a hand-signed note. Eyeballing it, I’d say different weapons. For this to be the same killer, particularly if your scenario were to hold, we’d have something very unusual — a bisexual serial killer.”

She asked Wyler, “Do you have a key for the control box?”

“Yeah,” he said, unconsciously jingling the ring attached to his belt. “Why?”

She asked Rue, “You lifted footprints from in front of the control box yet?”

“Nope.”

“Well, do that, then let’s have a look at that box. My guess is our killer got into it somehow. He had to defeat the camera and the motion detector.”

Rue nodded, and was gone.

Amari said, “All right, Mr. Wyler, spell out a typical night for me.”

Wyler smiled at the thought of helping his fellow pros. “I come on at eleven. I’m here by eleven thirty, then pretty much every hour and a half or so after that. Usually, around one, two-thirty, four, five-thirty, then one last pass on my way back to the barn at seven.”

“Earlier, you told us you were here between five and five-thirty.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Maybe twenty after or so. I was a little early, but not much.”

“You noticed the tire tracks on your five-thirty trip,” Amari said. “Is it possible you missed them earlier?”

Wyler considered that. “No, I don’t think so, really don’t. Tracks in the dust on the blacktop? That’s something I look for every time I’m up top. I would have seen ‘em if they were here before that.”

“That means the killer was here between four and five-thirty.”

“Had to be,” Wyler said, nodding.

To Polk, Amari said, “Which tells us she was dead before that — bled out, cleaned up, ready for display. Killer drove her here in his car.”

“Risky,” Polk said.

“But if the killer knew he had ninety minutes and had cased the area, he could minimize the risk.”

From the control box, Rue gave them a wave.

“All right,” Amari said. “Which key is it?”

Wyler took the ring off his belt and handed it to her by the box key.

As they walked back down the path to the box, Polk said, “Killer opened it, did whatever he did, then locked it up again.”

“Yeah,” Amari said, “and we want to see what he did.”

Polk put a hand on her forearm and stopped her. “What if he booby-trapped the frickin’ thing?”

She thought about that.

“Why lock it back up,” Polk insisted, “if it’s not booby-trapped?”

“To slow us down?”

“Right. And what would slow us down more than it blowing up in our damn faces?”

“Shit,” she said.

Polk was right.

They conferred with Marty Rue and, in the end, did the smart thing.

Called the bomb squad.