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.