Leighton Jones Mysteries Box Set

by N. M. Brown

  Her addiction had stolen everything from her. She had never really fit in at school – it was always a competition to be either the smartest or the most popular. Sarah, who was neither, had increasingly found herself hanging around at the graffiti-covered skatepark, instead of attending classes for subjects she hadn’t liked or couldn’t understand. This colourful, concrete landscape was where she had fallen into a pit of a relationship with Billy Spencer. He was six years older than her and had lived off a combination of welfare and whatever he could earn from peddling drugs around the regular teenage haunts. On the day of her seventeenth birthday, Billy had relentlessly pestered Rochelle until she reluctantly shared his crack pipe. After that, they were both high for most of the time during the five years they had stumbled along together. However, the previous summer Billy was arrested, in a drugs operation, outside a local pool hall. He made bail, and, after stopping off at home long enough to dump a bag of white powder and pack a bag of clothes, he promptly vanished. Billy’s unplanned departure had left Rochelle with no income, a slum of a home and a formidable drug habit. The slide into working the streets was inevitable.

  Her reflection revealed the eyes of the girl she had once been, but nothing else. It was like looking at a young girl wearing the mask of an older, troubled woman.

  Before she left the warmth of the bathroom, Rochelle stopped in front of the mirrored wall to apply some cherry lip gloss. It made her look more appealing to the customers and hid her anaemia. However, when she reached into the jacket pocket, she realised that the small metal tin was in the pocket of her own cheap coat, rather than this soft fabric. It was then she remembered that her meagre earnings for the night were also in her own jacket. Rochelle hoped the girl who was wearing it was trustworthy, or she might be down a few bucks.

  Stepping outside the café, Rochelle was suddenly more aware of the biting cold that Sarah had mentioned earlier. She was considering telling her this when she realised, with a sense of panic, that Sarah was no longer there. The street was quiet and empty.

  ‘Shit!’ Rochelle kicked at the sidewalk.

  Trying to calm her jitters, she turned around and pressed her hand to the window of the café and peered through the glass. The tables inside were full of eager diners, but none of them resembled the girl Rochelle had spoken to. As she stepped back from the breath-steamed glass, a young, male waiter pushed assertively through the café door and approached her.

  ‘Hey, do you mind not pressing your face against the window?’

  Normally, Rochelle would have told the guy to take a hike, but she needed him.

  ‘I was just looking for a girl – about my height, wearing a leopard print jacket. Have you seen her inside at all?’

  ‘No, we don’t allow street workers in the café,’ he replied proudly, as he turned around and disappeared back inside the bright refuge of the café.

  ‘Screw you!’ Rochelle shouted after him.

  The situation felt weird to Rochelle. Stepping to the edge of the sidewalk, she peered across the freeway at the two, parallel gas stations. Their coldly lit forecourts were deserted, and in the creeping fog they resembled deep-sea stations.

  Rochelle decided to check the rear of the buff coloured building, in case Sarah had simply walked off to escape the gaze of all the diners. As she wandered around the corner to the deserted parking lot behind the café, she was struck by the blinding glare of full-beam car headlights. Even though the solitary car was parked several feet away, in one of the six bays, Rochelle could hear the engine rumbling, and behind that was the pulsing sound of repetitive, thumping music. The piercing lights of the car were so harsh that Rochelle held up her hand to shield her eyes and stepped instinctively backwards.

  The groaning vehicle lurched angrily toward Rochelle, forcing her to stumble to one side. The car missed her by less than a few inches, after which, it screeched out of the quiet parking lot and onto the fog shrouded freeway.

  As the vehicle passed her Rochelle tried to kick out at it, but she was too far away.

  ‘Asshole!’ she called out.

  Turning around, to see if anyone else had witnessed the spectacle, Rochelle noticed something glinting on the dark ground where the car had been parked. Wandering cautiously over to it, she identified the familiar item immediately.

  She crouched down and picked up her cheap, imitation-gold lighter. Turning the item over in her hands, Rochelle discovered that it was still warm.

  ‘Bitch!’ Rochelle said, and slipped the small object into the plush pocket of somebody else’s coat.

  Chapter One

  The early morning fog had burned away to reveal an unbroken vault of blue sky above Oceanside harbour, which was currently flecked with white gulls, gliding on the fresh sea breeze. Although it looked inviting, the tumbling turquoise surf below them attracted only a smattering of swimmers at this time of year – especially so early in the day.

  In general, this was an area of the city that was more popular with sailors and fishermen than with tourists – who mostly preferred the boardwalk and the pier, unless they were booked on a whale-watching trip. The harbour consisted of a long, slip area, where boats of various sizes were moored amiably together, their countless masts stretching like long needles into the Southern Californian sky. Watching over the area was a sturdy lighthouse, painted white and red.

  In a long parking lot, near to the shore, Leighton Jones struggled to carry both Styrofoam coffee cups and the brown paper bag to where the bulky, black Ford Explorer was parked. His partner, Danny Clark, was leaning on the front of the car, staring wistfully across the neatly moored yachts to the water beyond them, where the waves faded into the horizon. The two officers had worked together for three years, since Danny had started, and were now comfortable in each other’s company.

  ‘Here you go, buddy,’ Leighton said, as he handed over one of the cups to Danny. In the sky above them, a couple of noisy gulls circled, eagerly anticipating any stray crumbs from the officers’ bag.

  ‘Thanks, man.’ Danny smiled and lifted the cup to his mouth.

  ‘I feel I should warn you,’ Leighton said gravely, ‘it’s pretty hot. I felt my hands melting as I left the place.’

  ‘It’s okay, I can drink it straight out of the pot. They say it’s not good for your stomach, but I can’t swallow it any other way.’

  ‘Not me,’ Leighton said proudly, as he used a fingertip to prise off the lid from his own cup. ‘I prefer all beverages at room temperature.’

  ‘Well, maybe except beer,’ Danny said with a wry smile.

  ‘Well, remember I drink at the Rooster, so my beer’s usually warm too. Did you hear back from the hospital?’ As he spoke, Leighton took a warm doughnut from the paper bag, and handed the remaining two across to his partner.

  ‘Thanks,’ Danny nodded, ‘they said he’s still sedated and that they’re running some tests. They still don’t know if he’ll come round at all. The doctor said that no two strokes are ever quite the same, apparently.’

  Leighton bit into his warm doughnut, sipped his coffee, and waited an acceptable amount of time before he stated what he believed to be an obvious point.

  ‘Don’t you think you should be up there with him?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘I hate the smell of those places,’ Danny said, ‘it clings to you.’

  ‘The smell – is that what’s really keeping you away?’

  Danny frowned and gazed into the distance, where some large cruiser was pulling out of the harbour leaving white snakes of foam in its wake. ‘I know I should, Jonesy. It’s just well …’ He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke. ‘Hell, you know what Gretsch is like.’

  ‘Yes, I do, he’s an officious prick,’ Leighton nodded and took another sip of coffee, ‘but I still think you should be there.’

  ‘C’mon, Jonesy. He said that it would have to be unpaid leave, I can’t go against him. What if he cans me? I need the money. My old man doesn’t have medical insurance, so if Gretsch f
ires me, both of us are screwed.’

  ‘Relax, Danny. He’s only a captain: he doesn’t have the authority to can anyone.’ Leighton narrowed his eyes. ‘Think about it. If he did, I would have been shining shoes on Skid Row years ago.’

  Danny smiled at the image. ‘That’s very true. The guy seems to have a particular problem with you. Did you sleep with his wife or something?’

  ‘Are you insane? Do you really think Gretsch could find a wife?’ Leighton said, whilst chuckling into his styrofoam coffee cup.

  ‘Good point,’ Danny said, and bit into his crumbling pastry.

  ‘Gretsch just got to where he is by learning some buzzwords and kissing butt. There are guys like him everywhere – not just on policing. They love to hang out with guys who are just like them, devising high-profile initiatives to keep everyone else busy. I guess that’s what makes them feel important and in charge.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Danny smiled.

  ‘Yeah, but here’s the problem. The biggest threat to guys like that are any folks who don’t kiss butt or use fancy buzzwords – the ones who simply get on with doing their job. Guys like Gretsch don’t understand people like us and so they want to get rid of us.’

  ‘So, is that the speech you’re going to give at the podium when he gets made chief?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Don’t tempt me, partner.’ Leighton chuckled. ‘Listen,’ he said in a softer voice, ‘is anyone up at the hospital with your pop just now?’

  ‘There was last night,’ Danny nodded. ‘My sister Ruth and her stressed-out husband, Kenny. They drove down from Reno yesterday in their rusty old Winnebago. As far as I understand, they both like to pray for healing. Ruth said she’d head up there first thing this morning to give the old man a blessing, so it’s maybe best I’m not there.’

  ‘You not the praying type, Officer Clark?’ Leighton asked with a playful smile.

  ‘No, I’m not. I guess I never really took to any kind of faith. I reckon you’re either religious or you’re not. Maybe it’s hardwired somewhere in the DNA.’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  Danny frowned for a moment, clearly trying to give words to something perplexing. ‘But sometimes, you know when we get a serious call to respond to something bad– a shooter maybe, or a fatality out on the highway – I think about it.’

  ‘Think about what?’ Leighton asked.

  ‘The big stuff: where we came from; where we go after all this.’

  ‘You mean, you think about it when you’re scared?’ Leighton asked with a sideways smile.

  ‘Yeah, I guess. Do you ever think about your mortality, Jonesy?’

  ‘Nope,’ Leighton shrugged dismissively. ‘The way I see it, fretting about the hereafter would be like spending summer worrying about winter. It may be coming, and it may be dark, but wasting your lovely warm days thinking about it would just be dumb. Plus, sometimes you get a sunny day, even in the middle of winter.’

  ‘Very true, Master Yoda.’

  Leighton grinned and pressed his hands together, and bowed his head in a momentary gesture of ancient wisdom.

  Both officers watched as a couple of rubber-clad windsurfers carried their gear down the slipway, and slid out onto the rippling water. Leighton kept his eyes fixed on the ocean for a moment, formulating his words, then half-turned to face his partner.

  ‘Listen, Danny, I was thinking that maybe I could cover for you,’ Leighton said, trying to make it sound easy. ‘You know, if you wanted to have a couple of hours up at the hospital with your old man each day? Maybe you could split the time with your sis, just to make it a bit easier on both of you.’

  ‘You would do that?’ Danny blew into the air and seemed to relax a little at the idea.

  ‘Sure,’ Leighton shrugged. ‘We’re only down for morning watch this week. Even today we only have highway monitoring and a Driver Safety class – I reckon I can handle that. C’mon, let’s get going. I’ll drop you at the hospital and you can work it out from there.’

  ‘You’re a good guy, Jonesy.’ Danny said with a relieved smile.

  ‘Yeah?’ Leighton frowned. ‘Maybe someone could try telling that to my teenage daughter.’

  Chapter Two

  At 10am the sun was already hot over Oceanside, but there was enough of a fresh breeze coming in off the sea to keep things comfortable. Dave Rollins was using a canary-yellow cloth to polish the dashboard of a 1992 Duster – thinking about how he could correct his deteriorating golf game – when he noticed the woman. Like most used-car salesmen, Rollins, who had been running this game for thirty years, seemed to have a sixth sense that informed him when potential customers had entered the car lot. There was no fence around the place, only a large square area of fluttering red and green metallic flags. Yet, even though it was a plain old lot, it still managed to attract plenty of buyers. In the past six months Rollins had shifted more than seventy cars, all of which had brought the prospect of retiring to perfect his golf game that bit closer. All he needed to make a sale was the combination of a used car and customer.

  This time, the person of interest was over on the north side of the lot, which bordered the groaning freeway. When Rollins caught a glimpse of her moving between the cars, he gave the gearstick a quick polish then stuffed the duster into his trouser pocket.

  After spraying a mist of peppermint freshener into his mouth, Rollins glanced in the rear-view mirror, smoothed down his greying hair, and leapt out of the refreshed vehicle.

  Snaking his way between several parked cars, he checked his reflection in a number of gleaming windows. At fifty-two years of age, the decades of Californian sun had carved deep lines into his bronze skin, but Dave felt that gave him an air of maturity and wisdom.

  ‘Hey there, darling,’ he called out as he approached the woman. ‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

  The woman, however, did not respond to his greeting. Instead, she stood defiantly with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Where did this car come from?’ She pointed accusatively to an innocuous silver Ford, which was parked inside the boundary of the lot.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rollins was momentarily knocked off balance. This was usually his territory to rule over, and customers did not usually hit him with questions unless they pertained to paint finishes or mileage.

  ‘This car,’ the woman said, in slow syllables as if speaking to a child, ‘who owns it? Why is it even here?’ As she spoke, she peered suspiciously at the vehicle, as if she were expecting it to bite her.

  ‘What?’ Rollins laughed. By that time, based on her garish attire, he’d realised the woman in front of him was a hooker. Most likely she was high on something too – they often were. ‘This is a car lot,’ he said dismissively, ‘what did you expect to find here, Flamingos?’

  ‘Whose car is it?’ The woman repeated her question, undaunted by the man’s attempt to assert his limited authority.

  Rollins glanced at the vehicle. He didn’t recognise it as being one of his own, but he wasn’t about to start discussing that fact with some ten-dollar hooker – especially when some real customers could show up at any moment.

  ‘Look,’ he said with a grimace, ‘just get out of here, sweetheart, before I call the cops.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you answer my question!’ the woman said.

  ‘Well,’ Rollins took a deep breath and inflated his chest. ‘I guess I’ll just have to drag you out of the place myself.’

  At that moment, the woman eyed him from head to toe and laughed at the prospect. He was a short man with a pot belly and manicured nails; the woman had faced down larger threats than him.

  ‘You try to touch me and you’ll regret it,’ Rochelle said in a matter-of-fact manner.

  Something in the cool watchfulness of the woman’s eyes caused Dave Rollins to momentarily consider his position. If he had been a wiser man, he would simply have walked away muttering to himself. However, his fragile sense of masculinity had to be defended.

 
‘The hell I will, bitch!’ he sneered.

  As Dave Rollins lunged toward the woman, she quickly dipped her hand into her cheap handbag and produced a small can of Mace. Before the raging salesman could shift his trajectory, the woman deftly sprayed the stinging substance directly into his face. He stumbled away from her, toward his office trailer, holding his face like a bad actor in a late-night horror movie.

  The woman shrugged in a gesture of quiet indifference. She had to deal with dangerous men every other day.

  ‘I did warn you,’ she said dismissively, before returning her attention to the car.

  Chapter Three

  After he’d returned from discretely disposing of the leftovers in the dry grass at the edge of Carpenter Road, the man showered, put on a towel robe, and made his way along a narrow corridor to the rear of the house. He felt satisfied and excited. The other killing – the first one – had been different. It had come from anger and a need for revenge. But tonight, the experience had been different. It had been purer.

  The building was a relatively modern home, and it stood in a small, private garden on the eastern part of the city. This was an area characterised by miles of neat, secure homes, existing in entrenched isolation from each other. A four feet tall, peach coloured wall hemmed in the garden, and provided much needed shade from the scorching afternoon sun. The building comprised of a living area and two bedrooms; however, the one at the rear of the property was the important one. That was the memory room. The space was not particularly big, but it featured two large windows, which provided wonderful views across the Southern Californian valley. If you looked south you could catch a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. But the view was not the reason he had chosen this part of the house as his refuge: it was because it offered him the best quality light for his project.

  In terms of layout, the room was a simple square shape and painted white. It contained only a few items of furniture: a small wooden desk, a plastic, office chair and a waste paper bin. The walls were blank, except for one that was split horizontally by a long wooden shelf, upon which sat a small, tattered jewellery box. An expensive ring from two decades earlier rested in the box, along with a more precious item from the same summer in 1987.