No Place to Die (Sam Leroy Book 3)

by Philip Cox

  ‘Could have done. Where shall we go?’

  There were still at least two hours of daylight left, so Duvall said she would take him to one of her favourite places. The Railroad Park is in Downtown Birmingham, sandwiched between 14th and 18th Streets. Celebrating the city’s industrial and artistic heritage, it comprises woods, green open space, and man-made lakes. It was spring, and the landscaping was filled with masses of flowers, all in full bloom. Even Sam Leroy could appreciate the aesthetic beauty of it, and could understand why she liked it here so much.

  They wandered through the park, taking an ice cream, and talking about themselves, both work related, and out of work. They seemed to have much in common; ‘kindred spirits’, as Sally put it. He was glad he had showered, shaved and changed, as she had obviously put in a lot of effort; her shiny blonde hair was no longer in a ponytail, but cascading down her back. She was wearing a white tee-shirt which stopped just short of her waist, giving Leroy a tantalising glimpse of two inches of tanned skin before a pair of tightly-fitting blue jeans.

  Come seven o’clock, she took him to a fish restaurant Downtown.

  ‘You want to try a traditional Alabama dish?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure. Go for it.’

  They started off with Pickled Citrus Shrimp, followed by Flounder with Lady Pea Succotash, with Fried Baklava Ice Cream for dessert. They shared a bottle or two of Pino Grigiot.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ Leroy said after the meal. ‘My first experience of Southern cuisine.’

  ‘And your last?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She nodded, and rested her chin on her hand, her elbow on the table. ‘So what now, Sam?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost eleven now. I have to be up early for my 9am flight.’

  ‘I could give you a wakeup call.’

  ‘You’ll call me?’

  ‘No, I mean person to person.’ She brushed his hand with her finger.

  Leroy kept his hand where it was. ‘Sally… I’m not sure…’

  ‘Hey, Sam,’ she said quietly. ‘Your work here’s finished. You fly home tomorrow. We’re both kind of single, both kindred spirits.’

  He nodded slowly, saying nothing.

  ‘So why not, Sam? Who’s going to know? After all, it’s only a fuck.’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  Chapter 35

  Leroy changed position. He could just not get comfortable. He tried on his back, then foetal, then on his back once more. He groaned. He was not usually this restless. Perhaps it was because there was a lot on his mind.

  The truth was, he was metaphorically kicking himself. Three hours earlier, he was sitting in a restaurant with Sally Duvall. He could visualise her now: the blonde hair, the short tee, the tight jeans, and the great ass.

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ she had said. ‘It’s only a fuck.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he had said. He had never been so tempted. Even now he could still smell her perfume. ‘That’s true, but I don’t think it’s what I need right now.’

  ‘How so?’ she asked, disappointed.

  ‘I told you about Julia and me. I’m not sure how things are between us, and I think… I think sleeping with you would just cloud things between the two of us right now.’

  Duvall said nothing.

  ‘And you? The guy you’ve been seeing: what about him?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know about him.’ She paused. ‘Okay, I get where you’re coming from. But can we keep in touch?’

  ‘Sure. I’d like that.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll come visit you in LA.’

  ‘I’d like that also. I’ll take you to Disneyland.’

  She smiled and nodded.

  They parted outside the restaurant with a kiss, a few notches up from a peck. Leroy hailed her a cab home, then walked the five or six blocks back to his hotel. Back in his room, he flopped down on the bed. He was glad to be flying back the next morning, for personal as well as professional reasons.

  But had he made the right decision? She was quite right: only the two of them would have known. It would have only been a physical thing, kind of jogging while horizontal. And what had Julia been doing all this time back home? Was he being sensible, doing the right thing, or just being a damn fool? Whichever, it was too late now: he could hardly call her up and say, ‘Hey Sally, I’ve changed my mind. Do you want to get a cab back here?’

  He would have to settle for sleeping alone, just dreaming of Sally Duvall. And of her great ass.

  *****

  When he had eventually gotten off to sleep, his slumber did not last for long. With a jolt he sat up in bed as his phone trilled.

  It was Quinn.

  ‘Sorry to call so late, Sam. Are you in bed?’

  ‘It’s okay, Ray. What do you need?’

  ‘It’s just I thought you’d want to know. They’ve found Mets.’

  ‘Hey, that’s fantastic. About time. Look: while I’m flying back tomorrow, can you get a hold of that translator: Charlie Miller, wasn’t it? See if you can get her to the station late afternoon, and we can talk to Mets then.’

  ‘No, Sam. That’s not possible. He’s not at the station.’

  ‘Where the hell is he then?’

  ‘They found him in Hollywood.’

  ‘In Hollywood? What was he doing there?’

  ‘Lying face down in a dumpster.’

  Chapter 36

  ‘You must go away more often, Sam. That seems to kick-start the case,’ joked Quinn as they left LAX.

  Sitting in the front passenger seat, Leroy was checking his service weapon. Quinn had brought it with him when he collected Leroy from the airport.

  ‘It looks that way,’ he agreed, checking the number of rounds and flicking the barrel shut. ‘After all that time goofing around the 101, we finally have not one break, but three.’

  ‘Where do you want to go first? Back to the Desk?’

  ‘No, no. We’ve wasted enough time already. I think we’ll talk to that kid first. I know the Hollywood Division guys have already done that, but I want to hear it direct from him.’

  ‘What about Mets?’

  ‘He’s not going anywhere. He can wait. Where is he?’

  ‘LA County Morgue, waiting on the PM last we heard.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Waiting on that, but the body was intact.’

  ‘As opposed to being here and there,’ Leroy said grimly. ‘And you heard from DMV?’

  ‘Yup, and only one of the plate combinations is a pick-up, reported stolen three days ago.’

  ‘There’s a newsflash. Where does the owner live?’

  ‘Down there.’

  Leroy looked down at the notepad. ‘Marlin Place, Van Nuys. Mm.’ He tapped his knee with the notepad.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s go see this kid.’

  ‘I could have called,’ Quinn said. ‘Have them pick him up again. We could have headed direct to there.’

  ‘No.’ Leroy scratched the back of his neck. ‘I don’t want to piss him off even more than he must be right now. If he’s just been busted, then he’s hardly going to volunteer information to us. Unless he wants to cop a plea.’

  ‘No plea to cop. Oh, shit.’ As Quinn spoke the traffic began to slow down rapidly. There was a long line of red tail and brake lights heading up Sepulveda Boulevard as far as the eye could see.

  ‘Cut across,’ Leroy said. ‘Get onto La Brea or La Cienega; either will take us up into Hollywood. I’m guessing that’s where the kid lives.’

  ‘Not quite. Beverly Hills.’

  ‘Beverly Hills? No way.’

  ‘Way. His address is down there.’ Quinn nodded to the notebook he had left on the dashboard. Leroy picked it up and read the address.

  ‘It’s just off Melrose,’ Quinn added, making a sharp left into La Cienega Boulevard. ‘Arguably West Hollywood. Just on the border.’

  �
�Let’s head there, then. What were you saying about no cop to plea? He wasn’t carrying?’

  ‘He was, but only 27 grams of Mary Jane.’

  In the mid-1990s, the State of California decriminalized the possession of marijuana, or cannabis: this means that a first-time possession offence no longer means prison time or a criminal record for a small amount for personal consumption. Being in possession of 28.5g or less is a misdemeanour with a $100 fine; over this amount could lead to 6 months’ jail time. Selling or cultivating is still a felony.

  ‘Lucky him,’ said Leroy.

  ‘U-huh. They let him go with a warning.’

  Leroy chuckled. ‘After taking the stuff off him, of course.’

  ‘I guess so. His name’s Delroy Wilson.’

  ‘Delroy Wilson. It’s ten of four now. Let’s hope Delroy’s home.’

  ‘School will be out by now, anyway.’

  The address was in fact in West Hollywood, but was so close to the more upmarket Beverly Hills that there was little in it, particularly for a realtor. A quiet street off the busy Doheny Drive, it boasted a line of precisely manicured lawns fronting large but not palatial houses. Some of the houses were of colonial-style construction, but this, number 9070, was a more contemporary, box-like house, with large, rectangular windows. There was no gate, but to get to the front door meant driving up a modest slope. Over the flat roof of the house Leroy could see the top floors of the Cedars Sinai Medical Center, down on Wilshire.

  ‘You sure we have the right address?’ Leroy asked, as Quinn turned into the drive.

  ‘That’s what Hollywood Division gave us.’

  The front door opened as they pulled up at the top of the inclined drive. A tall, elegantly dressed black woman stood on the step, watching them as they got out of the car. She did not look welcoming.

  ‘Mrs Wilson?’ Quinn asked, holding out his identification. Leroy did the same.

  ‘My God,’ she exclaimed, ‘can’t you people leave him alone?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ asked Leroy, putting his badge away.

  ‘You’re going to tell me you’ve come to harass Delroy.’

  Leroy glanced at Quinn, then back to Mrs Wilson. ‘We’d like to speak with him for a few moments, not harass him.’

  ‘I’m going to call my husband. He will be furious. He will be calling our attorney. This is nothing more than harassment.’ She paused a beat, looking them up and down. ‘Racial harassment.’

  Leroy tried to calm her down. ‘Please, Mrs Wilson; we just want to ask your son a couple of questions. There’s nothing to be worried about.’

  ‘Damn right there’s nothing to be worried about. Because you’re not doing to see him. It’s bad enough him being held in a cell with those… those people down in Hollywood, but you not leaving him alone. I won’t have it!’

  ‘Mrs Wilson, I’m not here to talk to Delroy about the possession. I understand it was only a tiny amount, and he was never charged.’

  ‘What do you want with him then? Search him some more?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘Ma’am, we’re from the Homicide Division.’

  ‘You have to be kidding me! What are you saying now?’

  ‘We’re investigating a homicide which took place near the Hollywood Sign a few days back. You might have read it in the newspapers or seen it on TV.’

  ‘The one without the…?’ As she spoke she tapped the top of her head.

  ‘That’s the one. Now, while Delroy was talking to the officers from the Hollywood Station, it came to light that he has invaluable information which could help that enquiry.’

  ‘He didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘I’m not saying he did, but he, without being aware, may have been a witness. He’s already said what he saw, but I’d just like to get it from him first hand, myself.’

  ‘I see.’ Mrs Wilson was thawing.

  ‘So, is Delroy at home? Could we talk to him?’

  Still not a hundred percent convinced, she acquiesced. ‘Come this way.’ She stepped back inside and allowed them to follow.

  Inside, they stood in the large hall. Lobby would be a more appropriate word. On each side, three doors led off the hall to various rooms; the centrepiece was a wide, sweeping staircase. Mrs Wilson stood at the foot of the staircase and called out for Delroy. After a few moments he appeared at the top.

  ‘What is it, Mom?’

  ‘Honey, there are two men from the LAPD -’

  ‘LAPD? No, Mom…’

  ‘It’s cool, Delroy. They’re not here about that. They want to ask you a favour.’ She stared at Leroy, almost daring him to contradict. He said nothing. ‘I think you should come down, honey.’

  Delroy slowly came down the stairs. He was well over six feet tall, thin, with short curly hair. He was barefoot, and wore a pair of lime green shorts and dark blue football shirt.

  Leroy looked up at him and said, ‘Delroy, I work for the LAPD Homicide Division. I’m given to understand that the other night you told the officer in Hollywood that you might have witnessed something up by the sign. Is that correct?’

  Still suspicious, Delroy nodded.

  ‘You want to tell me about it, in your own words?’

  Delroy nodded again. ‘Well, I was up there, just by the sign. I was…’

  ‘Delroy, I’m not interested in what you were doing up there, or what you had with you. I just want to know what you saw, or heard.’

  Delroy took one more step down. He was three steps above the others. ‘I was up there on my own. It was so quiet and peaceful, man. Then I heard the sound of a car or something. Then the lights. My bike was already by the side of the road, so I ran and hid, behind some bushes.’

  ‘What did you hide? Did you see who it was?’

  ‘I hid in case it was a pi -’

  ‘Delroy!’ Mrs Wilson admonished. She looked at Leroy and Quinn. ‘I apologise.’

  ‘No need. Go on, Delroy.’

  ‘Nothing much else. I heard a lot of doors banging and two guys talking. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying.

  ‘I hit the deck when they got closer, and it seemed like they were dragging something heavy along the ground. Then one of the guys said something like, “I know somewhere else”; no, it was “I know another place”, then they drove off.’

  ‘“I know another place”?’ Leroy asked. ‘Yes?’

  Delroy nodded.

  ‘A man’s voice?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Accent? Did he have an accent?’

  Delroy frowned. ‘Don’t reckon so. But he was white.’

  ‘White?’

  ‘Yes, he had a white man’s voice.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Leroy, slowly. ‘And that’s all you heard, or saw?’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you. I was scared, man; I hid behind some bushes till they’d gone. It was dark up there, man; no street lamps.’

  ‘Was it a car?’ asked Quinn. ‘A sedan? Or something bigger?’

  Delroy pondered. ‘Bigger than a car. Smaller than a truck.’

  ‘A van?’ Mrs Wilson suggested.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe a pick-up,’ Delroy replied.

  ‘Anything else?’ Leroy asked.

  Delroy shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Leroy. ‘I want to thank you for your help here. Here’s my cell number. Give me a call if you remember anything else, deal?’

  Delroy took the card and gave a large, toothy grin. ‘No problem.’

  Leroy and Quinn thanked Delroy and his mother and left.

  ‘That proves what I’ve always told you about being stereotypical,’ Leroy said, ‘and making assumptions.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Black kid, caught in possession. Plus the three cans of paint he was carrying. He wasn’t about to decorate his Granny’s garage, was he?’

  ‘No. What’s your point?’

  ‘Where would you expect to find him? Compton? South Central?’
>
  ‘I get you. Not here. Was what he told us any use?’ asked Quinn as he turned and went back down the drive.

  ‘Maybe. White man in a pick-up. Not exactly a case buster. At least it confirms what we’d already figured out. Come on: let’s go see the guy who had his pick-up stolen.’

  Chapter 37

  The 9 seater Piaggio Aero Avanti P180 lifted off from the runway, the buzz from the twin Pratt & Witney PT6A66 engines filling the cloudless skies as it gracefully banked left over the Van Nuys Golf Course and headed north north east, slowly climbing, to reach its cruise speed of 425mph.

  It would have been a private aircraft, perhaps an executive in his private airplane headed away from LA for the weekend. The airport at Van Nuys specializes in non-commercial aircraft, its big sister to the west being the main commercial destination.

  Quinn had always been interested in aviation: not just the huge commercial airplanes, but smaller craft; in fact it was here, at Van Nuys Airport, that Raymond Quinn Senior would take his six-year old son on a Sunday morning to watch the planes taxiing, taking off and landing. Quinn’s pipe dream since then had been to own a small plane and get himself a pilot’s licence, but it was the day job, or rather the pay for the day job which killed that ambition. One day, maybe.

  ‘You ready?’ Leroy asked.

  Quinn took his gaze off the Turboprop and turned back to his partner. ‘Sure.’

  They were at the house of one Rudi Johansson, the registered owner of the Chevrolet Milverado, which was the only match to the four possible licence plate numbers that was not a sedan.

  The houses in the street were typical Southern California homes: one floor, large front yard. Johansson’s house was no exception: the yard had no grass, just earth with weeds dotted around. The skeleton of what they recognized as a British Mini stood on the earth, its doors and hood a mixture of primer, dirt and rust. It had no tyres: the naked wheels rested on piles of cinder blocks.

  The risk of calling on somebody during the day is that there is a good chance they are out, at work, normally. Today, Leroy and Quinn were lucky, as Johansson answered the door himself.

  Johansson confirmed he was the owner of the pick-up, but explained what had happened.

  ‘It was the other night. I had parked it on the street. I normally use the drive, or on the yard there, but my girl had already parked hers there, so I put it on the street.’