Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  ‘It’s more likely to be another man,’ Leroy said. ‘The degree of violence involved: restraining and tying them up, the beatings they received – unlikely to have been caused by a woman.’

  ‘Or a man on his own,’ Quinn added.

  Leroy nodded his agreement, and then continued. ‘However, supposing this theory is correct, and that some time in the past, Hutchinson assaulted another man, and last night got paid back, what about his wife? Why would she receive the same treatment? Sorry, Lieutenant, I don’t agree with your contact’s theory: I just don’t buy some sadistic revenge for a rape.’

  ‘What’s your theory then, Sam?’ Perez asked.

  ‘While not totally discounting that idea, I think there’s another angle to this.’ He passed Perez a photograph. ‘When the room was examined, this was found, deep in the rug, just under the bed. It looks as if it was dropped and trod on, as part of it looks broken away.’

  The lieutenant studied the photograph. It was of a small pill, teal in colour. It was deep in the white strands of the Hutchinsons’ rug. The circular shape had been compromised slightly, as if a minute fraction had been broken off; there were traces of teal powder on the rug next to the pill. Perez looked up at Leroy.

  ‘We think it’s Ecstasy,’ Leroy said. ‘It’s being analysed right now. Which could explain the level of violence against the Hutchinsons over a period of maybe several hours, and the absence of any theft.’

  Perez stared at the picture. ‘What’s that engraved into it?’

  ‘It looks to be like a bolt of lightning. You know, they have these things embossed on them. Some kind of logo.’

  ‘A drug fuelled rampage,’ Perez said, nodding.

  ‘Possibly. Think of the scenario: two, maybe three, guys. Armed and high on E. Just happen to be walking or driving down Grasswood Avenue. They feel like getting themselves some R and R, and knock on the Hutchinsons’ door. Once the Hutchinsons open the door…you can guess the rest.’

  Perez said, ‘So the fact that both the Hutchinsons were shot….where they were shot, might have nothing to do with an historical assault?’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. Remember, there were no traces of semen on either victim. I think they were shot in that way because it just seemed the thing to do.’

  Perez exhaled and looked up at Leroy. ‘So, what’s your plan?’

  Leroy sniffed and cleared his throat. ‘We’re going to be calling on the neighbours. If it was just a random attack while the perps were high, then they might have tried to gain access to other houses. The occupants might have seen something, or be able to identify them, or have other information.

  ‘Ray’s going to speak with the GND. Assuming it is E we’re dealing with, they might be able to identify the source of the drug, and from there we might be able to trace who bought it. Long shot, I know, but worth a try.

  ‘I’ve already put a call in to my person in Quantico. I’m waiting for her to call me back.

  ‘We’ll also be looking at the Hutchinsons’ background. He looked the age to be retired, but I’m interested in what he did, what he does now, where he goes; just anything which might have a connection with the type of people who could have done this. It might tie in with what the FBI say. ’

  Perez frowned for a moment, in thought. ‘Okay. I’ll let you get on with it, then. You seem to have all the angles taken care of. Let me know if you need any further support, won’t you?’

  Leroy and Quinn both nodded and got up. Leroy let Quinn leave the lieutenant’s office then said quietly, ‘I’ll just be a moment, Ray.’ With Quinn gone, he turned back to the lieutenant.

  ‘Is there anything I should know about this case, Roman?’ he asked.

  Perez looked surprised. ‘You mean is there anything I haven’t told you?’

  ‘That’s not what I said. We never discuss cases with you in such detail. Why this one? What’s so special about the Hutchinsons? Who are they?’

  ‘Come on, Sam. We were partners for - how long? If I was holding something back, you’d know.’

  Leroy said nothing.

  Perez reached back and took a pile of neatly folded newspapers off a small table behind his chair. He threw the newspapers onto his desk. Leroy could see the headlines on some of the front pages: Malibu Seniors Slaughtered; Carnage in Paradise; Malibu Massacre; Tortured for Kicks? ‘That’s why,’ he said, lifting each newspaper up. ‘The media are all over this like a rash.’

  ‘But why? Why are the papers so interested?’

  Perez shrugged. ‘How often does something like this happen out there? Not exactly Paradise, I’ll admit, but that type of violence and mutilation aren’t everyday occurrences.’

  ‘Fine. I get the picture. We’ll get to work on it.’

  ‘Best keep me up to date with everything that happens. With this amount of press coverage, the captain’s going to be jumping up and down.’

  Leroy nodded and left. Once he was alone, the lieutenant’s attention returned to his half-eaten fajita. He took a bite, and pulled a face. The meat was cold. He pushed the remainder to one side, grimacing.

  ‘Everything okay, Sam?’ Quinn asked as Leroy joined him at the Homicide Desk.

  ‘Yeah, sure. I just wanted to check something with him.’ He sat at his own desk and swivelled the chair around and shook his head. ‘He said he’d read the report but he didn’t know about the Ecstasy pill.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘He hadn’t read the damn thing. He was just trying to impress us. Making out he’s hands on. Being lieutenantly.’

  Quinn laughed, then turned his own chair to face Leroy’s. ‘So you’re not buying the settling a score for a sexual assault.’

  ‘Nah. It just doesn’t feel right. There was no reason to do the same to the wife. If it was to settle a score, they’d want to be out of that place as soon as they could. No, I’m certain that pill has something to do with it. If they were on a high, they wouldn’t rush; they’d take their own sweet time.’

  ‘They were enjoying it, you mean.’

  ‘I do. And that’s what worries me. If they enjoyed it so much, what are they going to do next?’

  SIX

  WITH A HISS, the doors slid shut, and the Metro Train slid out of the station. The car carried more passengers than usual for some reason this morning. Normally he could get a seat without any difficulty when he boarded at Union Station; however, today he was forced to stand for the first two stops. As the disembodied voice announced the pending arrival at Pershing Square, a large African American woman rose from her window seat and began to negotiate her way through the legs of the passengers occupying the other three seats in that bay.

  The train lurched slightly as the driver applied more brakes, and the woman’s legs knocked those of the man sitting across from her. ‘Pardon me,’ she mumbled. The man merely looked up at her and half a second later his gaze returned to his newspaper. She squeezed past the man in the aisle wearing the USC cap, and made her way to the door.

  The man in the cap saw his opportunity, and before the old lady standing next to him could react, he stepped over the legs of the Hispanic woman in the aisle seat, and settled down by the window. The man reading the newspaper looked up from his pages, giving an irritated look. Maybe he had been hoping for more legroom.

  The man in the cap twisted around in his seat, trying to get more comfortable on the hard plastic seat. Eventually he slumped in the seat and got out his phone. He had a voicemail waiting. He dialled and put the phone to his ear. He grinned as he listened to the message. Pressed 3 to delete the message then sent a brief text message to the caller.

  He pulled the peak of his USC cap down slightly, and touched the phone screen to access the internet. The thin blue line at the top of the screen moved a few millimetres to the right, and then stopped.

  He looked out of the window as the train pulled up at 7th Street/Metro Center. The platform was quite busy; just as well he had already claimed his seat. He gave the
passengers outside a cursory glance then returned to his phone. The line had not moved: still no internet.

  He mouthed an obscenity: there was supposed to be wifi on the damned MTA.

  The train was on its way again. He stared at his phone, willing it to go online. As they came out of the tunnel at Westlake/MacArthur Park, the blue line began to move to the right, then stopped half way. Frustrated, he looked around the car: several other people were using their phones: why could he not get the internet? He had the new LG G3: that was supposed to be a high specification device.

  He pressed return and went to the Home screen. Stabbed his finger on the LA Times icon. The same thing happened. ‘Fuck,’ he said aloud, earning him an angry stare from the woman sitting next to the man with the newspaper.

  He gave up trying to get online; it would not be long before he could get to street level. Instead, he pressed one of the many games icons he had, and settled back to play Lethal Combat V.

  As the train left Wilshire/Normandie, he ended the game, slipped the phone into his sweatshirt pocket, and headed for the nearest doors. The train was much less busier than it had been Downtown.

  At the train’s final destination on Western, he got off, and joined the other few passengers heading for the exit. As he sauntered down the platform, he looked up at the painted figures on the tiled wall the other side of the tracks. One of the faces, an elderly man in glasses, seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place him. In any case, there was something more urgent on his mind.

  Too impatient to wait in line, he ran up the escalator leading from the platform to the mezzanine level, jostling past those passengers already on the steps. A minute later, he was on the street. He reached into his pocket for a pair of sunglasses, also taking out his phone. He stooped to check the front pages of the newspapers in the stands by the station entrance then checked the time. He had ten minutes to spare.

  He walked briskly down Western Avenue until he came to the Fine Western Hotel. Outside the hotel were two benches, one of which was occupied by a family of Japanese tourists and their luggage. He sat down on the unoccupied bench, in the shade of the hotel awning. He stabbed the LA Times icon again. This time it worked, and the headlines page appeared. His heart began to pound as he read the second headline: Malibu Seniors Slaughtered.

  ‘Way to go,’ he said excitedly as he read the text of the article.

  Then he returned to the Home screen, put the phone back into his pocket and stepped into the hotel to begin a day’s work.

  SEVEN

  LEROY LEANED FORWARD on his elbows rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘We’ll go speak to the neighbours first,’ he said. ‘But let’s see before we go what we know about the Hutchinsons. After we’ve spoken to the neighbours, anybody else, we can build up a bigger picture.’

  Quinn leaned over and picked up a manila folder. ‘I’ve started a file here,’ he said, opening up the folder. ‘It’s a bit sketchy right now.’

  ‘Well, it’s a start. Where did you get the information?’

  ‘I Googled him.’

  Leroy leafed through Quinn’s file, swung round and glared in the direction of the lieutenant’s office. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he spat.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Leroy jabbed his thumb. ‘Perez. When I stopped behind, I asked him if there was anything he wasn’t telling us; you know, why there was all the attention about them. He said Hutchinson wasn’t anybody special: all the press attention was on account of the fact that killings like that are rare in Malibu.’

  ‘So how come I could Google him?’

  ‘He wasn’t anyone special; well, not now. Neither is she. But it turns out he was the CEO of a major Southern California charity.’

  ‘Which was why I got a result on Google. Now, take a deep breath and listen. This is what it had.’

  Resignedly, Leroy sat down. ‘Go on.’

  Quinn took a deep breath. ‘He was born during World War II, the son of a US Naval Officer and a banker’s daughter. Born in San Diego. Educated San Diego High School. After a couple of short-term jobs, he enlisted in the US Army. Served in Vietnam. Reached the rank of Lieutenant Colonel by the age of thirty. Resigned his commission in the early 1980s and joined the Avalon Mission, the charity I mentioned earlier.’

  ‘Avalon? As in King Arthur, you mean?’

  Quinn looked up and shrugged. ‘I’d assumed Avalon, Catalina, but I guess the King Arthur thing gives the name a kind of edge, makes it stand out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Okay. When he started at the charity he was an Area Director, but he quickly rose through the ranks as it were and was appointed CEO in 1994. He retired twelve years ago.’

  ‘What’s he been doing since then?’

  ‘All it says here, is that for the last five years he’s been President of the Malibu Golf Club.’

  Leroy scratched his chin and leaned back in his chair. ‘What sort of charity is it?’

  Quinn looked at his notes. ‘To do with homeless kids. Liaises with the authorities regarding kids found sleeping rough on the streets, in malls, railroad depots.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Doesn’t say. I’m guessing it either reunites them with their families, or some place of safety.’

  Leroy began chewing his thumbnail then pointed at the folder. ‘You said he had been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel before he was thirty. That’s pretty impressive progress; then he left the Army. That’s strange. Does it say why?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Quinn looked up. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t really know what I’m thinking. It just seems strange for a guy with a promising career in the military to give it all up and go work for a kids’ charity.’

  ‘If there was a reason why he left the Army, then are you thinking the other night could have something to do with it?’

  Leroy shrugged. ‘Who knows? It was over thirty years ago when he left. Might be worthwhile checking with the Army why he left. If they can, and are prepared to tell. I have the contact details for the NPRC somewhere.’ He paused. ‘What about his wife?’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘Nothing on her.’

  ‘Maybe when we speak to the neighbours we can find something out about her. We are assuming, after all, that he was the reason for the attack, unless it turned out to be random after all.’ Leroy paused. ‘Tell you what, Ray: we have quite an area to cover, so to save time let’s split up and take our own cars. I guess we could ask for support from the uniformed guys, but I’d rather we got anything first hand. Now, let’s see: the Hutchinsons’ place was numbered 20820, so if you take the higher numbered blocks, I’ll take the lower numbers, down to the ocean. Give me a call when you’re done or if you need any back up - I’ll do the same - then we can arrange where to meet up. I’ll take the Golf Club in as well.’

  Quinn stood up and emptied his coffee cup. ‘Sure thing, boss. Speak later.’

  ‘Yeah. Later. Before I go, I’ll put a call in to the NPRC before I leave. It might take them a while to retrieve Hutchinson’s records, so I’ll give them a head start.’

  After Quinn had left, Leroy made a quick bathroom stop and returned to his desk for his jacket. He paused and looked at the notes his partner had started, with Hutchinson’s timeline. Quinn had obtained and printed a photograph of Hutchinson while he was still alive. It was from the Golf Club’s website, and so was fairly recent. Leroy stared at the picture. Murray Hutchinson was becoming something of an enigma. Why the hell would someone who had so far had a meteoric rise through the ranks in such a short space of time suddenly give it all up and go to work for a charity? Nobody could be that altruistic.

  Were the other night’s events a random attack? Were Murray and Barbara Hutchinson just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Or were they targeted?

  Was there something in his past?

  EIGHT

  THE MALIBU GOLF Club nestles neatly on Encinal Canyon Road between the 101 and Pacific Coas
t Highway. The 6614 yard course was designed by the golf architect William Francis Bell in 1976, the two lakes located amongst the fairways providing some relief from the average 80 degree heat.

  As he waited for his partner to arrive, Sam Leroy ordered himself an orange juice and wandered out to one of the tables outside. He sat down, put on his sunglasses, and looked around. Two white carts were trundling away from what he guessed was the eighteenth green.

  Leroy was not particularly sporty. He was fit, as he had to be to be in the LAPD, mainly through the five mile run he took most mornings. He used to play football at High School, and was a regular spectator at MetLife Stadium until he transferred to Los Angeles. He had always felt the Southern California climate was ideal for golf, and had been contemplating taking the sport up. On his way in, he noticed that the green fees were $40 for 18 holes, and lessons were $50 an hour; not unreasonable, he thought: maybe he could earn future promotions here, like some of his senior officers had. But then he enjoyed the running: maybe the golf could wait a few years.

  He checked the time. Quinn should be here soon; his own enquiries finished quicker than expected. Upon arrival at the club, he spoke to an elderly man in the shop who turned out to be the club secretary, and had read in the newspapers about the Hutchinsons’ murder. Leroy learned that Murray Hutchinson had been President of the club for the past four years, and would play a round at least four times a week. His wife would also visit to play, maybe once or twice weekly. Apart from that, the secretary could shed very little light on their private life. They were both apparently very polite and charming, but kept themselves to themselves. He had no idea what Murray did before he retired, and as far as he was aware there were no other club members who could tell him more, on account of the Hutchinsons’ private nature.