Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  As he waited for his partner, Leroy gazed around. The cart he had observed earlier leaving the eighteenth had arrived, and the two ladies driving it made their way to another table, chatting animatedly. They were of retirement age, and were clearly affluent.

  Adjacent to the group of tables where Leroy had sat, was the Malibu & Vine, a high class wine bar. Two white-jacketed waiters were clearing up after one of the bar’s regular outdoor wine tasting sessions. Leroy had previously noticed that Chardonnay was being offered at $12 a glass. He finished his $4 orange juice.

  ‘Same again, Sam?’ Quinn asked as he arrived.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  Five minutes later, Quinn sat down at Leroy’s table. ‘I’m afraid it wasn’t a successful morning.’

  ‘You didn’t find out much, then?’ Leroy asked. ‘Neither did I. None of the neighbours I spoke to had anybody calling at the time we estimated the Hutchinsons did. None of them really knew the couple. They lived here between two and ten years, depending on whom I spoke to, and were an intensely private couple. Even the couple who live in the next house knew very little about them. I got the same picture here. Same with you?’

  Quinn nodded. ‘Yeah. I got no answer from two or three places, so I posted one of my cards through the door; but the ones where I got an answer – yeah, I got told the same as you. Kept themselves to themselves; got the occasional visitor.’

  ‘They had no children, so that would reduce the number of visitors. A couple that age, you’d expect sons or daughters, grandchildren to visit.’

  ‘I wonder how long they’d been married. There might be family from a previous marriage, maybe siblings.’

  ‘The local guys are checking that out for me. Said they’ll let me know as soon as. The fact that nobody else had any callers suggests to me that they were deliberately targeted.’

  Quinn took a long mouthful of juice. ‘How’d you get on with the army?’

  Leroy laughed. ‘Have you ever tried to get information out of the military?’

  ‘No; why?’

  ‘When you do, good luck with it.’

  Now it was Quinn’s turn to laugh. ‘How so?’

  ‘How shall I phrase it: they’re not always very forthcoming. I knew I was in for a rough ride when they answered the phone.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Normally, they’ll answer something like, “NPRC; how can I help?” - something like that. This time I got “National Military Personnel Records Center. Captain Eugene Whitaker speaking”. My first thought was, “Oh, Christ, I’ve got Captain Jobsworth here”.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes. He instructed me that I had to fill out and send a Standard Form 180 and that if the request was approved it would take around three weeks for a reply, and there might be a service fee.’

  ‘Three weeks?’

  ‘Yeah, well; I told him that was bullshit, and that I was a police officer pursuing a murder enquiry and he was obligated to give me the information. He then gave me a pile of crap about that not being relevant as the LAPD was not a federal body. So I just lost it, and demanded to speak to his superior officer. He backed down, gave me a load of face-saving bull and said I’d get a call back with the information within twenty-four hours. Have a good day and all that.’

  ‘So, by this time tomorrow, then?’

  ‘U-huh. I’d just be interested in why he left the service at such a strange time to work for a charity for runaway children.’

  ‘Children or boys?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Good point, Ray. I’m not sure. We need to find that out. He had no children, remember.’

  ‘But he was married.’

  Leroy laughed. ‘You’re still in newly-wed mode. The fact he was a married man means diddly squat. What are you doing?’

  Quinn was pressing keys on his phone. ‘Googling the Avalon Mission. Here we are: yes, it says runaway children. Not just boys.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’ Leroy replied. ‘Let’s park that line of enquiry. See what the army comes up with.’

  Quinn finished his drink. ‘So where now?’

  ‘We’ve drawn a blank on the neighbours, unless any of them remember something, but we do know, or can be ninety-five percent sure, that they were targeted deliberately. He was retired, kept himself to himself, so were they visited because of something in their past?’

  ‘But he had been retired for years.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right; but maybe somebody has a long memory.’

  ‘A very long one. Should we talk to the charity ourselves?’

  ‘I think we ought to. Are they still based in Avalon? Does it say on your phone?’

  ‘Hold on, I’d logged off.’ Quinn paused a beat, then said, ‘Here we are: yes, Eucalyptus Street, Avalon.’

  ‘Eucalyptus Street? How poetic.’

  ‘You want to go now?’

  ‘Nah. We’ll go over in the morning. By the time we get there today, the offices’ll be closed. Look, why don’t you get off home; spend some time with Holly.’

  ‘You going to see Julia?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m going to head Downtown to the GND. A guy down there owes me a favour: I’ll pick his brains about who might have supplied that E.’

  At that moment, Leroy’s phone rang. ‘It’s the NPRC,’ he said, picking the phone up. ‘Detective Leroy speaking.’

  ‘……….’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Have you -’

  ‘……….’

  ‘But -’

  ‘……….’

  ‘I see. I understand.’

  Leroy hung up and tossed the phone onto the table.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Well - surprise, surprise. That was that asshole Whitaker’s superior officer, a Major Pitt, with the response to my enquiry.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, there are no records as to why Lieutenant-Colonel Hutchinson left the army.’

  NINE

  ‘WHAT?’ ASKED QUINN. ‘There’s no record of him?’

  ‘No, that’s not what he said. They have records of Hutchinson, as you’d expect, but nothing documented as to why he left.’

  Quinn wasn’t having any of this. ‘But surely their records are like ours, all computerized; so you can’t just have something blank: they have to record something.’

  ‘They would now; but remember how long ago it was when he left the army. It was all paper records then. Easy to miss something out. If anything was left out,’ he added.

  ‘You don’t believe them, then?’

  ‘Listen, when something isn’t right, like now, it’s one of two things: conspiracy or screw-up. Now the US Army has the bureaucracy to end all bureaucracies, and a clerical error like missing off that type of information just doesn’t happen.’

  ‘So, not a screw-up. But why the conspiracy?’

  ‘Conspiracy is probably too strong a word, to be fair. But there’s no way there’s no record of why he left. Either the information is above somebody’s pay grade, somebody’s rank, or Major Pitt has been ordered not to divulge it.’

  ‘Why didn’t the guy you spoke to originally call back? Why his superior officer?’

  ‘Why not Captain Whitaker himself? Well, maybe somebody thought I wouldn’t take no as an answer from a captain, but I might from a major.’

  ‘But you did, Sam.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? Ask to speak to his Colonel? Then what do I say? “Let me speak to your Commander-in-Chief”?’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Leave it there?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Pitt was lying to me, and there’s a reason why. It’s just a matter of speaking to someone else; speaking to the right person.’

  ‘The lieutenant, you mean?’

  ‘Perez? He won’t know anybody. I was the one with all the connections when we were partners. No, I’ll give Bill Farmer a call. He’s been round the block more times than both of us put together, and then some. I’ll call in another favour before h
e retires.’

  Quinn tapped the dashboard. ‘You know, in a way they have answered our question. If Hutchinson left the service because of medical reasons, for example, or winning the lottery so he never had to work again, then why not just say so?’

  ‘Precisely. So can we infer that the reason he left is one that somebody doesn’t want broadcast?’

  ‘Why don’t you go to the captain? You might stand a better chance of getting an answer.’

  ‘Not necessarily. If you escalate this type of thing, say to even the Chief, the contact would be at that kind of level. The Chief wouldn’t phone Captain Whitaker or Major Pitt. If something was being covered up, then the Chief might be talking to the person ordering it. No, I’ll try Farmer; at first at any rate. But you’re right: there seems to be a question mark over his reason for leaving the services.

  ‘Anyway, you get off. I’ll go see the GND. See you at the Desk in the morning. I’ll text you if anything urgent crops up.’

  With that, Leroy remained in the Taurus and watched Quinn walk back to his own car and drive off. Still staring out of his windscreen, he picked up his phone and speed dialled a number. It went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Bill? It’s Sam. Can you call me back as soon as you can? I need a favour.’

  TEN

  ON EAST SIXTH Street, between Maple Avenue and Wall Street, there stands a three storey building. This building has since 2009 housed the LAPD Gang and Narcotics Division, or GND for short. Gang-related crime has been a major issue for years in most major cities, as has drug-related law-breaking, and in that year it made sense to consolidate the two separate divisions to facilitate the rapid deployment of forces to identified crime problems. Since there is a connection of guns, gangs, narcotics and crime, the cooperation between experienced gang and narcotics investigators has resulted in a quantifiable increase in arrests and a reduction in the crime rate. Joint operations, in cooperation with other City entities and resources, have had some success in abating chronic narcotic and gang problems.

  The mission of the GND is to disrupt violent street gangs and the means by which they support their life style, including the manufacture, transportation, sale and use of illicit drugs, and sales of firearms in the Greater Los Angeles area.

  Leroy parked on the second floor of the garage adjoining the building, and walked through to the suite where the Gang and Narcotics Division is based. Detective Darlene West, a tall and statuesque African American officer, greeted him. He showed her a photograph of the tablet they had found in the Hutchinsons’ bedroom.

  ‘See, it’s a light blue colour,’ Leroy said. ‘With that logo imprinted.’

  ‘Teal,’ Detective West said, studying the photograph.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘The colour. It’s not blue. It’s teal.’

  ‘Okay, teal. Is it something you recognise?’

  ‘Not necessarily by the colour. It’s the logo that seems familiar. You know, the bastards who manufacture the pills go to the trouble to have something like this stamped on them as a sort of trademark.’

  ‘I know. Like a graffiti tag.’

  ‘Something like that. So it sets them apart from other manufacturers. Now, this is a bolt of lightning, so I would guess it’s meant to signify energy, dynamism. Being cooler than the next supplier, basically.’

  ‘Do you recognise the make?’

  ‘It seems familiar. Not so much on account of the colour: that can change with each batch; it depends what colouring the manufacturer has in stock. Plain white would be boring. One supplier a couple of years back brought out red and green just in time for Christmas.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Way. Some sick sense of humour, yeah? But it’s the logo that’s important.’

  ‘It’s the supplier I’m really interested in; not the manufacturer.’

  ‘One would lead to another,’ West said, turning to the PC on her desk. ‘Now, let’s see: bolt of lightning. Grab yourself a coffee, Sam,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Not sure how long this will take.’

  Leroy poured himself some of the thin black liquid which stood in the glass jug behind her desk. He could see from her screen dozens of images of tablets and capsules of varying colours. After a few minutes, West stopped trawling, enlargened one image and sat back, comparing it to the photograph he brought in.

  ‘Find a match?’ he asked.

  ‘Think so.’ She compared the two images again. ‘Yeah; this is it.’

  Leroy stepped over to look at her screen. ‘Who’s the supplier?’

  West clicked on a link, and scanned the screen which came up. She looked up at Leroy. ‘How much do you know about gang culture? Specifically here in LA?’

  Leroy took a mouthful of the cold coffee and pulled a face. ‘I know some, but that tends to be when you guys get involved. Why?’

  ‘The image here which matches your picture is of a stash we got from a gang called Gatos Locos. Heard of them?’

  ‘Crazy Cats. No, I don’t think I have. Who are they?’

  ‘Krazy Kats, with a K. They’re a sub-clique of the 38th Street Gang. Heard of them?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of them. South Los Angeles, right? Not my area.’

  West sat back. ‘Well, here’s a quick lesson. The 38th Street gang, the Tres Ocho, is one of the oldest Hispanic gangs in South LA. Maybe on account of that, they have one of the largest varrios, neighbourhoods, in this part of the City. Theirs stretches roughly from Central Avenue eastwards as far as South Alameda, and north from Slauson right up to 24th Street.’

  ‘Jeez. That’s some turf.’

  ‘You got it. On the peripheries, there’s quite a bit of rivalries: over there,’ - she pointed to a photograph pinned to the wall. To Leroy it looked like a mass of graffiti - ‘is a picture of what we found on 27th and Hooper. One of the 38th Street gangs had tried to cross out an East Side tag. You can see a black 38 obliterating a red 13. We found one of the East Side gang members, without one of his fingers, further down the street. He got off lightly. But in the centre of their varrio, they more or less keep themselves to themselves.’

  ‘So where do these Krazy Kats come into all this?’

  ‘Most part, ’cause of the size of the neighbourhood, over the years various smaller factions have sprung up. Cliques, they are called.’

  ‘And the Krazy Kats are one of these cliques?’

  ‘They are; and this,’ - she tapped the screen with her index finger – ‘came from the last time we busted them.’

  ‘I see,’ said Leroy. ‘I know it’s -’

  ‘Sorry, Sam, you don’t see,’ West cut in. ‘That particular stash came from the Kats, but they are just the suppliers; they don’t manufacture. It could be that there are many other sources out there supplying. What is it, by the way – Meth?’

  ‘Ecstasy, according to the reports. Containing 3, 4 methy…methy.. .’

  West laughed. ‘Methylenedioxy-N-methylamfetamine. MDMA for short.’

  Leroy grinned back at her. ‘Yeah, that’s right. It also contained caffeine and 45% amphetamine.’

  ‘Speed. Yeah. What was the dose?’

  ‘90mg.’

  West nodded. ‘Hm. Is this from those murders in Malibu?’

  ‘That’s right. We found the pill under a bed. It had been stepped on, we think, as part of it is broken off and there were a few traces of powder on the carpet.’ He paused. ‘What would the effects be? Of taking one of these babies, I mean.’

  ‘Er…after around thirty, maybe forty-five minutes, there’s a feeling of exhilaration. It might make a new user feel nauseous. Was there any vomit on the scene?’

  ‘Only Quinn, my partner. There were two victims, and there’d been some sexual violence. With a handgun.’

  ‘I see,’ said West. ‘Anyway, the peak comes some sixty to ninety minutes after ingestion, and lasts between two to four hours; then there’s a gradual comedown.’

  Leroy described the crime scene to her. ‘Our theo
ry is,’ he continued, ‘that whoever it was, was with the victims, getting high, and enjoying what they did.’

  ‘Hm,’ West replied. ‘Doesn’t sound rushed. The only thing I would say, Sam, is it’s the speed, the amphetamine, which causes users to go loco; from what you’ve told me, the amount of speed in the tablet wasn’t that high - what, 45%?’

  Leroy nodded.

  West continued, ‘It’s unusual for MDMA to cause the wildness which must have gone on in that room. Was alcohol involved?’

  ‘We found no traces, although that doesn’t mean to say it wasn’t.’

  ‘Did they check the john for traces? One of them might have taken a wiz.’

  ‘No, they didn’t. When Quinn threw up, he threw up down the toilet, thereby compromising any evidence there.’

  ‘So, you don’t have much to go on, do you?’

  ‘We have a few lines of enquiry. There are two problems, though: one, the case is high profile. The press have gotten hold of it, and my lieutenant upwards are jumping up and down.’

  ‘Oh, I can appreciate that. What’s the second problem?’

  ‘Whoever did it was clearly enjoying themselves. They might try again.’

  ‘Sure, I can see your problem,’ West said out of the corner of her mouth. She looked at the screen again, then at the clock on the wall, then up at Leroy.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Sam, I know someone who might be able to help you. You got any plans for tonight?’

  ELEVEN

  THE LCD CLOCK on Darlene West’s dashboard read 11:42. She pulled up slowly, behind a dark coloured SUV. Leroy peered out of his window. On the side of the street on which they had parked was a small line of shops: a clothes shop, a coffee bar, a charity shop; no chain names, just small, private concerns. Two premises were unoccupied, their windows plastered with fly posters. Metal grilles protected the front of all the shops.

  ‘Where are we, exactly?’ Leroy asked, looking round for a street name.

  ‘East 29th,’ she replied.

  ‘Right. Don’t get down here much. Is this where we can meet this guy?’