Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  ‘Peanuts,’ continued Hobson, ‘can cause a severe, potentially fatal allergic reaction. Anaphylaxis is the correct medical term. Even trace amounts of peanut can cause an allergic reaction. Casual contact with peanuts, such as touching them or peanut butter residue, is less likely to cause a reaction, unless the person rubs his eyes, or nose, or mouth.’

  ‘A problem with children, I guess,’ said Leroy.

  ‘Absolutely. And as peanuts come in some unexpected sources, like Asian and Mexican food, specialty pizzas, vegetarian meat substitutes, if one has an allergy, then one as to be alert at all times.’

  ‘If someone has the allergy, what happens?’

  ‘Mild symptoms could be hives, eczema, diarrhoea, stomach pains.’

  ‘And serious ones?’

  ‘Well, you have swelling of the lips, tongue, throat, restricting the airways. You might have shortness of breath. You might turn blue. You might feel faint, confused as your blood pressure has dropped. Pain in the chest, maybe; loss of consciousness.’

  ‘Maybe death?’

  ‘If not treated, certainly a severe symptom can be fatal. That’s why allergy sufferers should always have quick access to an epinephrine auto-injector.’

  ‘A sort of antidote?’

  ‘More or less. Why? What’s all this about, Sam?’

  ‘How did this guy die, Russ?’

  ‘From recall, his airways swelled and he lost consciousness. Brain starved of oxygen, lights out.’

  ‘And you’re satisfied it was suicide?’

  ‘Sam, read the report. He knew he had an allergy; he deliberately ate peanut butter.’

  ‘Unpleasant way to die, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not my choice, I’ll admit, but if you’re not thinking straight…’

  ‘Did he eat all of the sandwich? Was there any left?’

  ‘I don’t remember there being any left at the scene, no. Sam, you’ll need to read the report.’

  ‘I will, Russ. Look, thanks for your time. Sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘No problem. Be in touch.’

  After ending the call, Leroy sat in the car for a moment, tapping his chin with his phone.

  Then got out of the car and went back up to Julia’s apartment.

  FORTY-SIX

  IT WAS EARLY the next morning.

  Detective Ray Quinn was on his way to work.

  And he was not in a good mood.

  The previous night, he and his wife Holly had had a fight. Not a really serious one: in fact, some people would probably not class it as a fight, more a discussion between two people of opposing views, and where the discussion now and then got slightly heated.

  Ray and Holly had been married a while now, and so far their marriage had been one of almost total bliss, harmony and agreement. Last night was an exception.

  The reason for the argument could be summed up in two words: Henry Meriwether. Henry Meriwether II, to be precise. Holly’s father.

  Her father owned a leather goods manufacturing firm, which had been founded by his own father. Holly was an only child, so there was no son to pass the firm onto. So there was Holly, who had gotten herself married to an LAPD detective.

  Even though nothing had actually been said, Quinn had always had the feeling that Meriwether did not really approve of his daughter’s choice. In the early months, no - the early days, Meriwether had been asking in a roundabout way what Ray’s prospects were in the Department, what his salary was now, and what he expected it to be when he became a senior officer. A number of times he had made obscure remarks about Ray leaving the LAPD and joining the ‘family firm’ – having a respectable and safe job. Ray, however, saw his role in the Department as a vocation rather than a 9 - 5 job, and had made it quite clear that there would never be any question of him leaving his job. Holly, wanting to keep the peace all round, always made a point of maintaining nonchalant neutrality. Ray could understand the concerns about safety – he had no illusions about the job - but felt he could help more people by being in the LAPD than by making leather couches.

  Holly must have either seen or spoken to her father during the day, and broached the subject again; Quinn was tired when he got home. Not a good combination of events.

  Ray Quinn was 6 feet two inches tall; Henry Meriwether II could not have been more than five feet six inches tall, and Quinn always felt that was the root of the problem. He had chatted to Sam a number of times about his father-in-law, and Sam, who had only met the guy once - at Quinn’s wedding - had an explanation. He said that Meriwether had what his own father used to call SMS - small man syndrome. Anybody who successfully ran a fairly large company had to have a degree of assertiveness, and this came through at home; however, it would not be easy if the other person was almost a foot taller than you.

  That was what he told Holly the previous night, and that was why he spent the night sleeping on the couch.

  So, after a very restless night, Quinn decided to get to the Desk early, and get some work done before Sam arrived. He got himself a paper cup of coffee from the vending machine and walked past the empty offices to the Homicide Desk.

  And froze in the doorway. ‘Jesus H!’ he exclaimed.

  In the place of the tidy three desks he and Leroy had left that night, papers were strewn all over the place, the wall-mounted whiteboards were crammed with data which had not been there the night before, and Leroy was sprawled back in a chair, feet up on one of the desks, asleep.

  ‘Morning, Sam,’ Quinn called out cheerfully. Leroy woke with a start.

  ‘Oh,’ Leroy grunted. ‘It’s you. Is that the time already?’

  ‘No, it’s 7:15. I couldn’t sleep. You were in the parking lot when I saw you last. Did you just come back here?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Leroy drained his own paper cup and pulled a face. ‘Ugh. It’s gone cold. Back in a minute.’ He got up and walked out of the room, returning a moment later with a new cup of coffee. He had an extra day’s growth, resembling the beginnings of a beard. He drank almost the whole cup and crashed back down in his chair. Quinn just stared at him.

  ‘Ray,’ Leroy said. ‘Last night I had some inspiration.’

  ‘I thought you were going over to Julia’s.’

  ‘I was. I did. But after dinner I had a flash of inspiration and followed it up.’

  ‘I bet Julia was pissed.’

  ‘Let’s not go there. I checked out something, spoke to Hobson, and went back to Julia’s, but she was asleep. So I came back here.’

  ‘So you’ve had no sleep?’

  ‘Very little, but lots of coffee.’

  Quinn sat down. ‘Swell. So what was the inspiration?’

  ‘Do you know something?’ asked Leroy tapping his computer screen. ‘We could get just as much policing done sitting in front of one of these, rather than driving around LA. And it would help the captain’s budget.’

  ‘I think that’s the coffee talking,’ Quinn said. ‘What did you do here last night?’

  ‘You remember when we stopped for gas on the way to Salinas Valley I picked up a newspaper? Didn’t really read it, just threw it in back. But last night, I found a piece in it about a Felix Greer, a guy from Soledad, who hanged himself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he was retired. In his late sixties. The same as Murray Hutchinson.’

  ‘I know where this is going, Sam. Yes, the same as Murray Hutchinson, but not the same as Anthony Wong.’

  ‘Hear me out. I went online, and checked out how many men aged sixty to seventy-five on our western seaboard who had died in the last three months. Do you know how many?’

  Quinn shrugged. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Two hundred and one.’ Leroy got up and stepped over to one of the whiteboards. ‘So I drilled down the list, and highlighting the ones which kind of meet our criteria. And this is them. They.’ He tapped the whiteboard. ‘Look at this list.’

  Quinn wheeled his chair closer as Leroy went down the list.

&nbs
p; ‘First, we have Edward Travis, from Seattle, Washington. 69 years old. Shot through his window using a high velocity weapon. That’s still being investigated.

  ‘Then Eddie - another Edward – Dexter. Lived here in LA. Also 69. Took an overdose of sleeping pills. In fact I was at the scene for a while. Julia and I had been out to dinner when we saw an ambulance as we were driving home. I decided to follow, and it stopped at Dexter’s house. He was sitting in his armchair, as if he was asleep.’

  ‘A suicide, then?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘He still had his glasses on.’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘Give me a break, Sam.’

  Leroy took a deep breath. ‘Back in the day, there used to be this urban legend, that if someone was about to commit suicide they would always take off their glasses first. Like they do when they go to sleep.’

  ‘I’m sure the DA would go for that.’

  Leroy continued, ‘Anyway, there was Dexter. Then we have Murray Hutchinson, who we know about.

  ‘Then we have Frederick Freeman. Russell Hobson told me about him. Seventy years of age. He made and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He was allergic to peanuts, had a severe reaction, and died.’

  ‘Did he have his glasses on?’ Quinn asked, flippantly.

  Leroy ignored him. ‘Then we have Anthony Wong, who was killed in the same way as Hutchinson and his wife.’

  Quinn held his arms out. ‘So? What’s the connection?’

  Leroy finished his coffee, screwed up the cup, and threw it into a bin. ‘All of these victims, with the exception of Anthony Wong, are of the same age and socio-economic group.’

  ‘So?’

  Leroy smiled broadly. ‘And at one time, they all worked for the Avalon Mission.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘SAY SOMETHING, THEN.’ Leroy leaned back onto the wall and folded his arms. ‘What do you think?’

  Quinn sat back and blinked several times. ‘And they all worked for the Mission?’

  Leroy nodded. ‘Yup. Out of all the two hundred and one names I identified, these...one, two, three, four...’ - he tapped the names on the whiteboard as he spoke – ‘all worked there. Anthony Wong was the exception. And I think he is just one poor unlucky bastard who was sacrificed to throw us off the scent.’

  ‘If you’re right about that,’ Quinn said, ‘then that must mean we’re getting close.’

  ‘That thought had crossed my mind. How close we are, God only knows.’

  Quinn said, ‘How did you find out they worked there? And what did they do exactly? The same type of job as Hutchinson?’

  ‘For Travis and Dexter, I read the reports in the archive sections of the newspapers: the Seattle Times for Travis, and the LA Times here for Dexter. You know the sort of thing: Mr xxx, formerly a whatever at wherever. There was nothing in the Times about Freeman - the PB and jelly man - so I looked through that glossy brochure that Prescott gave us, just as an outside shot, and it paid off. There’s a photograph of him in there; he must have just retired.’

  ‘And what did they do there?’

  ‘That’s a bit less certain. There was nothing in the glossy brochure about Travis and Dexter, which I guess you’d expect if they had been retired a while; with Dexter, according to the brochure, he was an events co-ordinator.’

  ‘It’s a no-brainer, really, isn’t it, Sam? Their deaths have to be linked to the Avalon Mission.’

  Leroy shrugged. ‘Well, I think so, but then I’ve always thought so.’

  ‘What about Prescott?’ asked Quinn. ‘Where does that leave him?’

  ‘Prescott,’ said Leroy. ‘Yes, I’d been thinking about him. By my reckoning, he’s either behind all this: maybe something happened in the Mission and he got mightily pissed off about something; or he’s next on the list. Now, I’d be surprised if he’s going around LA shooting former workmates in the ass. I think somebody has a grudge against these Mission guys. How far back it goes is anybody’s guess. The nature of Hutchinson’s wounds would at first indicate something of a sexual nature went on: you know, payback for an assault; but where do the other three fit in? One was shot, one may have been poisoned, and the third – well, he was kind of poisoned, also.’

  Quinn asked, ‘Isn’t poisoning supposed to be the preferred choice of method for a female killer?’

  ‘U-huh, statistically yes. Originally, I had one of the boys they rescued at the top of my list, on account of Hutchinson’s anal injuries, but yes, you’re right: a woman could have done Dexter and Freeman. Travis, even. Maybe they gangbanged a secretary years ago at the Christmas party.’

  ‘But a woman couldn’t have killed the Hutchinsons, surely?’

  Leroy shrugged. ‘It’s not impossible. And we’ve only assumed two perps there. It’s not impossible for a woman on her own. Especially if she knew the Hutchinsons.’

  ‘That would explain how their killer or killers gained access so easily.’

  Leroy collapsed into a chair, steadied it as it began to wheel back. He rubbed his face and yawned. ‘Look, I need to get a couple of hours sleep. Can you see if you can find out exactly what Travis and Dexter did at the Mission. Try the IRS and Social Security Administration.’

  ‘Where are you going, then? Home?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘No, it would take too long. I’m going to walk down to Martha’s, see if Kenny’ll let me have the use of that couch in his back room.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get right on to it.’

  ‘If anyone asks, this is part of our primary investigation, the Wong case,’ Leroy added.

  ‘Quinn nodded. ‘Right. I get it.’

  ‘And while you’re on the blower, ask about Murray Hutchinson, too. There’ve been far too many redactions with that guy.’

  ‘Okay.’ Quinn turned to his keyboard.

  Leroy paused in the doorway and turned round. ‘You might as well check on Prescott. Just for completeness.’

  *****

  Situated on Iowa Avenue between Colby and Butler, and within walking distance from Police Headquarters, Martha’s had been an established watering hole since the early eighties. Martha herself, the granddaughter of an émigré from Germany between the two World Wars, had retired to Palm Springs seven years back and the bar was now run by her son Kenny. Since Martha had left, nothing had changed: Kenny had retained his mother’s name for the bar, the food was just as bad, and the same clientele visited.

  There was a small room behind the bar, which Kenny used as an office. On the old metal desk was a faded white keyboard and matching mouse, wired to a monitor. Not a contemporary flat-screen type, but an old model which had the same dimensions of a cube. There was also a worn leather couch, which Kenny would often use to sleep on when he could not be bothered to get off home after the bar had closed. It was also on occasions used by LAPD officers who needed somewhere to catch some sleep between shifts.

  Leroy had gotten to Martha’s a couple of hours earlier: after talking a while to Kenny and trying to get comfortable on the couch, he must have been sleeping – albeit lightly - for ninety minutes.

  When his phone rang. It was Quinn.

  ‘Sam, are you awake?’

  ‘I am now. What is it?’

  ‘Sorry, but I thought you’d want to be woken. You need to get back here now.’

  ‘All right. Give me twenty.’

  Kenny gave Leroy a paper cup of a watery black liquid he called coffee, and Leroy hurried back to the office.

  ‘Sorry to wake you,’ Quinn said again as Leroy arrived back at the Desk.

  ‘Don’t worry. What have you found?’

  ‘I checked with both the IRS and Social Security about Travis, Dexter and Freeman. And Hutchinson and Prescott. Sure, they all worked for Avalon Mission, but what we didn’t know was that at one time they all worked together.’

  Leroy sat down next to Quinn. ‘No kidding? Doing what?’

  ‘For five years, right up until it was closed…then,’ - Quinn tapped a date on his screen - ‘the Mission ra
n a children’s home. You know, for the kids they rescued, as Prescott put it, until something more permanent could be found for them.’

  Leroy said nothing; he stared at Quinn’s screen in disbelief.

  ‘And the home was run,’ Quinn continued, ‘by -’

  Leroy finished his partner’s sentence. ‘By Travis, Dexter, Freeman, Hutchinson, and Prescott.’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘MUST GO, MUST go, must get away, must get away, have to go, have to go.’

  As he hurriedly packed up the paperwork on his desk and thrust it into a small attaché case, Noah Prescott whispered to himself over and over again, like some bizarre incantation.

  There was a noise from the outer office and he stopped. Looking up he called out, ‘Hello?’

  A woman in her thirties, her dark hair tied back and having the appearance of a Native American, put her head around the door. ‘Sorry, Mr Prescott. I just dropped something.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Prescott grunted. He called out as she returned to the outer office. ‘Oh, Nina?’

  Nina appeared at the doorway. ‘Yes, Mr Prescott?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Nina, I shall be leaving early today. If anybody needs to reach me, you have my cell number.’

  ‘Yessir; I have it in my filofax.’

  He nodded. ‘All right.’

  Nina returned to her desk outside. Prescott watched her as she went. He sighed: stupid woman, he thought. It was Justin’s day off, and he dreaded the days when this incompetent woman worked at the offices in his place. She would be better off helping to process the runaways they found at Union Station.

  Or maybe Tijuana, if not further.

  He paused in reflection; then as if he suddenly remembered what he had to do, he put the last of the papers into the attaché case, and clicked it shut. He bade a quick goodbye to Nina then hurried around the side of the office building to the parking lot out back.

  He stopped at the corner of the building and waited a few seconds. Then took a deep breath and stepped into the lot. From appearances, it would seem he was expecting to meet somebody in the parking lot, but seemed relieved when there was nobody else there. Once in his car, with a squeal of tyres against blacktop, he left the lot and began his drive home.