Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  ‘Yeah,’ Leroy concurred. ‘Hobson’s going to have to earn his 60K.’

  ‘60K?’ mouthed Quinn.

  Leroy shook his head. Turned to Ferrer. ‘Any ideas on what he was doing here this time of day? You said he left work early: any idea why?’

  ‘I’m going to need to speak with the woman who was working there today.’

  ‘Woman? Where was Justin?’ Leroy asked.

  Ferrer snorted. ‘Yeah, I know Justin. No, he only works there three days a week; apparently goes to school the other days.’

  ‘Are you going to see her now?’ Leroy asked. ‘Mind if we come along?’

  Ferrer put his hands on his hips. ‘I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind. All this is going to come as a shock for her, and I think it’s better coming on a one to one basis. I know her. To have two strangers from the LAPD might be a bit…you know?’

  ‘That’s no problem, Max. Could you give us a ride back to Avalon, though?’ He turned to Quinn, then back to Ferrer. ‘I don’t think there’s much more we can do here today. They’re your investigations, after all. We’ll get back to the mainland and figure out where this leaves our investigation. Every person who ran that children’s home back there has been murdered.’

  ‘And the children,’ Quinn cut in.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Leroy. ‘And the children.’

  ‘Let’s get you back,’ Ferrer said. He spoke to his two colleagues then joined Leroy and Quinn in the car. As he reversed down Prescott’s driveway he said, ‘Those poor guys have to stay there until the CSIs have finished up at the school. Apparently they’re going to check the grounds for other bodies.’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Quinn muttered. ‘How many can they be?’

  Leroy said nothing.

  The drive back to Avalon was virtually silent. Ferrer dropped Leroy and Quinn at the harbour, and drove back up to the Avalon Mission office.

  ‘Thanks for the ride, Max,’ Leroy said, leaning down to Ferrer’s window. ‘Do me a favour – can you let me know what she says? About why he left early, I mean. It might have a bearing.’

  ‘No problem,’ Ferrer said, shaking Leroy’s hand.

  Leroy and Quinn watched the Deputy drive back up the hill, then walked towards the ferry jetty.

  ‘Poor guy,’ Leroy said. ‘Yesterday this place had virtually no crime; today, it’s the murder capital of Southern California.’

  ‘How’s he going to cope?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘In the short term, he’ll get reinforcements either from the Sheriff’s Department on the mainland, or from LAPD. In the long term, I don’t know. I think he was hoping to eke out his retirement here.’

  They sat in silence on the ferry until Quinn asked, ‘In all the homicides you’ve had, were there any children?’

  Leroy reflected. ‘A couple. A few years back. It wasn’t good.’

  Quinn decided against pursuing the matter.

  A few minutes later, Leroy said. ‘Anthony Wong was a red herring. These sons of bitches are screwing with us.’

  ‘I think we need to sit down in the morning and think everything through again. From fresh.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Leroy. ‘It has to be to do with that home. Has to be. There’s no other connection.’ He stopped and stared out of the ferry window. They were approaching the Long Beach terminal. In the hazy distance, they could see the Downtown skyline. ‘Much as I hate to say this, I need to go through all this with Perez; get his input. Three heads are better than two.’

  ‘What about Agent Calloway? Four are better than three.’

  They headed back to the Homicide Desk, Leroy driving. They had been on the freeway ten minutes when Leroy’s phone rang. It was Ferrer.

  ‘Put it on speaker,’ Leroy said, passing the phone to Quinn. ‘We’re back on the 405,’ he told Ferrer. ‘Are you calling about the woman working with Prescott?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ferrer replied. The line was crackly. ‘Not much to say, really.’

  ‘How was she? Emotionally, I mean.’

  ‘Not too good. I didn’t give her the full picture; just told her he had been found dead at home.’

  ‘That was probably wise. Did she say why he left early?’

  ‘No. She did say he seemed on edge that day, and announced he was leaving the office late morning. Said he seemed very jumpy, and was packing stuff into a briefcase. Which was probably vaporized in the car.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leroy disappointedly.

  ‘One thing, though: she said just after he left, somebody called for him.’

  ‘On the office phone?’

  ‘No. In person. She said he was a young guy, she thought.’

  ‘Young? Did she give a description?’

  ‘He was wearing a crash helmet. That’s why she thought he was young.’ Ferrer chuckled. ‘She told him he had gone home, so could she get Prescott to call the guy the next day, or could he come back next day. He said it was all right as he would get Noah at home.’

  ‘CCTV? I’m sure I saw a camera there.’

  ‘You would have done, but she told me it’s just for show. Keeps the insurance premiums down, apparently.’

  ‘It wasn’t Justin, was it?’

  ‘No. She knows Justin.’

  ‘So a youngish man riding a motorcycle.’

  ‘That’s right. Now, there aren’t too many of those here, so I’m going to speak to the car ferry companies, check what’s on their CCTVs.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Leroy. ‘Max: keep me in the loop on this, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. You want the biker’s name?’

  ‘You have his name?’

  ‘When she offered to get Noah to call him tomorrow she asked his name. He said it was Talbot, Laurence Talbot. Mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nah. Well, thanks for all that. Let me know of any developments?’

  ‘Sure, Sam. You too.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Quinn passed the phone back. ‘Not much help.’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘No. Not much.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Quinn said, ‘that if now all the men who ran that home are dead, will that be it? Are we going to get more red herrings? More Anthony Wongs?’

  ‘We may do that. I have a feeling our guys are enjoying their work.’

  ‘So who’s going to be next?’ Quinn wondered.

  FIFTY-TWO

  LEROY NEEDED TO unwind. It had been a long day, a long week, and he had a feeling the case was not getting anywhere. After he and Quinn parted company at the police parking lot and he drove home, he went through in his head the facts of the case.

  The fact that Hutchinson and four others had been murdered in a short space of time; the fact that all five men had once run a children’s home; now the bodies of at least two children had been found buried in the grounds of the former home. Assuming it was still two. All these facts cried out a connection.

  The mysterious redaction in Hutchinson’s military records; likewise, they had never been able to establish exactly why the children’s home closed.

  Something had been going on at the home, something bad enough to cause the death of two of the children in their care.

  And now somebody was settling a score.

  But who?

  After all the days of investigation, all the enquiries, they still had not a single suspect.

  The children’s home had been closed twenty years ago: where would they be able to find out who lived there?

  The age may have been about right; only may because if his latest theory was correct, they weren’t looking for a psychopath in the traditional sense; they were looking for somebody cool, calculating, crossing names off a list.

  And clever.

  Sometimes in serial killing cases, a break would come when there was another killing. This time, Leroy feared, there would be no more.

  Both feared and hoped.

  But what about Barbara Hutchinson and Anthony Wong? She was unfortunate enough to be married to Murray Hutchinson;
he may have been just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just collateral damage.

  Whenever he needed to unwind, he didn’t go to Martha’s to get drunk, or get drunk at home, or go to the gym, like so many of his fellow officers did; he would go for a run. Two or three miles would be enough.

  Once he got home, he called Julia. She had been home already, and was about to go for an evening out with a couple of girlfriends. They chatted some more, and wished each other good night. He checked his freezer and found a pack of lasagne to nuke later; then changed into a tee and jogging pants and grabbed a coffee and bag of pretzels.

  He consumed the coffee and pretzels standing up in his kitchen, surfing the TV channels as he did so. Local news, national news, a rerun of The Blacklist, a rerun of Friends, an old Abbott and Costello movie, a rerun of Game of Thrones, a Spanish language soap, then The Voice. ‘Crap, crap, crap,’ he muttered as he flicked through the channels then turned off the TV.

  Leroy drained the last of his coffee and left the apartment. Turned left outside to Ocean Front Walk then a right heading to Santa Monica. It was dark by now. In the distance he could see the pier, the illuminations from Pacific Park reflecting in the water below.

  Now it was dark, most of the regular Venice Beach inhabitants had left, although a few of the stores were still open and there were still a few tourists milling around, still people traversing the walk on cycles or skates.

  He continued towards the pier, past Ocean Park Boulevard; as he got to the intersection with Pico Boulevard, he paused, bending over to touch his knees while he got his breath back. Looked over at the pier: he could hear the excited screams from revellers on the pier rides. The pier was constructed in the 1870s, and was originally known as Shoo-Fly Landing. It was originally earmarked to be the major port in Los Angeles, but this role was eventually taken by San Pedro, and Santa Monica Pier as it was now known became the main destination for Angelenos searching for beach activities and boardwalk amusements. The author Raymond Chandler modelled his Bay City after the seedier sections between the pier and Venice Beach.

  As he stared at the giant wheel, something occurred to Leroy. He slapped his forehead and turned back. Started running back: running, not jogging. He reached his building in ten minutes. Ran up the stairs and into his apartment. Picked up the cell phone he had left at home and speed-dialled Ray Quinn. Quinn answered in five seconds.

  Breathlessly, Leroy told Quinn, ‘Put your pants back on, Ray. I know who our killer is.’

  FIFTY-THREE

  LEROY HIT THE strobe light but not the siren as they sped up Fairfax Avenue.

  ‘Why you think it’s Pine?’ Quinn asked. ‘You thought he was pretty insignificant when we saw him.’

  ‘Remember what that woman back on Catalina told Ferrer? Just after Prescott left the office, a young guy called in for him. Said his name was Laurence Talbot. That name mean anything to you?’

  Quinn pondered. ‘No; why, should it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. When I got home earlier, I went for a run, like I normally do. I had a bag of pretzels and a coffee before I left and surfed the channels a bit.’

  ‘U-huh.’

  ‘There was nothing much on – couple of soaps and the news; but one of the channels was showing an old Abbott and Costello movie. Heard of them?’

  ‘Think so. Who are they?’

  Leroy laughed. ‘They were a couple of comedians back in the day. Forties and fifties. They had TV shows but also made a few movies. One of them was on earlier. I forget what it was called, but it was one where they met all the old Universal Studios monsters – you know, Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolfman.’

  ‘And Pine had plastic models of those guys in his apartment.’

  ‘Correct. And one of the monsters in that picture was the Wolfman. He was played by Lon Chaney Junior, but his character’s name was Laurence Talbot.’

  ‘I see. I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Now, I’m figuring if these guys are as clever as they think they are, and Pine’s an old horror movie nerd, then it’s not impossible that he would use that name as a kind of alias, assuming nobody would catch on.’ He paused. ‘And there’s nobody else, anyway.’

  Leroy made a left onto Fountain Avenue and, switching off the strobe, passed the six blocks to Pine’s apartment building. He parked opposite the concrete steps which led to the entrance. At the door, he pressed the button for Apartment 16.

  No response. He pressed again.

  ‘The window looked out over that house over there,’ Leroy said. ‘Go onto the sidewalk and look up; see if you can see any activity at the window.’

  Quinn did so, and shook his head.

  As they waited, a woman dressed in an inappropriate fur coat and a ton of makeup exited. Leroy called out for Quinn and they went inside. Once on the fourth floor, Leroy banged loudly on the door of 16.

  No response. He banged again. Listened at the door.

  Silence.

  ‘I take it we don’t have a warrant,’ Quinn whispered.

  Leroy shook his head. He pondered whether to force the door nevertheless then said to Quinn, ‘He’s probably at work right now. Let’s go down to that bar.’

  ‘On Sunset and Robertson,’ Quinn said as they hurried down the stairs. ‘That’s not far.’

  At this time of night, there were no free parking spaces outside the Pacific Rim, so Leroy left the car in the first lane.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get backup first?’ Quinn asked. ‘You know, have a couple of men at the back in case he runs for it?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘No time. And there’s two of us, only one of him.’

  This time, the neon sign was flashing Pacific Rim in a vivid pink and the regular beat of music could be heard coming from indoors. As they approached the doors, the large tuxedoed bouncer straightened up. They flashed their badges and he reluctantly stepped aside.

  The place was full. Leroy looked around and found the bar. ‘Come on,’ he said to Quinn. ‘Let’s hope he’s working here.’ He called out as they made their way through the crowd.

  The bar itself had three staff behind and at least ten people being served. Leroy looked down the line of men, and saw two he recognised right at the far end. It was David Pine, leaning over the counter top, chatting to a customer.

  The customer was Justin.

  As Leroy and Quinn approach, David Pine saw them. He looked up and nudged Justin. Justin saw them, leapt off his stool and ran.

  ‘Wait!’ Leroy called out. Pine launched himself over the bar; picked up Justin’s stool, threw it at Leroy and Quinn, and followed Justin.

  Leroy held his arm out to deflect the stool and he and Quinn chased Pine. Justin had already found the rear fire exit and had gone, leaving the door wide open. Pine scampered out.

  As they got to the door themselves, Leroy and Quinn heard a car starting. Under the bright parking lot lights, they could see it was Justin driving. He had turned the car - a red Corvette - around and was picking up speed. Pine was running alongside, calling out, ‘Let me in, please. Please!’

  Justin slowed down slightly so Pine could wrench open the door and clamber in. Pine was reaching out for the handle to shut the door as the car swept past the two detectives and onto Robertson.

  ‘Goddammit!’ Leroy swore. He could do nothing but watch Justin and Pine get away. ‘Quick - back to ours,’ he cried out to Quinn as he ran back inside. ‘We’ll call for backup on our way.’

  It was now 11:30 and there was very little traffic on the darkened streets. Back on Sunset, they could see Justin’s tail and brake lights in the distance.

  ‘He’s heading east.’ Strobe flashing and siren wailing, Leroy swung the car in a wide U-turn and followed.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  ‘I THINK IT’S a Chevy,’ said Leroy, as he spun the steering wheel to make the U-turn.

  Quinn confirmed. ‘It was. A Corvette Stingray. Red, I think.’

  ‘Heading east. I still see the tail lights. Put in a call, will
you?’

  Quinn picked up the radio handset. ‘In pursuit of vehicle headed east on Sunset and La Cienega. Detective 611 pursuing red Chevrolet Corvette Stingray. Two suspects in vehicle. Suspicion of murder.’

  The speaker crackled and the call was acknowledged.

  ‘Where do you think he’s headed?’ Quinn asked, having to raise his voice above the sound of the engine and the siren.

  ‘Anywhere away from us, I guess.’

  The next intersection was with Crescent Heights Boulevard: the light was already showing a green, and only two cars were approaching the stop line; Leroy was easily able to overtake these two vehicles as he passed the junction. He could still see the Stingray’s lights in the distance, weaving in and out of what traffic there was at that time of night.

  Fairfax was a different matter. The light was green again when Justin passed, but had turned to red when Leroy approached. He had to cross the centre line to pass the truck and car waiting, and eased into the traffic crossing. The driver of one car heading south started to sound his horn, but stopped immediately as he realised the Taurus was a police car. The same at La Brea: the lights were red, but they were able to pass the line of cars crossing.

  At both junctions where they had faced a red Justin had a green, and did not have the disadvantage of having to drop his speed to cross: now he was further ahead.

  ‘We’re gonna lose him,’ Leroy said grimly.

  As he spoke, a black and white with its red and blue strobes flashing and sirens wailing, shot out from Vine Street and joined in the chase.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Quinn countered.

  The road ahead was empty for the next two blocks: Leroy pressed harder on the gas. Now they were doing eighty.

  ‘He’s headed for the freeway,’ Quinn said.

  ‘What does he think that’s going to achieve?’ asked Leroy.

  Quinn stared ahead as they sped along Sunset: the lights from the black and white ahead of them, and Justin’s tail lights further ahead. Quinn exhaled loudly as Justin had to swerve violently to avoid a garbage truck which had pulled out of a side street.

  ‘I’ll say this for him,’ Leroy called out. ‘He’s a good driver.’