No Place to Die (Sam Leroy Book 3)

by Philip Cox

  ‘No, Sam. That two-hour window includes his travel time to and from Mets’s place. I’m guessing you’re going to see him there.’

  ‘Planned on doing that, yes. So that gives me around an hour. That should be enough. Who is the translator anyway? Anybody we’ve used before?’

  ‘Don’t think so. The guy’s called Miller. Charlie Miller. They say his specialty is Eastern European languages, so he’ll be okay with Estonian.

  ‘I’ve checked out Mets’s address. It’s just off Reseda Boulevard. Now there’s a coffee shop I know on Reseda, Reseda and Oxnard; I’ve arranged for him to meet you two there 11:30.’

  ‘Okay, Lieutenant. I’m heading south on the 405 right now, so I’ll call Ray and we can meet up there.’

  ‘Quinn not with you?’

  ‘Nah, he’s in his own car. I did the Mulholland scene solo, as we’d both been up until 1am. We met up at Webb’s place.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you two were partners. You know, doing things together, travelling together in the same car, not a convoy.’

  ‘We are, Lieutenant. We don’t normally travel about separately, you know that. But then we don’t normally finish one shift at 1am, and start the next five hours later.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Go interview Mets now, then team up in the same vehicle asap, okay? You’re supposed to be partners – and all you’re doing is driving gas costs up. Keep the interview as short as you can, then he can get back to his office by one.’

  *****

  Leroy hung up on Perez and called Quinn, who was further down the 405. They arrived at just after eleven, both parking right outside the coffee shop.

  It looked just like a Starbuck’s but wasn’t: a pretty generic place – you ordered from a vast range of esoteric drinks at the counter, declined an overpriced pastry, and waited at the end of the counter for the barista to make the drink. Quinn ordered a latte; Leroy a Strong Americano with sugar. They sat down in plain sight in a booth where they had a view of the door.

  Quinn sipped his latte. ‘What do you think about Webb, then?’

  ‘I believe him. I took a dislike to the guy, but I think he’s telling the truth. It all seems believable, plausible. Before I left the scene, I looked through the CCTV footage from the grocery store.’

  ‘Anything of interest?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘Not yet. Only one of the cameras had a POV of outside the store, and that was in the doorway.’

  ‘Not where the body was found?’

  ‘Not as yet. There were other cameras about, but all of the other places were still closed. Maybe after we’ve done here, we could go back up there - the other places are a pizza joint, a laundromat and a bar, so should be open by then – and take a look at their cameras.’

  ‘Traffic cameras?’

  ‘Possibly, possibly, but we need to know what we’re looking for first.’ Leroy looked at his watch. ‘It’s twenty-five after now. He’s late.’

  They watched the people coming in, looking for a possible translator. The coffee shop seemed to have a brisk trade: no real lines at the counter, just one or two customers coming in as one or two went out.

  Two twenty-somethings, both with headphones and wearing baggy tee-shirts and baseball caps on backwards.

  An old guy in a raincoat, looking incongruous in the spring sunshine.

  A middle-aged man in a white polo shirt and red pants.

  ‘Do you think that’s him?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Leroy. ‘He looks kind of translatory. Not sure about the red pants, though.’

  However, the man in red pants picked up his coffee, being passed in the doorway by two younger guys, both wearing suits and chatting on their cell phones.

  A couple, the man wearing a blue jumper and matching jeans. The girl wore a white blouse with a black miniskirt. He held the door open for her.

  A woman with a double stroller. She was having difficulty negotiating the coffee shop doorway: Quinn stood to help her, but was beaten to it by the man in blue. The woman thanked him, and he passed her on his way out to the street.

  Quinn turned back and returned to his seat. Just as he sat down, the woman in the white blouse stepped over.

  ‘Detectives Leroy and Quinn?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I’m Charlie Miller.’

  Chapter 9

  She sat down.

  ‘I still haven’t got used to the traffic over here,’ she said, slightly flustered.

  The first thing Leroy and Quinn noticed was her British accent. Then her shiny, dark hair, tied into a ponytail. Then, the long firm legs emerging from the tight miniskirt. As she sat down, she put her tiny black bag and reflective Raybans on the table.

  ‘Don’t worry about the time,’ Leroy reassured her after they had gone through the introductions. ‘We get caught out as well, sometimes. But we do need to go right away. My Lieutenant says we only have you till 12:30.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she replied. ‘It’s not your fault I was late.’

  Leroy stood up to leave, the others following.

  ‘Where did you park?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Across the street, round the corner. There’s a little car park there.’

  ‘Leave your car there for now,’ Leroy said, holding the door open for her. ‘The address is only a couple of blocks away and Detective Quinn will drive.’

  They climbed into Quinn’s car. He waited for a gap in traffic and made a one-eighty to head north up Reseda.

  Leroy turned round in his seat to face Charlie. ‘So – is it Charlotte or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Charlotte, but my friends - well, pretty much everybody - call me Charlie.’

  ‘And you’re British?’ Quinn asked.

  She laughed. ‘You guessed. Yes, I’m from London.’

  ‘What part?’ asked Leroy. ‘I’ve been there a couple of times.’

  ‘South London,’ she replied. ‘Place called Wimbledon. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Wimbledon, as in tennis?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the place.’

  ‘Do you play tennis?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Hate it,’ she replied. ‘I’m more into racing.’

  ‘Horses?’

  She laughed again. ‘No! Formula One.’

  ‘Really?’ Leroy said surprised.

  ‘Mm. Anything fast on four wheels, in fact.’

  Leroy smiled. He liked the way she pronounced the word fast. Getting the conversation back on track he asked, ‘The guy we’re going to see speaks very little or no English. Only Estonian. You can translate Estonian?’

  ‘Absolutely. I specialise in former soviet bloc languages: Estonian, Lithuanian, Latvian, Belarusian; and, of course, Russian.’

  Leroy nodded, approvingly. ‘That’s very impressive.’

  ‘At school I found I had a natural affinity for languages. That’s how I got my work visa.’

  ‘How long are you here for, then?’

  ‘Until the end of next year.’

  ‘Here’s Jovan,’ said Quinn. They had arrived at their destination.

  Jovan Street was a dead-end. A collection of single-storey houses, some whitewashed, some painted a mushroom colour. All had lawns out front, with a plethora of different coloured herbie-curbies. At the dead end part of the street, the road widened, and the houses were now two-storey with integral garages.

  ‘He can’t live here, surely,’ said Quinn, turning the car round at the end of the street.

  ‘The address,’ said Leroy, ‘was for an apartment building. Pull over here.’

  Leroy had noticed a man of retirement age out front of one of the houses mowing the grass. As he got out and walked across the grass, the man stopped and looked up.

  ‘Can I help you, son?’ the man asked.

  Leroy showed him his badge and then the sheet of paper with Mets’s address.

  The senior pointed back up the street. ‘Jovan goes back that way. I’m not sure, but I’m guessing the place
you want is at the other end of the street. There’s some apartment building along there, over the cross street. Over Etwanda, I think it is.’

  Leroy thanked the man, and returned to the car. The guy paused to watch Leroy, Quinn and Charlie head up the street, then returned to his lawn.

  His directions were correct, as once over the cross street, the houses turned to apartment buildings, occupied by clearly less affluent residents. They found the place they were looking for, and pulled in.

  The building itself resembled a motel: in fact, the style of the construction and the amount of parking space suggested it might have originally been one, and sold off in a previous time to be privately developed. A heavily built man with a silver grey beard and shoulder length hair was tending to an enormous motorcycle, its chrome gleaming in the bright sunshine. He watched as the three visitors approached the building, looking for apartment 217.

  They took the small flight of stairs to the second level, walked along the balcony to the door. Leroy knocked and after a few seconds a little man, middle-aged, opened the door.

  Leroy held out his badge once more. ‘Evald Mets?’ he asked.

  Mets muttered something, nervously nodding his head. Leroy nodded to Charlie. She looked down at the little man and spoke to him in his native tongue. Mets gained a relieved expression on his face and took a step back, allowing them access.

  ’I just said you were from the police, and wanted to ask him a few questions and he had nothing to worry about,’ she said by way of explanation to Leroy as they stepped inside the apartment.

  From the size of the place it could have well been a former motel room: a small stove, cupboard, sink and refrigerator had been installed in one corner. A woman, presumably Mrs Mets, was at the stove; three young children were sat on the floor watching a cartoon on television.

  In Estonian, Charlie explained to Mr and Mrs Mets who they were, what Leroy and Quinn wanted to ask, and that she was from the American Language Service and would be translating.

  ’I speak a little English,’ Mrs Mets said. ’He speaks little.’

  Mets nodded his head eagerly.

  Mrs Mets turned the TV volume down and Leroy began asking Mets the questions he had, with Charlie translating. Immediately Mrs Mets explained that her husband worked as a chef in a restaurant on Reseda Boulevard, and that he needed to leave for work very soon, otherwise he would be fired.

  ’If we need to, we’ll explain to his employer that he was helping us out, and if they try anything, they’ll have the LAPD to deal with,’ Leroy said. Charlie translated, and Mrs and Mrs Mets seemed reassured. Leroy then got on with the questions.

  Mets said he had been visiting a friend in that locality. He had two bags of garbage in his car. He was only allowed four bags of garbage to be collected each week, so he called in at that shopping center on his way home to put the bags in the dumpster. As he opened the lid, he saw the body there, and then noticed the head was missing. Mets got slightly hysterical as he related the part about the missing head. He was running into the shop to raise the alarm when he saw the other man arrive. As he spoke very little English, he took the other man to show him the body.

  ’Okay,’ Leroy said slowly. This was nothing new. He took the name and address of the friend Mets said he had visited, then stood to leave. ’Thank you for your time, Mr Mets,’ he said. ’Can we give you a ride to your restaurant?’ Mets declined the offer.

  Leroy, Quinn and Charlie made their way downstairs to Quinn’s car. As they pulled away, they saw Mets on foot, scurrying down the street.

  ’What a strange little guy,’ Quinn muttered.

  ’Yeah,’ Leroy replied thoughtfully. He swung round to Charlie. ’Thank you for your help today, Ms Miller.’

  ’Charlie.’

  ’Charlie. We’ll drop you back at your car.’

  As Quinn turned into Reseda, once more they saw Mets half walking, half running down the street. Leroy was surprised at how quickly he had gotten there, but noticed there were alleyways between the buildings; Mets must have taken a short cut.

  Quinn pulled up at the parking lot where Charlie had left her car.

  ’Thanks once again,’ Leroy said as she got out.

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a business card. ’Here,’ she said, slipping the card in between Leroy’s fingers, ’my number’s on there. Call me if you need any more help, or advice.’ She paused a beat. ’Or anything.’

  Quinn looked into the rear view mirror watching Charlie walk back to her car.

  ’Very nice,’ he said.

  ’Ray, you’re a married man,’ Leroy chided him.

  Quinn chuckled. ’But you haven’t gone off liquor just because Martha’s is open all day. In any case, you’re almost a married man.’

  ’Er, not quite.’

  ’Mm?’

  ’Julia and I are, you know, kind of taking a break right now.’

  ’Shit, Sam; I didn’t know. What...?’

  ’Long story, another time. Get us back to the coffee shop.’

  As they turned back into Reseda, they noticed Mets going into what they guessed was his place of work: an Eastern European restaurant. Quinn pulled up behind Leroy’s car. ’So what now?’ he asked. The CCTV at that mall?’

  ’I reckon so. We’ll go there first, then check out this friend of Mets. Did you read the address? It’s in Burbank. That’s an odd place for a friend of a little immigrant who can’t speak English to live. Look at the route he would have had to take: Burbank to Tarzana via Mulholland Drive?’

  ’If he can’t speak English, how’s he going to be able to drive? Quinn asked.

  ’If he can’t speak English, he’ll have to speak Spanish, or he’ll never get a licence,’ Leroy said. ’And I can’t see him speaking Spanish, can you?’

  ’No way.’

  Leroy continued, ’There’s something not right about that little guy. Even if he does have a friend up in Burbank -?’

  ’How did he get up there?’

  ’Yes, how?’

  ’But why show Webb the body? If he did have something to do with it, why raise the alarm?

  ’I know. We’re missing something here. In any case, Burbank to Tarzana via Mulholland Drive: that’s a long detour just to dump some garbage.’

  Chapter 10

  Leroy needed the restroom, so went back inside the coffee shop. While he was inside, Quinn started the car and did a one-eighty so he was facing north up Reseda Boulevard. He waited for Leroy to come back out onto the street and called out, ‘See you at Burbank, then.’

  Leroy waved and got into his own car, doing his own one-eighty. Quinn was moving slowly in the number one lane for Leroy to catch up. Once Leroy was in the lane, both cars set off.

  As they took Reseda north, Leroy noticed the restaurant where Evald Mets was working as a chef. It was called the Europa, and according to the signage, specialised in eastern European cuisine.

  Leroy was reflecting how, in better times, Julia might have been interested when something else caught his eye. Further up, close to the intersection with Victory Boulevard, scampering along the sidewalk was Mets himself.

  Leroy flashed Quinn and switched on his siren. Quinn saw, and they both pulled over. Mets had heard the whoop of the siren and paused, looking over as Leroy and Quinn pulled over to him. As they got out of their cars, Mets stood looking around and moving from one foot to another, as if he was figuring out whether to wait or run.

  ‘Mr Mets,’ Leroy called out as they walked up to him. ‘Where are you going?’

  Mets’s mouth opened and shut a few times while he searched for the right words. ‘I go… I go deliver a letter for my boss.’

  ‘Very far?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘No, not far. Just along here.’ He pointed up Reseda.

  ‘And you don’t drive?’ Quinn asked.

  Mets shook his head.

  ‘How did you get up to Burbank, then?’

  ‘Burbank?’

  ‘Your friend in
Denny Avenue. You visited him last night.’

  ‘Oh, yes. My friend – he give me ride there.’

  ‘And back home here?’

  ‘Yes, back home here.’

  ‘But why did your friend make that detour along Mulholland Avenue? You know, where you found the body?’

  Mets squinted his eyes. ‘Sorry, I no… I no under -’

  ‘It’s nothing. We were concerned,’ Leroy explained untruthfully, ‘that you might have gotten into trouble with your boss for being late for work on account of us.’

  Mets shook his head. ‘No, no trouble. Everything okay.’

  ‘Glad to hear that,’ said Leroy. ‘But just call us if there is, okay?’

  ‘I will, I will,’ Mets replied, nodding his head eagerly. ‘Everything okay.’ He was keen to get away.

  ‘You have a good day now, sir.’ Leroy turned and he and Quinn left Mets and headed back to their cars. ‘Let’s see where he goes,’ Leroy said as they crossed the street. Back in his car, Leroy took out a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment. Quinn joined him in the passenger seat.

  On this corner of Reseda and Victory, there is a small group of shops: a 7/11, a Thai restaurant, and a Western Union. Leroy watched as Mets crossed the modest parking lot.

  ‘Well, he didn’t park a car here,’ Leroy said, passing the binoculars to Quinn. ‘Where can he be going? He works as a chef in a restaurant. It’s lunchtime. Why isn’t he cooking?’

  ‘He’s crossing over,’ Quinn observed. Mets was waiting at a crosswalk to cross over Victory Boulevard. After a minute or so the red man standing changed to a green man walking and Mets and three other pedestrians crossed.

  ‘Maybe he’s checking out the opposition,’ Leroy remarked.

  Quinn put down the binoculars. ‘How so?’

  ‘Look what’s over there.’

  Quinn looked again. ‘Oh yes.’ On the opposite corner was a McDonalds, a large red-brick building with a line of cars waiting for drive-thru.

  ‘He’s headed for the parking lot,’ Quinn said. ‘Look.’ He passed the binoculars back to Leroy.

  ‘Yeah… shit!’ Leroy said, as a large white truck appeared from the right, blocking his view. He put the binoculars down impatiently and waited until the truck cleared the crossing. However, once it had turned left and headed down Reseda presumably towards the freeway, an orange and grey bus took its place on the other side of the street.