No Place to Die (Sam Leroy Book 3)

by Philip Cox

‘Hold on.’ Perez took out his phone and ran his finger over the screen. ‘I have this app here,’ he said. ‘Uploaded it a week or so ago, never needed it yet. It figures out the cost of a journey, cost of fares, cost of gas.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Leroy, thinking here we go.

  Perez tapped in the details of the journey, reading out loud as he did so. ‘Los Angeles to Birmingham. What? Shit, no – that’s Birmingham, England. Birmingham, Alabama. That’s it. Here you go, Sam.’ He looked up at Leroy as he read from his phone. ‘Los Angeles to Birmingham, Alabama, will take you 30 hours 5 minutes, fuel cost $200.40. Stopping points Prescot, Arizona; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Amarillo, Texas and so on.’

  ‘Thirty hours? That’s a sixty hour round trip.’

  ‘And would cost just shy of four hundred bucks. For both of you. Plus accommodation. You could get a Best Western somewhere.’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘But that would take too long. If we flew we’d be back in a couple of days.’

  Perez and Leroy had once been partners, and Leroy had long learned what buttons to press. He said, ‘Look, if two thousand dollars is above your pay grade, Lieutenant…’

  The Lieutenant’s head shot up. ‘I didn’t say that, Detective.’ He paused, mulling something over. Standing up, he said, ‘Wait here.’

  Leroy remained in the chair while the Lieutenant left. As he sat waiting, Leroy looked around the office. Looking at all the stuff Perez had accumulated since his promotion. Except those damned silly executive balls he took with him. Leroy always hated them: always irritated by the click click click as the little silver sons of bitches swung to and fro, to and fro. One of these days…

  Perez returned and went straight to his desk and sat down. ‘The captain has authorised the expense,’ he said, emotionlessly.

  ‘Great,’ said Leroy, sitting up in his chair.

  ‘I sold it to him,’ Perez continued, ‘that as he and the Chief specifically instructed that you be assigned this case, then he was kind of obliged to agree the trip. The question of whose budget the cost comes out of is yet to be decided, he told me.’

  Leroy passed on that one. Rising from his chair, he said, ‘I’ll let Ray know.’

  ‘Hang on, Sam. Only you can go. Yes, I know you’ll need back up, but he’s going to call one of the captains down there to let you have someone. Down there, over there, wherever the hell Birmingham, Alabama is. Two days maximum, then you’re flying home. Give Quinn something to do while you’re away. Checking out some other leads, or has he any vacation days to take?’

  ‘I don’t know right now. I’ll check.’

  Perez scribbled down a website address and a number on a scrap of paper. ‘Here,’ he said as he passed it over. ‘Book your flight through this site. When you’re asked for a coupon number, enter that. That will give you a discount the Office of the Chief of Police has negotiated with the airlines. Then destroy that note. The Chief doesn’t want detectives getting cheap vacation flights.’

  ‘Will do, Lieutenant.’ Leroy slipped the note into his shirt pocket and tapped it. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now go book your flights. And remember, Sam: two days. You have just two days.’

  Chapter 29

  It is said that only forty percent of US citizens own a passport, and only fifteen percent have travelled overseas, Hawaii and Canada not included. It is also said that over fifty percent have never been outside of their own State.

  Ray Quinn, born and raised in Southern California, was one of those statistics; in fact, Leroy would often tease him about the fact that he had never left his home state, not even a weekend in Vegas, or a trip to Tijuana.

  Leroy himself, on the other hand, whilst not exactly describing himself as a globe-trotter, had travelled. To begin with, he was not a Californian. Born and raised in New York City, he had been to Europe, and many places in his home country.

  But not Birmingham, Alabama. In fact, Alabama was one of the thirty-odd states he had never been to, and deep down, he was looking forward to this brief trip.

  The previous day, after booking his flights and accommodation, he did some research on his destination. He had heard and read things about the city in the context of the civil rights movement, but all of that was a lifetime ago.

  He read that the city was incorporated on 19th December 1871, and was named for the city of the same name in England. He read that the airport was named after Fred Shuttlesworth, a preacher who became famous for leading the civil rights local activists. Nowadays, Downtown Birmingham, where Leroy had booked his hotel, was a 24-hour mixed use district, comprising loft apartments and condominiums and restaurant, retail and cultural centres.

  As his McDonnell Douglas MD-88 began its descent into Birmingham, Leroy stared out at the tailing ends of the Appalachian foothills running to the south-west of the city. There was still a trace of snow on the peaks; Leroy had not seen snow since he was last in New York, visiting family.

  They say that any landing is one you can walk away from; however, he had experienced smoother landings than the one here. He was sure the airplane bounced a foot back in the air when the tyres touched the tarmac, and he had to press against the seat in front when the deceleration started. Once they had left the runway and began taxiing to the gate, he closed his eyes momentarily. He was weary from the last few days, and this journey had not helped; neither had the stopover in Atlanta: he had hoped for a direct flight.

  Once deplaned, Leroy headed for the street. He was carrying only a small case, so could bypass the baggage reclaim area. As he wheeled the case down the long corridor to the exit, he studied the mural the length of the corridor: it appeared to be portraits of famous people from Birmingham. He could pick out the gospel singer Inez Andrews; Piney Brown, the R&B and blues singer and songwriter; the country singer Tammy Wynette. Many other faces he kind of recognised, but could not name.

  The airport terminal is shaped like half a giant donut, the buildings on the outside, then two lanes of street, then the parking structures in the centre. Leroy had considered renting a car for the two, maybe three, days he would be there, but the captain had arranged for him to be escorted around by a local officer. Leroy would have rather had Quinn with him, but as Lieutenant Perez had reminded him, out here, he was in reality a private citizen: his LAPD badge meant nothing. He even had to leave his service weapon behind.

  Through the wide glass doors of the terminal, Leroy could see a row of taxis. He quickened his pace, only to notice a female police officer standing outside on the street. She was holding a piece of card on which was printed leroy. He grinned and walked over to her.

  ‘You were expecting me? I’m Leroy.’

  She quickly looked him up and down, head to foot. ‘You got ID?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. He put his case down and took out his badge. Showed it to her.

  ‘You wanna see mine?’ she asked, after checking out his identification.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he replied, studying her name badge, ‘Officer Duvall.’

  She nodded and held out her hand. ‘Sally Duvall.’

  They shook hands. ‘Sam Leroy. Good to meet you, Sally. And thanks for meeting me.’

  ‘You’re welcome. My car’s over here.’ She led him the thirty yards or so down to where she had left her patrol car. Painted white with a blue band, its livery was not dissimilar to the LAPD’s. ‘Let me take your bag, Detective.’

  ‘No, I’m okay, thanks. Call me Sam.’

  ‘Sam,’ she said, non-commitally as they reached the car.

  ‘Where’s your partner?’ Leroy asked as they got inside.

  ‘He’s taking some sick leave,’ she replied as they drove away with a squeal from the tyres. ‘Not exactly sick; he’s taking a few days to recover from an injury.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, we were answering a 911 and there were two dogs in the property. German Shepherds, I think. We effected entry, and both dogs went for his arm.’

  ‘Sh
it, what happened?’

  ‘I shot one of them, and the second backed away, and we were able to restrain it.’

  ‘And your partner? How is his arm?’

  ‘Some muscle damage and torn ligaments. Nothing too serious.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘You bet. So I was kicking my heels while he’s off the streets. Then my sergeant told me you were coming for a couple of days and needed backup.’

  ‘I shouldn’t need any backup, really. I’m just here to find and talk to a couple of people. Did they tell you about the case I’m working on?’

  ‘Only that you guys have a John Doe who came from these parts and you’re trying to figure out what he was doing in LA.’

  ‘Not a John Doe. We have a name, and I got his address. Here it is: we can go straight there.’

  ‘I’ll take you to your hotel first. Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Westin. It’s on Richard Arrington -’

  ‘Richard Arrington Junior Boulevard. Yes, I know it.’

  ‘We’ll go to the address first.’

  ‘Best go to your hotel first.’

  ‘No.’

  She sniffed. ‘I think you’d better go to your hotel first. Take a shower.’

  Leroy lifted an arm and sniffed. ‘Yeah, see what you mean. My hotel, then.’

  The hotel was less than three miles from the airport, and the journey took only twenty minutes. Leroy looked out at it as she pulled up outside.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a bit… upmarket. My Lieutenant’s expecting me to be in a Days Inn or Best Western.’

  ‘No, no, this place is cool. It’s not as fancy inside as it looks. Unless you booked yourself the Presidential Suite.’

  ‘No, not the Presidential Suite.’ Leroy opened his door. ‘Give me an hour?’

  Duvall shook her head. ‘Sorry, Detective. Sam. I’m off duty then. Pick you up here eight-thirty tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. You have plenty of time here. Look, enjoy your evening. Long shower, or bath. Catch up with some sleep. Try some fried steak and butter beans. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Okay. See you tomorrow.’

  As he was about to shut the door, she called out, ‘One thing, Sam. They said you wouldn’t be carrying. That is right, isn’t it?’

  He bent down to look at her. ‘No. I was ordered to leave my weapon in LA.’

  ‘Good. As you must know already, you’re -’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m not a cop here; just a private citizen.’

  ‘Cool.’ She nodded and started the car.

  ‘You’ll just have to look after me, Sally.’

  She gave him a wry smile as he closed the door and watched her drive away. Leroy picked up his bag and wheeled it into the hotel. It was almost 5pm, over two more hours of daylight. He had planned on going to Kirk’s address direct from the airport, but Officer Duvall - Sally – was probably right. He decided to take her advice.

  Chapter 30

  A text message came through from Officer Duvall at 7:15 the next morning to the effect that she would be waiting in the hotel lobby at 8:30. Leroy was in the shower at the time; wrapped in his towel, he sent an acknowledgement and continued dressing.

  He arrived in the lobby seventy-five minutes later, and saw her standing by the doors, browsing a revolving stand containing leaflets about local attractions. She looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘Morning, Detective,’ she said, slipping a leaflet back into its slot.

  ‘Hey,’ Leroy replied. ‘You parked out front?’

  ‘This way,’ she said, leading him outside. She was again wearing the BPD uniform of black pants and shirt and blue tie. Her blonde hair was again tied back in a ponytail; as he followed in her wake, Leroy took in the sweet but understated fragrance of her perfume.

  ‘So, your guy’s address?’ she asked as they got into the car.

  ‘Here.’ Leroy showed her the copy of the booking details he had obtained from the Stocker in Los Angeles.

  ‘I don’t think that’s far,’ she said as she keyed the address into the vehicle’s GPS. ‘No - about five or six minutes.’

  ‘The street looks quite residential.’

  ‘You already been there?’ she asked, looking over her shoulder as she pulled into the traffic.

  ‘Kind of. I checked out on a street view app last night.’ He paused. ‘During my room service fried steak and butter beans.’

  ‘You enjoyed one of our local dishes? Don’t tell me you had grits for breakfast as well.’

  ‘Jesus, no. Eggs and coffee.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: you can take the boy out of California, but you can’t take California out -’

  ‘But I’m not from California. I’m a New Yorker at heart.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘U-huh. Born and raised in Queens. Started with the NYPD.’

  ‘What made you move west?’

  Leroy sighed. ‘Long story. What about you?’

  She laughed. ‘Born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama.’

  They had left the elevated highway and were now in a residential street. ‘This is 16th Street,’ she said, tapping the GPS screen with her index finger. ‘Now we need the 18,000 block.’

  Leroy was surprised how rural the street was, being so near to Downtown Birmingham and the I-59. It was a quiet thoroughfare: there were no yellow centre lines and it looked as if it had not been blacktopped in years, so numerous were the cracks, gullies and potholes. The sidewalks were mainly grass, with a single row of paving slabs along each side of the street.

  The dwellings were mainly single storey places of wood construction. As they passed a cross street, Leroy noticed that the house on the corner was devoid of roof tiles in places, exposing the bare timber to the elements. It was quiet too: a handful of vehicles parked here and there and a couple passing them by. No pedestrians.

  Neglect was a word that came to mind for Leroy, but he kept the thought to himself; after all, this was Sally’s home town.

  This neglect seemed not to apply on the next block. Here the grass had been regularly watered, mown and strimmed. It bordered onto a large, empty, parking lot, freshly surfaced with white lines neatly painted. In the centre of the lot stood a church. It was on clean red brick construction; from the architecture, it did not look new, just very well maintained. Small bushes had been planted in the centre of the grass verges, and either side of the entrance was a smart raised flowerbed containing green and red heathers. Once they had hit the next block, however, it was business as usual.

  ‘It’s all so green,’ Leroy observed. ‘Compared with this, it’s like a desert in LA.’

  ‘Yup. It’s a whole nother world outside of Southern California.’

  ‘I told you: I’m from New York originally.’

  ‘I went to New York once. Hated it.’

  He looked over at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘It was so cold.’

  ‘When did you go?’

  ‘December. It was kind of a Holiday shopping trip.’

  ‘If it was December, it would have been winter, therefore cold.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘It’s a two-storey building,’ Leroy said.

  ‘Is it? Oh, yeah; I forgot you’ve already googled it. What number?’

  ‘18553.’

  Duvall slowed down and checked a house number. ‘18800. So, three blocks away. Or have we already passed it? I didn’t check the street sign.’

  ‘That’s it up there,’ Leroy pointed out. ‘I recognize the cell phone antenna next to it.’

  Duvall slowly came to a halt outside the townhouse. ‘This is clearly his home address.’

  Leroy concurred. ‘Looks that way. It’s the only one we have, though.’

  ‘You can always check his social security records to get a business address.’

  ‘I know, yes,’ Leroy replied as he climbed out of the car. ‘Let’s
take a look here first.’ He wandered up the path to the front of the house.

  The place had seen better days: the mustard-coloured paint was flaking in various parts of the fascia; some wood had rotted just above an upstairs window. There were two square windows upstairs and a matching one downstairs. The ground floor window was behind a black metal set of bars, the front door behind a matching metal gate. Adjacent to the door, a wooden sign was screwed to the wall. A couple of letters were missing, but Leroy could get the gist.

  Will am F. Kirk

  Private Inves igator

  Leroy turned back to Duvall, who was still standing by the car. ‘This might explain it. He was a private eye. He must have been in LA working for a client.’

  ‘I hope they paid him well,’ she said, walking round the front of the car to join him.

  ‘Yeah, and in advance.’ Leroy tried the lock on the gate protecting the door, but it was locked firm. ‘I’ll check round back.’ The back of the house was a mirror image of the front: same two square windows upstairs, and one below, next to a back door; only here the door was on the left, whereas out front it was on the right. Again, the window and door downstairs were barred. The back yard was mainly grass, but had not seen a mower in months. The yard was bordered by a three foot high chain-link fence. Leroy vaulted over the fence, and after peering in through the square window, tried the lock on the gate.

  Duvall joined him out back. ‘So this must have been where he worked from,’ she said, looking up at the top floor. ‘Maybe he lived on the second floor, also.’

  Leroy looked up and down the house. ‘Maybe. Now we need to look inside.’

  ‘Sam, you can’t just break in.’

  ‘Why not? It doesn’t look occupied, and he’s dead. And as well as finding who killed him, we need to find someone who can make the formal identification.’ He leapt back over the fence and went back round the front of the house, reaching into his pocket.

  A typical lock is made up of two parts: the barrel and the pins. The barrel is the chamber you put the key into. The pins are the small metal cylinders that sink into the barrel, holding it in place until a key, or a pick, pushes them up and out of the way. The pins are cut in half, and when the halfway mark lines up with the barrel you can turn the lock. To pick a lock, you have to manually push up each of the pins into the correct position, slowly turning the barrel so that they can’t slot back into place. Once all the pins are out of the way, the barrel will turn freely and the door will be open. A key is basically a complex pick. The grooves are tuned so that, once inserted, all the pins are perfectly aligned and you can turn the knob.