by Philip Cox
‘Sure. Could’ve been your last. I recommend next time the cab takes you to your door.’
‘Don’t worry. I will. It’s just up there. I’ll be okay from here. Thanks Detective…Leroy, was it?’
‘Leroy, yes. Detective Leroy. Sam. And I’ll take you to your door.’
‘Julia. Julia Moore. It’s here. 2802.’
She led him to a two storey building, attached to which was a shop front. Leroy looked in the window. A sign read Cutting Edge. Full Service, Hair, Spa, Nails, Foot Massage 310-305-2221.
‘Which floor?’ he asked, looking up at the building.
‘Second,’ she said.
‘Stairs or elevator?’
‘Stairs only. Why?’
‘You’re still unsteady. I’ll take you up.’
‘But -’
‘You’ve had a shock. You don’t know what you might do. And I promised those other officers I’d take you to the door. After all, they need you as a material witness tomorrow.’
‘It’s okay, Detective. Sam. I’ll be fine,’ she said.
Then collapsed at Leroy’s feet.
NINETEEN
Leroy caught her just before she hit the floor. Holding her under her arms, he manoeuvred her over to a corner and lowered her so she was sitting in the corner, slumped against the wall. Then crouched down in front of her. He shook her gently.
‘Julia, wake up. You need to wake up.’
She stirred slightly, muttering something unintelligible.
‘Julia. Where are your keys? Are they in your bag?’
‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know…’
‘Excuse me,’ Leroy said. He picked up her bag and felt inside. Came across a key ring with three keys on it. He tried one key in the lock of the front entrance door. No joy. The second worked. With the door open, he picked Julia up and supporting her round the waist, took her inside. The stairs were immediately in front of the entrance door, and he led her up to the second floor. She stumbled a couple of times on the way up. He noticed that each apartment door had a large black letter screwed to it, H, I, J, onwards along the corridor.
‘Julia,’ he asked, shaking her slightly to rouse her. ‘Which apartment? H? I? J? K? Which?’
‘L’, she murmured. He led her along to the door to apartment L. There were two locks on the door; he used the two keys he did not use downstairs and opened the door.
As soon as the door opened, he heard a high pitched beeping sound. He looked in the doorway and saw on the wall adjacent to the door was a small keypad from which the sound was emanating. A red light on the device was flashing.
He led her into the apartment and to the keypad. ‘Julia, what’s the code?’ Slightly more coherent, she reached up and keyed four zeroes. Once she hit a green button, the beeping stopped. Leroy, switched on a light, pushed the door closed with his foot and laid her on a couch. As he stepped back, she began to come to and sat up. She ran her hand through her hair and looked up at him.
‘Did I faint or something?’ she asked.
‘You sure did,’ he replied. ‘Just downstairs, outside.’
‘Oh, how pathetic. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s delayed shock; quite common. Shall I get you some hot tea?’
‘No, something stronger. There’s some red wine in the kitchen.’
He could see that the kitchen was one of the doors off the main living room. Above a row of doors, along the length of the kitchen was a granite work surface; once he switched on the light, he could see a half-full bottle of Merlot standing next to a blender. Next to the sink, upside-down draining was a wine glass. He poured her a full glass and took it out to her. She took it and downed half the glass.
‘Would you like one yourself, Detective?’ she asked. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘No thanks. It’s late, and I have to be at work early tomorrow.’
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
‘Some other time perhaps,’ he added.
She looked into her glass, but said nothing.
‘Anyway,’ said Leroy. ‘You’re home safe now and those two guys are locked up. I’ll leave you to it. Here’s my card.’ He handed her one of his business cards. ‘Call me if you need anything. Don’t worry,’ he added as she began to get up, ‘I’ll let myself out.’
As he put his hand on the door handle, he turned round.
‘Don’t drink too much of that tonight. You need to be fully alert tomorrow when you make your statement. You won’t forget to go in the morning, will you?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, sounding more alert.
‘One more thing,’ Leroy said. ‘You need to change that alarm code. Four zeroes is the factory setting; you need to change it to a proper code. Do you know how to do that?’
‘I have instructions somewhere,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. And thanks for saving me from those guys.’
‘No problem.’
‘And walking me home.’
‘No problem.’
Leroy gave her a brief smile and left the apartment. As he walked down the stairs, he heard Julia fasten her safety chain and double lock the door. He left the building and started the fifteen minute walk back to his own place. When he got back home, he noticed that the SUV had gone. Feeling satisfied, he let himself in, and walked up to his own apartment.
It was now just after midnight. He groaned as he knew he would have to be up early the next morning. As he lay in bed, his mind drifted back to Julia Moore’s apartment. There was something about it he could not quite put his finger on, an adjective he was seeking. It was relatively small, the door opening directly onto the living room; the kitchen was off the living room. Presumably the other three doors were the bathroom, the bedroom, and a closet. It was very neat and tidy: a plush cream carpet, the furniture was modern and tasteful. The walls were painted a shade of pink, with floral patterns stencilled on in a darker shade. There was a small bookcase containing only a few books, and a couple of framed portraits on the top shelf. On a small table was a television; not a particularly big or sophisticated set. A couple of mirrors and a painting of a landscape on the walls. There was a small glass dining table on which were a closed laptop and a vase of flowers. He noticed another vase of flowers in the kitchen. Although only she sat on the couch, he could tell it was soft and comfortable. Very homey.
No, he thought; homey wasn’t the word. Now almost asleep, he finally found the correct word to describe the apartment.
Feminine.
TWENTY
In spite of the previous day’s late night, Leroy was back at his desk by seven-thirty the next morning. Two other detectives, who were working on different cases, were also at their desks. Leroy exchanged greetings with them, and looked around for Domingo, but she had not arrived yet.
As he logged onto his computer, he took a bite from the bagel and a sip from the paper cup of coffee he had bought on the way in. His breakfast. He looked around the almost empty office. For it to be this quiet at this time of the day was unusual. True, some of his colleagues may be out already, but he couldn’t help feeling that the pace had slackened since their old lieutenant had moved on. In theory, Captain Patterson was overseeing the department until the new lieutenant took up his post, but he seemed to be doing this at arm’s length. Still, Leroy reflected, things would change once Perez took up his post in a few days. He reflected too that things would have been different if… But there was no point dwelling on what might have been; he needed to get on and remain focussed.
His first task was to take Lance Riley’s processor to the Computer Crime Unit to get them to check the hard drive. There were more questions to be asked about the circumstances surrounding Riley’s death, but seeing what was on his work computer came first. That was why it was so important to get hold of his laptop, but that could be in a ditch somewhere, or already sold on. It was unlikely anyone would be in the CCU till eight, maybe nine, and so for now he would press on with identifying the victi
m Bill Farmer had in Hollywood. Of course, once he had matched the pictures, he needed to liaise with Farmer. He also needed to get hold of Hobson’s report on the guy Domingo had in Griffith Park. Although they were all being treated as separate incidents, Leroy was positive there was a common thread. It was a no-brainer as far as he was concerned.
As he did the previous day, he retrieved the photograph from Hobson’s report and compared it with missing persons reports. Back up to the top of page one, and back to some faces he remembered from before.
He got to page eight before he found a match. Guy Robbins, thirty years old, residing in Central Alameda. Reported missing by his wife, Maria, when he failed to return home Friday night after visiting a client. Leroy scratched his chin: a very similar background to Lance Riley.
He got out his phone and called Farmer. To his surprise, it was answered after two rings.
‘Farmer.’
‘Hey Bill; it’s Sam Leroy.’
‘Hey Sam, how you doing? I forgot to call you yesterday; you know, to thank you for turning out for me at the weekend. Been so damn busy, you know?’
‘Sure, I know. Look, Bill, it’s that John Doe I’m calling about. I have a name for you.’
‘You do? How so?’
‘I was checking down the list of missing persons, and I got a match.’
‘Why were you looking?’
‘I did the same yesterday with my Century City guy. Got a match and an ID. His girlfriend reported him missing end of last week. I took Liza Domingo down to see his wife yesterday. She said he just never got home from work that night. We went to his workplace, which was the building above the garage where he was found.’
‘And…?’
‘Not much at this time, but I’ve taken his office computer away to see if the CCU guys can find anything on it.’
‘You think that’s connected?’
‘Just in case any internet addresses he visited last week are connected to what happened to him.’
‘Would he have done that at work?’
‘Probably not, Bill, but it’s worth a shot. You see, he had wiped all the search history.’
‘Sam, you’re talking to me. What in the hell does that mean? Search history?’
‘Basically, it’s a record of websites he had been on. Now, there’s no reason to clear the search history unless you didn’t want anyone to see what he’d been up to. I know it’s more likely he’d use his own PC, but that’s missing. Probably in some Tijuana café by now, but it’s worth checking. Even though he’s cleared the search history, it’s possible the CCU can find something. Outside shot, but it’s all we’ve got at this time.’
‘Is Domingo covering for Quinn then?’
‘No. She was here when I found the match. Her own partner was off yesterday. But, Bill - and listen to this – she had her own John Doe last week. Almost exactly the same as ours.’
‘Jesus! Where?’
‘Off Griffith Park.’
‘Sam, this is getting crazy. That’s three, all the same circumstances. All the same night.’
‘Did you talk to Hobson yesterday? He was trying to get hold of you.’
‘Last night. But Sam – he says there’s no sign of foul play.’
‘Same with mine, and I’ll bet he’ll say the same about Domingo’s. But Bill: this is one mother of a coincidence.’
‘What’s your theory? One wild party that got out of control? You saw the amount of shit they had in their systems.’
‘I know. That’s why we need to get whoever’s supplying. And fast. Where are you today?’
‘I’m in court today, Sam. Or this morning, hopefully.’ Farmer paused a moment. ‘Sam: can you do me a favour? Could you take a look at this one this morning? I mean, go see the guy’s wife. Who knows, it could have a bearing on your case. Would you mind? I’ll catch up with you once I’m done here.’
‘No worries, Bill. Why are you in court, by the way?’
‘It’s that frigging McAvoy case. Remember it?’
‘Vaguely, Bill.’
‘The Defence Attorney’s disputing some of the contents of the ME report, so there’s lots of legal to-ing and fro-ing. The DA’s pulling his hair out.’
‘That’s not like Hobson to make a mistake.’
‘I know. It’s all bullshit. Just stalling for time. Trying to get the case thrown out on a technicality.’
‘Okay Bill, I’ll go visit Mrs Robbins.’
‘That the guy’s name?’
‘Yeah. Literally. Guy Robbins.’
‘Okay. Thanks Sam. Catch up with you later. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
He hung up and called Domingo. Had to leave a voicemail. He thought he would try his luck at the CCU as it was almost eight. He withdrew the disc drive from secure storage and took it to his car. The nearest outpost of the CCU was in the offices on West Venice Boulevard, a short drive away, then down to Central Alameda to see Guy Robbins’s wife.
His widow.
TWENTY-ONE
Leroy had almost reached Central Alameda when Domingo called back.
‘Got your message Sam; what’s up? You taking care of Farmer’s vic or something?’
‘Kind of. I spoke to him already. He’s tied up in court this morning. We discussed the similarities between our vics, and he said it’s okay for me to go see this guy’s wife.’
‘Are they the same, Sam?’
‘So identical it’s crazy. Must be a connection.’
‘You going on your own?’
‘That’s why I called you. Wondered if you wanted to come down with me, seeing as how you now have your own.’
‘Yeah; might be useful. Doesn’t need three of us. There’s still a few pieces to mop up with our guy, so I’ll get Connor to take care of that while I meet up with you. Give me the address.’
‘The guy’s name is Guy Robbins. His wife filed the report. They’re on Hooper Avenue. 5400 block.’
‘Where the hell’s that?’
‘Over in Central Alameda.’
‘What’s the ZIP code, Sam?’
‘Er – 90011. I should be there in about ten minutes, but I’ll wait for you there.’
‘I’ll be a little longer. Say – twenty minutes.’
‘No sweat. See you then.’
*****
Shortly afterwards, Leroy pulled up across the street from the Robbins house. Hooper Avenue was a long, straight road stretching from East 10th Street down to East 92nd. The house was a modest, single storey building with a beige coloured exterior which looked freshly painted. Some of the surrounding houses still had the original chain link fence; here, this had been replaced by a low wall painted to match upon which were black railings. There was a small yard at the front: a lawn which could have used some water and a flower bed in which three cactus plants were growing. Three Herbie Curbies, one black, one blue, one green, were standing, lids open, on the sidewalk outside the house. There was no garage; at the side of the house, there was a short driveway leading to an empty covered carport. Behind the carport was a wooden fence and gate, presumably leading to the back yard. Across the street from the house, on the corner of Hooper and 54th, was a small wooden chapel, painted white with red beams on each corner. Hanging from two windows there was what looked like a white bed sheet. A slogan had been painted on it: being in Spanish, Leroy couldn’t understand it, but could make out the words Centro Evangelista Fuente.
Behind the fencing surrounding the house two doors up, Leroy could see a Hispanic youth of around twelve, dressed in a green tee shirt, nose to the fence, staring at the street. A woman with two small dogs on a leash walked past and said something to the boy, whereupon, he stepped back from the fence and began playing in the yard with a football. On Leroy’s side of the street a white haired elderly man with a bright red face and dressed in a sweat suit jogged past, clutching a bottle of water. Leroy watched the jogger in his wing mirror disappear into the distance. Then a black Toyota pulled up behind him. He looked i
n his mirror and saw Domingo in the driving seat. She got out and joined him in the Taurus.
‘That the house over there?’ she asked, pointing across the street.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Anybody in?’
‘Haven’t knocked yet. Waiting for you.’
‘I saw some washing out back.’
‘Doesn’t mean she’s in, though.’
‘I know that. What’s her name?’
‘Maria. Maria Robbins.’
‘What did she say in the report? Same as yesterday’s – not come home from work?’
‘Not quite. Says he had to go out that night. Never came back.’
‘Go out where?’
‘Doesn’t say in the report. Just that he had to go out through work. To see a client.’
‘A client? What does he do, then?’
‘The report doesn’t say. Just that he never returned.’
‘And we’re the first contact since she filed the report?’
‘Guess so.’
‘Swell.’
Leroy opened his door and stepped out. ‘Here we go again,’ he said.
‘What’s happening about the other guy’s computer?’ Domingo asked as they crossed the street.
‘The CCU’s looking at it. I took it in this morning. Just come from there.’
‘Right.’
They went through the gate and up to the front door. Leroy knocked; Domingo glanced around the yard while they waited.
After a few moments the door opened.
TWENTY-TWO
Jerrome crouched low behind the silver sedan. He winced as again he felt the pain in his lower back. He had been here for three and a half hours now - since ten – and was considering calling it a day.
He was crouching behind one of the many cars in the 103-space parking lot at the Metro Blue Line station on Florence and Graham. Although there was less of a choice of vehicles here, it was better than a larger parking garage, where there were cameras at every corner, and a guy couldn’t walk from one end to the other without appearing on someone’s television set. Here, although the lot was not without security, maybe because it was in the open air, it was easier to avoid the cameras. Especially if you had been there many times and knew exactly where the cameras faced.
