by Philip Cox
‘Not really. Only that a couple of detectives are around. Have they contacted you yet?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘That’s odd. I would have thought you’d be one of the first they would want to speak to.’
‘Yeah, so would I. Anyway, I’ll speak to you later. What cases you dealing with by the way?’
‘It’s a stabbing at Grand Central Market. In fact, Sam, I think -’
‘I did. Good luck with that.’
As Leroy hung up, he clicked on an entry entitled Secretary of Defence George Davison spends Christmas in California. The article itself was from a DC newspaper. At the start of the text was a photograph of the Secretary and his own family.
And his sister, Emma Kennedy.
At the end of the article, there was a link to Family History. He clicked on that.
‘That explains it,’ he muttered as he read that she was in fact his half sister. His own father died when he was fifteen years old. His mother had remarried, and had a daughter with her second husband. Leroy frowned: but that differed from the official online biography he had read previously. Was Davison trying to airbrush part of his life out of the public domain? It was just as Julia had said: just because something’s on the internet, it doesn’t mean it’s true.
FIFTY-THREE
By now, Leroy knew the way to the Century City office. He parked the Taurus in the same spot he and Domingo had used previously. He walked past the sign for Culver Technologies and called the elevator.
At the sixth floor, he got out and walked down the hall to Emma Kennedy’s office. The frosted glass door was closed, but he could see two silhouettes sitting either side of her desk. Surprised nobody had approached him, he knocked on the door and opened it.
A wide-eyed Emma Kennedy was sitting behind her desk; opposite was the other employee they saw at their last visit.
‘Detective Leroy,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘This is a surprise. Give us a moment, Rolando, would you?’
Rolando stood up. ‘Sure thing, Emma.’ He turned and left, nodding to Leroy as he passed him.
‘How can I help you, Detective?’ she asked. ‘I thought we were done.’
‘Just a couple more questions.’
‘Mm?’
‘Concerning Lance Riley’s laptop. You might recall we were interested in the websites he visited before he died.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And that he had deleted his search history. Maybe to cover his tracks; he was in a relationship, you know.’
She adjusted her jacket and shifted some papers on her desk. ‘I know that. What does this have to do with us here?’
‘You very kindly offered to check out his laptop for us. You know, to see if the addresses he had deleted could be retrieved.’
‘That’s right, I did.’
‘Well, my colleagues at the Computer Crimes Unit checked his hard drive and found….well, they have provided the last three months’ history.’
‘And where did he visit?’
‘That’s neither here nor there. What I’m interested in, Ms Kennedy, is how you appeared to imply that the history might not be retrievable, when in fact, the hard disk retains everything.’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ she replied nonchalantly.
‘Come on, Ms Kennedy. This is an IT company, isn’t it? And you’re the office manager, aren’t you? Are you telling me-?’
‘I’m not telling you anything, Detective,’ she replied angrily, rising from her chair. ‘Now leave my office.’
Leroy said nothing; did not move.
‘I said leave this office,’ she repeated, becoming angrier. ‘Why are you here anyway? You’ve no right to be here! The case is closed, and you’re on vacation!’
FIFTY-FOUR
Leroy said nothing.
Not in order to be macho, or intimidating, or to make her speak next, but for the simple reason that he could not think of what to say. This outburst from Emma Kennedy took him by surprise, although it may have answered a few questions.
‘I said what do you think you’re doing here?’ she repeated.
Leroy said nothing.
‘I think you’d better leave this minute,’ she said. ‘Or shall I ring your Captain?’ Her hand wavered over the telephone on her desk.
Leroy straightened up. ‘Keep your shirt on. I’m leaving. I only had a couple of questions.’
‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘Now, leave.’
He turned to leave. As he rested his hand on her office door handle, he paused, turning back. ‘Don’t worry. You’ve already answered them.’ He waited a second for some facial reaction from her, then left. As he walked back down to the elevator, his phone beeped. As he waited for the elevator to reach the floor, he checked who had sent him a text. It was Quinn. The elevator arrived; as it took him down to the first floor, he checked the message. wasn’t sure what youd be doin rite now call me asap.
As he walked back to the car, he rang his partner, groaned when he got voicemail, then left a message for Quinn to call him.
He sat quietly in his car before turning on the engine, leaning forward in his seat, craning up to get a view of the building windows. He counted up to the sixth floor, and squinted. He would have liked to say he could see Emma Kennedy looking out of her office window at him, but the windows were tinted and merely reflected the morning sunlight.
He sat back in his seat, thinking. How the hell could she have known about the case being closed and that he was on vacation? There was only one answer: someone in the Department had told her. Or certainly told somebody outside the LAPD; how else would she have known? That would certainly tie in with his theory that Domingo and Connor were murdered by another cop.
He needed to think, and thought best after a large cup of strong coffee, so started up the car, and pulled away. Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside Food, a red fronted building on West Pico. He found himself a single table near the rear of the café, and paid his $2.75 for a large coffee. In normal circumstances, he might have also ordered a Danish pastry or a muffin; however, this establishment was an eclectic café serving seasonal and healthy food, so today it was just coffee.
He sat back in his red chair and thought through what had happened so far today. He had gone to that office with the knowledge that Emma Kennedy was George Davison’s younger sister, or half-sister to be precise. He was seventy-five percent certain that whatever was linking the deaths of Lance Riley, Ted Parker, and Guy Robbins, it was taking place in the house off Mulholland Drive. That house was owned by Davison. She was Davison’s half-sister; very early on in, she tried to obstruct the investigation. And someone, somewhere, had given the orders that the cases were unrelated and accidental death. That would suggest somebody high in the food chain, and logic would say that the most senior person involved in all of this was the Secretary himself. But they needed evidence; something concrete and tangible, not just theories.
He was not quite sure what he expected to get out of his second interview with Emma Kennedy; frequently, if a case had stalled, he would go on a fishing trip with one of the suspects, just to provoke a reaction, and to see what they did next. So from one point of view, his visit there this morning was a success: it had confirmed all his suspicions. The question now was: what next?
He checked his phone again for word from Quinn. There was none. For a moment, he considered calling his partner again, but stopped himself. He knew Quinn well enough to know he would return the call as soon as he could, and did not want to disturb him while he was working, presumably at Grand Central Market, carrying on from where Leroy himself had left off.
Next step would be to visit the three others whose cars were parked outside the mansion. Then he would check out the hospitals nearest the Florence and Graham Blue Line station. He checked the list. First there was a Jamal Edwards, down in Culver City. That’s useful, he thought; only a short drive away. He finished his coffee and returned to his car.
‘Well, I
’m damned,’ he said aloud as he set Jamal Edwards’ address into his SatNav. The address was on Barman Avenue, Culver City, just across the street from a Clover Park, not the Clover Park he had visited a few days earlier. Maybe that’s good karma, he wondered as he set off; or maybe bad karma, as his enquiries at the other Clover Park proved fruitless.
Jamal Edwards’ house was a small, single storey dwelling at the end of a narrow but long front yard. There was a neatly cut lawn out front, with a flagstone path leading through the middle. At the side of the lawn, separating it from the long driveway, was a modest flowerbed, with pink flowers and small shrubs dotted around. Leroy was unable to park the Taurus directly outside as the front was blocked by three trash bins, green, black, blue. Instead, he parked on the house’s driveway.
The fact that there were three Herbie Curbies outside in common with other houses in the street suggested that somebody was around, although there was no vehicle on the driveway leading up to the garage, and all the windows were shut.
He stepped up to the front door and pressed the bell. He could hear it ring faintly inside, but that was the only sound he could hear. He waited a moment, then rang it again. Still no answer. He stepped along the front patio to a window and looked in. The house certainly looked occupied. Maybe he was at work. He had no idea of Edwards’ marital status, but all of the victim’s from the other night were in a stable relationship. Family maybe, but this house looked too small for a family, just large enough for a couple.
He walked round the side of the house. There was a small, brick built chimney attached to the side: too small to be a traditional chimney; maybe an air-conditioning flue, or maybe just cosmetic. A large bougainvillea bush with pink flowers clung to the side of the house.
The garage was at the end of the driveway; its brown metal door was closed. Leroy tried it; it was locked. A black wrought iron gate separated the garage and drive from the back yard. Through the gate Leroy could see a neatly mown lawn matching the one out front, with neat flower beds either side. From the rear, the house looked empty.
A neat, tidy house, a neat and tidy garden, Leroy thought. Obviously Jamal Edwards was not a drunken drug addict. Fits the profile of the others; respectable family man with a dark secret.
Leroy tried the gate - it was locked – then returned to the front of the house. In all probability Edwards lived here with his wife or partner, and they were both out. It looked like a one bedroom place, so there were probably no children; therefore they were both at work. Left the trash out for collection this morning, then left for work. He opened his glove compartment and took out a business card. Wrote a note on the reverse asking Edwards to call him on his cell and put the car in the mailbox.
A gust of warm air caught him as he opened his car door; he paused and lifted his head to take in the draft. It was a warm, humid day, and the warm wind did nothing to temper that.
Back in the car, he checked the next name on the list. ‘Oh shit,’ he said aloud as he read the address: it was Oakland. No way was he going to drive there; a phone call would have to suffice. Something he would do later. Or maybe not: if one assumed he was in LA on business, then he might still be; a call to the home address might reveal where he was working and staying. He got into the car and dialled Information. Got the number, and dialled. He immediately got the ringing tone, but nothing else. He let it ring for a full minute, when he heard somebody knocking on the car roof. He hung up. An elderly man was standing by his door. ‘Can I help you, son?’ the man asked.
Leroy took out his identification; the man stiffened when he saw it.
‘I’m looking for Jamal Edwards,’ Leroy said.
‘Looking for Jamal? Why, he’s not in any trouble?’
Leroy shook his head. ‘It’s just routine. I guess I have the right house then? Would he be at work?’
‘Sure, sure. He left this morning, around six thirty.’
‘Do you know where he works?’
‘Sorry, son; I know he works in an office Downtown somewhere. Don’t rightly know where.’
‘When’s he normally home?’
The old man shrugged. ‘Normally around seven, I guess.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘Wife? No, Jamal ain’t married.’
‘Okay. Girlfriend, then.’
The old man laughed. ‘You got it all wrong, son. Jamal lives with another guy.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Yeah, a really nice white guy. Frankie.’
‘I see. And when will Frankie be back?’
‘’bout six thirty. Just before Jamal gets in. Shall I give them a message?’
‘No, it’s okay, thanks. I put a note through the door already.’
‘That’s good.’ The old man finished talking and stood by the car.
Leroy looked up at him. ‘Thanks for all your help. I’ll let you get on.’
The old man got the hint. ‘No worries, son.’ He knocked on the car roof and shuffled off.
Leroy watched him disappear round the corner, then leaned forward to start the engine. So, Jamal Edwards was gay. Did that make any difference to things? Probably not: if the mansion was a high class whore house, then they might cater for all tastes. Some places also provide male hookers. Or Edwards might actually be bisexual.
He decided to get something to eat before he went to see the third name and called the hospitals. He turned out of Barman, into Overland. There were plenty of eating places he knew on Venice Boulevard, so headed up there.
Traffic on Overland was heavy, and he had only gone a hundred yards or so when his phone rang. It was Quinn.
Leroy snatched the phone off the seat. ‘Talk to me Ray.’
‘Sam, are you driving?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘You need to pull over.’
‘Huh?’
‘Pull over now.’
Leroy indicated and jerked the wheel to the right to get the Taurus on the side of the road. A car horn blared at him; Leroy gave the driver his middle finger. The other driver pulled up alongside to remonstrate, but pulled away one Leroy showed him his badge. He picked the phone up again.
‘Right, I’m pulled over. What’s up?’
‘You remember that incident at the Blue Line station?’
‘Sure. Any luck there?’
‘Yes. I got hold of the parking lot CCTV and made the vehicle.’
‘Well done.’
‘It was a Ford E-350 wagon.’
‘Did you get the licence plate?’
‘Sure did.’
‘And?’
‘It was registered to a company called GD Enterprises.’
‘Oh. Do we know anything about the company?’
‘Only who owns it.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘Think about it, Sam. GD. Secretary of Defence George Davison.’
FIFTY-FIVE
‘Well, here we go again,’ Leroy said to himself as he donned the Yukon binoculars for the second time that week. It was just after midnight. He had parked the Taurus in the same spot as he had parked the other night. Once again, he looked around before setting off; there was no sign of the dog in the grounds of the house opposite. Satisfied that there was nobody around, he set off up the hill.
Once at the summit, he carefully made his way across the scrublands in the direction of the grounds of the house. As he got nearer to the broken fence, he paused again, looking around. Even with the advantage of his NV apparatus, he still felt vulnerable: as well as the Yukon, he had his service weapon and some other items, but these would be ineffective against more than one guard, or one with a dog. He was lucky last time; it was likely that after that night the guard would be increased. In the distance, to the north, he could see the head and tail lights of traffic moving along a freeway. Even at this time of night, the highways were far from empty.
He stood, hands on hips, staring through the trees into the grounds of the mansion. He nodded, clear on what he had set out to achiev
e that night. His conversation with Quinn earlier in the day confirmed everything he had suspected about Secretary Davison. He had long suspected that Davison was involved in this somehow; now that he had confirmation that Davison, or at least Davison’s company, owned the Ford wagon, that was it as far as he was concerned. Quinn had floated the idea that one of the Secretary’s employees was actually involved rather than Quinn himself and was using the ‘company car’, but there was also the question of who saw to it that his investigations were halted. It would have needed to be somebody with considerable influence, and for Leroy, that spelt Davison himself, and nobody else. He was not quite sure where Dwight Mason fitted in to all of this, but Davison himself was the prize. Before he left home, he did an internet search on GD Enterprises, and found it was a tiny concern, presumably set up for tax reasons. So, GD Enterprises meant George Davison himself.
‘Is it worth speaking with the lieutenant?’ Quinn had asked. ‘He might reopen the investigation and get something done officially?’
‘No,’ Leroy had said. ‘It would make things easier I guess, but there’s still the question of whoever in the Department is involved as well.’
‘Domingo’s killer, you mean? You can’t mean the lieutenant?’
‘I don’t know what I mean. That’s the most logical assumption about Domingo, and - I forgot to tell you - Emma Kennedy, Davison’s half-sister, let it slip that she knew I was on vacation and the cases had been closed.’
‘Jesus Christ; how would she have known?’
‘Good question. Who in the Department knew? Me, you, Perez himself. Maybe others, I don’t know. So: no, keep Perez out of the loop at this time.’
‘Sure. What are you going to do then? What do you need me to do?’
‘I’m going back to the house tonight. Do what I did the other night, but this time I’m going to break in.’
‘Sam…’
‘I know, I know. It’s a calculated risk, but unless we make a move like that we’re going to go round and round in circles.’
