Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  ‘It looks quite breezy out there; the tail wind must have helped,’ said Leroy.

  Both detectives gazed out of the window as the ferry entered Avalon harbour. On the right, on the starboard side, they could see the Avalon casino, its whitewashed circular shape, topped by a terracotta domed roof, dominating the edge of the harbour, appositely named Casino Point.

  ‘We don’t need to call in on the police department first, do we?’ asked Quinn as the ferry slowed.

  ‘The police department here is run by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department,’ Leroy replied. ‘I guess strictly speaking we ought to, but I want to make this as low-key as possible, so we’ll see. If we were calling on an address in say, Pasadena, we wouldn’t. This is no different, just because it’s an island.’

  Quinn nodded, and gazed out at the approaching coast.

  ‘It’s on Beacon Street,’ Leroy said, as he and Quinn, having disembarked, walked along Crescent Avenue alongside the shore. Even though it was relatively early in the morning, the coast road was busy with tourists lining up for the Island Water Charters vessel. At the Catalina Auto and Bike Rentals, three teenagers were examining a bike each, and an older man had just taken for rent one of the many electric golf carts which islanders used to travel. ‘We go up there, up Claressa Avenue then make a right into Beacon a quarter of a mile or so.’

  As they reached the corner of Crescent and Claressa, Leroy paused outside CC Gallagher, a wine bar come restaurant come coffee shop. ‘Let’s have some coffee here first,’ he said. ‘It’s quite early, and the offices may not be open yet.’

  They took a circular window seat, and ordered coffee, Quinn taking his with milk, Leroy strong and black with plenty of sugar. The waitress tried to tempt them with a tuna roll or some early morning sushi, but they declined. Leroy was, however, successful in persuading the waitress to get the chef to scramble some eggs. Quinn at first declined all offers of food, but when he saw and smelt Leroy’s eggs, he gave in and ordered a grilled turkey sandwich. After they had eaten, and consumed three cups of coffee, Leroy paid the check and stood up.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘The offices should be open now.’

  They thanked the waitress and left the restaurant, and began the short walk up the slight incline which was Claressa Avenue. A few hundred yards further on, on the corner of Beacon Street, stood a modest looking, Spanish colonial style single storey building. With its whitewashed walls and terracotta roof, in colour, if not in design, it matched the Casino. Pausing to let a red and white golf cart pass, they crossed over the street.

  Modern looking glass doors fronted the building with a glass plaque fixed to the adjacent wall. Silver lettering proclaimed the building as the Chief Headquarters of the Avalon Mission, CEO Noah Prescott. Leroy pressed the Door Open button and he and Quinn stepped inside.

  SIXTEEN

  ON ENTERING THE building, Leroy and Quinn were confronted by a small lobby, comprising a sofa, two chairs, and a small low-level table. In one corner, adjacent to a glass door, was an empty desk. A small pile of papers lay on the desk.

  ‘Hello? Anybody around?’ Leroy called out.

  After a few seconds the glass door opened and a young man entered the lobby. He looked in his early twenties, had a heavy tan, and bleached blond hair. He wore a white tee-shirt with a large green SURFER logo, and a pair of denim shorts.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. He had a strong Southern Californian accent.

  Leroy stepped forward and showed the young man his badge. ‘Detective Leroy, LAPD; and this is Detective Quinn. I would like to speak to,’ - he paused a second - ‘Mr Prescott. Is he here?’

  The young man opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, the reply came from behind the detectives.

  ‘I am Prescott. How can I be of assistance?’

  Leroy and Quinn turned round to see a figure standing by the doors. Heavy tanned like the young man, he had a full head of white hair, a marked contrast to the colour of his skin. He wore a beige three piece suit with brown shoes, a crisp white shirt, and a light green tie. His voice had a slight trace of Southern drawl.

  Leroy flashed Prescott his badge. ‘Just routine, sir. We need to ask you a few questions about one of your employees.’ Prescott’s eyes briefly darted to the young man. Leroy added, ‘Former employees, rather.’

  Prescott seemed to relax slightly. ‘Always happy to help officers of the law. My office is this way. Can you get us some coffee, Justin?’

  ‘None for us, thank you, sir,’ said Leroy as they followed Prescott through the glass door.

  ‘Just for me, then.’

  ‘Yessir,’ Justin replied.

  Prescott showed the detectives into his office. Almost as large as the lobby, but far more comfortably furnished, the office comprised a large light oak desk and a large, black leather chair. Two, less luxurious, chairs were positioned in front of the desk. On the walls were a number of pictures, large photographs of smiling children, and a large, ornate oil painting of a middle aged man which hung behind the desk.

  ‘Take a seat, please, gentlemen,’ Prescott smiled, indicating the two seats.

  The detectives sat down and Leroy spoke first. ‘What exactly does the Avalon Mission do, Mr Prescott?’

  Prescott picked up two large, glossy brochures and handed one to Leroy, one to Quinn. ‘The whole purpose and work of the Mission is explained here,’ he explained. ‘But to give you a flavour, we assist children in need.’ He sat down in the large leather chair and continued. ‘The charity was founded in 1922 by my grandfather, Hiram Prescott.’ He indicated to the painting which hung behind him. ‘He was struck by the number of homeless children in Savannah, Georgia, where he lived at that time, and decided something had to be done.’

  ‘So he founded the charity?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘More or less, yes. The charity was incorporated in 1926. He felt the title Avalon more in keeping with the dream he had for the work - you know, the mythical, mystical image - and so moved here, bought these premises, and ran things from these offices.’

  Leroy paused a moment, then asked, ‘So, what exactly do you do? Homeless children?’

  Prescott took a deep breath. ‘Being police officers, you will know that children run away or are forced to leave home where they have suffered poverty, violence, abuse and neglect. In the United States, a child runs away from home every five minutes. They find themselves living on the streets because there is nowhere else to go and nobody to turn to. We here work to reach children as soon as they arrive on the streets and intervene before an abuser can.

  ‘I would point out that runaways come from affluent homes as well as low-income households.

  ‘The problems they face are often worse than those they were running away from. Violence, sexual abuse and exploitation are common, and drugs often become an escape from the realities of life.

  ‘More often than not, the children tend to congregate in places such as railroad depots, bus depots, where there is warmth, shelter. Passers-by from whom they can beg, unwanted food in trashcans. They feel there is some security there, but the reality is, in these places they are just sitting waiting for an abuser to come recruiting.’

  ‘And your organisation,’ asked Quinn, ‘takes them to a place of safety?’

  ‘Yes. We operate a number of hostels, safe houses, around the state. Our first task is to take the kids away from that environment, then work with other partners who know the children, the area, the culture. They are in the best position to place the children in a place of safety.’

  ‘Back to their families?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘Maybe, but not if they were being abused there. We liaise with the authorities regarding fostering, adoption; whatever is best for the children.’

  Leroy held up one of the brochures. ‘We’ll take this away to browse, Mr Prescott, but we came about one of your former employees. By the name of Murray Hutchinson. We understand he joined you in the early 1980s.’

&
nbsp; Prescott scratched his chin. ‘Yes, I remember Murray Hutchinson.’ Just as he spoke, Justin entered the room with a china cup and saucer. He placed the steaming liquid on a coaster on the desk. ‘Good timing, Justin,’ said Prescott. ‘Can you fetch me the file on Murray Hutchinson, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ Justin left the room.

  ‘I hope Murray’s not in any trouble,’ Prescott said as they waited for Justin to return. ‘If he is, I have to point out that he left -’

  ‘Mr Hutchinson has been murdered, sir,’ Leroy cut in. ‘These are just routine background enquiries.’

  ‘Murdered? My God, what happened?’

  ‘It’s all in the newspapers, sir,’ replied Leroy. Then Justin returned, passing the file to Prescott.

  ‘Let me see,’ he muttered, looking through the paperwork.

  ‘A xerox of that would be appreciated, said Leroy. ‘So we’re not taking up more of your time than we need to. But can you just give me a summary? He joined you thirty years ago, yes?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He joined us from the army.’

  ‘What kind of roles did he have here?’

  Prescott flicked through the papers. ‘Various administrative jobs. Desk bound.’

  ‘So he didn’t - excuse me if I don’t phrase this right – tour the bus depots for children?’

  ‘We don’t tour the depots as you put it; rather we work with the transit authorities who identify potential runaways and contact us. But he would have gotten involved in collecting children, counselling, with the hostels, and with liaising with welfare departments.’

  Leroy frowned and spoke slowly. ‘I’m sorry to ask this, but in all his time with Avalon Mission, were there any allegations, any rumours, of any impropriety?’

  ‘With the boys?’ asked Prescott.

  ‘With anyone. Boys, girls, co-workers.’

  Prescott sat back and shook his head. ‘No. Absolutely nothing. Of course, in his day, workers didn’t have to have all the background checks they do now, but no, nothing at all.’

  Leroy nodded. ‘Fine. It was just an angle we have to cover.’ He looked over at Quinn. ‘Well, I don’t think we need to take up any more of your time. If you could xerox that file for me, we’ll leave you alone now.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll just get Justin on that.’ Prescott stood up and left the room. Leroy and Quinn could hear Prescott talking to Justin in the lobby; Leroy strained to hear what he was saying but the sound was too indistinct.

  Leroy and Quinn stood up to leave when Prescott returned. ‘Just out of interest, sir,’ Leroy asked. ‘Was he one of the children the charity helped?’

  ‘Justin? Yes, he was. Is. We work mainly in the United States, but we do have people working down in Mexico. Justin was actually raised in Santa Barbara but ran away - I won’t talk about the reasons why - to Mexico. We found him sheltering in the bus depot in Tijuana and brought him home. And now, he’s my PA.’

  ‘I see,’ said Leroy. He turned to Justin who was holding out a brown envelope. ‘Thanks,’ he said flicking through the contents. ‘And thank you too, sir,’ he said to Prescott.

  ‘Not at all, Detective. Like I said, always ready to assist an officer of the law.’

  As he spoke, Prescott showed them to the door.

  ‘So, what now?’ Quinn asked as he and Leroy walked back down Claressa towards the shore.

  Leroy tapped the palm of his hand with the envelope. ‘Let’s get back to the mainland. Back to HQ and see where we are with these.’

  As Leroy spoke they heard the whoop of a siren. As they swung round a police car pulled up, brakes squealing. On the door was the legend Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. A middle aged, chubby and moustached figure, wearing a beige open necked short-sleeved shirt over a white tee, got out.

  ‘What the hell do you two think you’re playing at?’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘IT’S LEROY, ISN’T it?’

  ‘Why, if it isn’t Deputy Ferrer,’ Leroy retorted. ‘So this is where you ended up. I had no idea.’

  ‘You’re still with the LAPD, then,’ Ferrer said, sauntering over to the sidewalk.

  ‘Yeah, and this is my partner, Detective Quinn.’

  Ferrer nodded at Quinn then turned back to Leroy. ‘So, I asked what the hell you were doing on the Island.’

  ‘We were on our way to see you.’

  ‘Yeah, sure you were.’

  ‘Straight up.’

  ‘Why are you here? Making enquiries, I can guess; but about what? Auto theft here? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m on the Homicide Desk now, Max.’

  ‘Homicide? So what does that have to do with here?’

  ‘Not sure at this stage. We’re investigating the killing of one Murray Hutchinson, a resident of Malibu. He’s retired now, but used to work for the Avalon Mission.’

  ‘Jesus H; you can’t surely think -’

  ‘I don’t think anything at this stage. We’re looking into Hutchinsons’ background; maybe there might be a motive for someone somewhere.’

  Ferrer sniffed. He nodded his head back up Claressa. ‘What did they tell you?’

  ‘Nothing really at this time. They gave us a xeroxed copy of Hutchinson’s personnel file. We’ll look over it back at HQ.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Ferrer pointed to the glossy brochures Leroy and Quinn were holding.

  ‘Huh? Oh, Prescott gave us these also. Tells us all about the Mission.’

  Ferrer nodded. ‘Right. I see.’ He paused a beat then said, ‘So you’re back to the mainland then?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘For now? Why would you need to come back?’

  ‘Have no plans to, but you never know.’

  Ferrer nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah. Sure,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll give you guys a ride to the ferry.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, thanks. We’ll walk down; it’s a nice day.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Ferrer walked round the front of the car to the driver’s seat. ‘If you do happen to come back here, do me a favour: call me first, before you come.’

  ‘Sure, will do, Max.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not a favour; more a professional courtesy.’

  ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ferrer as he climbed into his car. ‘You guys have a good day, now,’ he added, insincerely.

  Leroy and Quinn watched as Ferrer drove down Claressa towards the harbour, the only automobile in a street that was empty of vehicles apart from a golf cart which was trundling up the hill.

  ‘You’ve met before?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Mm. We – er, met up on a weapons familiarization course a few years back. I’d just transferred in from the NYPD, and he was a patrolman.’

  ‘He’s quite old, isn’t he?’

  Leroy laughed. ‘Older. Guess he’s around fifty by now. Probably plans to see his days out here. Nice little island, not much going on. The worst he’s had to deal with this week is probably somebody letting their dog crap on the neighbour’s lawn.’

  They resumed walking down to the harbour.

  ‘He seemed pretty pissed that we had come,’ Quinn said. ‘I told you we should have called on him first.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Leroy.

  ‘You’d feel the same way; remember what you said when the lieutenant suggested getting the FBI’s help.’

  ‘You mean he felt we were pissing on his territory?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘One question though,’ said Leroy. ‘How did he know we were here? How did he know where on the Island we’d be?’

  ‘And how did he know where we’d be when he arrived? That we’d just left Prescott?’

  Leroy patted Quinn on the shoulder. ‘Good question, Sherlock.’ He paused, Quinn doing so as well. Leroy looked back up Claressa. ‘This is what I think, Ray: we’re what? - a hundred yards from Prescott’s office? We left straight after we finished talking to him. When Prescott went out to that young PA guy; what was his name? Justin? I could hear t
hem talking. I figure Prescott was telling Justin to call Ferrer; otherwise he’d never have gotten here by this time.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Quinn.

  Leroy looked back up the street. He squinted as the sun came over the rooftops, then put on a pair of shades. ‘Another good question. We come over here, just to ask about one of his employees - a retired employee at that - so why would Prescott reach for the phone and call the sheriff?’

  EIGHTEEN

  WITH A GENTLE judder, its white hull gleaming in the sunlight, the 134 foot catamaran Starship Express pulled back from the small pier. The craft slowly made the 180 degree turn to face the open sea; then with a subdued roar, the two low emission MTU/Detroit Diesel 16v4000 m70 engines, each providing over 3100 horsepower, kicked into life. By the time the craft had left the harbour, it had already reached its cruising speed of 35 knots.

  Leroy turned round in his red airline seat. He watched the distinctive shape of the Casino recede into the distance then stood up. ‘You want a coffee?’ he asked Quinn.

  ‘Not for me,’ Quinn replied.

  Leroy walked down the aisle and into one of the restrooms; shortly afterwards he made his way to the snack station and bought himself a paper cup of coffee.

  Quinn looked up as Leroy rejoined him. ‘More coffee?’ he asked. ‘You’re gonna be climbing the walls soon.’

  Leroy sat back down and took a mouthful of the steaming black liquid. ‘Remember I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink.’

  ‘Why? How long were you out with West?’

  ‘I got back home about one, but just couldn’t sleep. So much stuff going through my head.’

  ‘You at Julia’s?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘Nah. My place. Didn’t see her. Maybe tonight, depending on what time we’re done.’

  ‘Why don’t you finish early? I can research the Hutchinsons at the Desk.’

  ‘Maybe. See how it goes.’

  There was a pause; then Quinn asked, ‘So what do you figure on Deputy Ferrer?’

  Leroy turned his head slightly and sniffed. ‘I think we can be pretty certain he was tipped off by Prescott; or by Justin on Prescott’s instructions. The question is: why? Worst case scenario is that both Prescott and Ferrer are in bed together somehow, and Prescott was trying to get us off his back. I don’t know Ferrer that well, but I don’t think that scenario is likely. Another possibility is that Mr Prescott, as CEO of a busy charity is so up his own ass that he thinks he is above being questioned by the LAPD, and rang Ferrer to complain.’