Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  The door opened into a living room, with a kitchen at the opposite end. To the right the bathroom door was open, giving a view of the toilet, its seat left up. Next to the bathroom was the bedroom. There was an armchair, a small table and two matching seats, a small bookcase, and another table on which a television set stood. The curtains were closed, giving the room a dark appearance, even though the sunlight outside was bright. Quinn wandered over to the kitchen sink: a pile of soiled plates stood both in the sink itself and the draining board. Two pans caked in some residue sat on the gas cooker, with a small metal kettle which had a large dent on one side. A small microwave oven stood next to the stove, and a plastic container half filled with cooked food sat next to it. Quinn sniffed, and felt the container: it was cold, seemed to be some pasta dish.

  Leroy turned around to Mr Takahashi. ‘Thank you, sir. We’ll let you know when we’ve done here.’

  Takahashi gave a little bow, and left. Leroy watched him go back down the steps outside.

  ‘That was lucky, him being the owner,’ Quinn remarked.

  ‘Absolutely. That means anything we find here can’t be deemed as being the result of an illegal search,’ Leroy replied. ‘Let’s have a look around.’

  ‘What are we looking for in particular, Sam?’

  ‘Well, an address book with Mr and Mrs Hutchinson listed would be good,’ replied Leroy, ‘but I think that’s asking too much. I don’t really know, to be precise. It’s a case of we know when we find it.’

  Quinn looked around. ‘Hm,’ he said.

  ‘What is it, Ray?’

  ‘No computer. No laptop or anything.’ Quinn wandered around, and into the bedroom. ‘Nothing here.’

  ‘Not everyone’s online, Ray.’

  ‘Come on, Sam. The guy’s single, in his twenties. Not online?’

  Leroy sighed. ‘Maybe he took it to work with him. Maybe he uses his phone to check his emails. Maybe he can’t afford one. They still have internet cafés, don’t they?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Quinn leaned over and slid open the drawer to the cabinet next to Harlan Weekes’ bed. ‘Oh-ho,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Leroy called out from the living room.

  ‘Come and look.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Leroy, looking at the contents of the drawer: a light blue and pink fleshlight, a container of lubricant, and a box of paper tissues. ‘Why am I not surprised? What’s in the other one?’

  Quinn shut the top drawer and slid open the second.

  ‘Now that’s more like it,’ said Leroy, gazing at the half dozen or so clear plastic containers of white powder, with a small package of drinking straws.

  ‘How much do you think’s here?’

  ‘Not that much. A hundred bucks’ worth, no more. Must be for his own use. We’ll take one package now, compare it with the sample we found in the Hutchinsons’. We’ll probably draw a blank - it’s in a different form for a start - but it’s worth a shot.’ He stood in the doorway. ‘Let’s have a quick look round, then go. I don’t think Mr Weekes is our man.’

  They spent the next fifteen minutes looking through the apartment, making sure everything was left undisturbed.

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t check his stash every night,’ Leroy said as he shut the screen door.

  ‘Are we going to do anything about that?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘I’ll give Darlene West a call later. See what she says. I doubt she’ll be that interested, apart from where he got the stuff.’ As they passed his front door, Leroy waved to Mr Takahashi who was standing by the open door. ‘All done, sir. Thanks again.’

  Takahashi gave another little bow and scurried back up the steps as Leroy and Quinn got back into the Taurus.

  Quinn checked the folder he had left in the glove compartment. ‘Last one’s a David - another David – Crosby. In Salinas Valley. Jeez, Sam, that’s right up in Soledad.’

  ‘I know where it is. I’ve been there a couple of times before. Shit – that’s a good five hours up the I-5. We’re talking about a twelve hour round trip, including our time at the prison. What’s the time now?’

  ‘It’s only twelve thirty. We can be back by midnight.’

  ‘You sure, Ray? I can go alone.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. We can share the driving.’

  ‘Sweet. I’ll start. We can stop to change drivers and eat after a couple of hours.’

  Leroy turned on the ignition and sped off.

  THIRTY

  KEVIN WAS NERVOUS.

  Or anxious.

  Or excited.

  He had that funny little butterfly feeling in the pit of his stomach. So it could have been nervousness, or anxiety, or excitement. In all probability, it was a combination of all three.

  He was tired too. Normally, he would get at least six hours sleep at night. Today, he was having to manage on four, tops. After his trip to Gelson’s, he caught the bus straight home. Nuked a pack of macaroni cheese, then spent the rest of the evening on line, browsing Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. Now and again, he would post something – to anyone who might be interested. Mainly, though it was just a matter of posting a comment or a like. If he did ever post something, he knew the Rules. It would be so, so easy to post something about their little project, especially when there was a report in the media; however, he knew that within an hour of the post, the police would be knocking at his door. When he got bored with social media, he would turn to YouTube and those videos. Sure, he knew he was addicted to them; sure, Mario at work was probably right when he called him wierd for watching a gazelle being ripped to shreds by a pack of hyenas; but he figured: what the heck, it was the same as watching one of those nature documentaries on the National Geographic Channel. On Mario’s suggestion, he had tried watching porn - obviously not on YouTube - but it didn’t have quite the same kick for him. It was not that he got aroused by watching them: he was quite normal in that respect. He made the mistake some months ago by confessing to Mario that it had been two years since he had had a girlfriend, six months since he had gotten laid. The next weekend, in spite of his protests, Mario took him on a tour of Hollywood Boulevard, via Kevin’s ATM of course. The evening ended with a thirty minute session with a middle aged hooker in a dirty second floor room off Franklin. Even Kevin could have found better ways of spending $200.

  But his lack of sleep the night before was nothing to do with being online, or Hollywood streetwalkers. He went to bed oddly proud of himself for making the purchase at Gelson’s, and for the congratulatory text he received: catch u after work. good job. Maybe when this project was over, and it was his understanding that they were nearing the end of the list, they could continue the relationship in a less formal way. Who knows?

  Kevin lay in bed for hours, thinking through the previous nights out, as they seem to have been named, and how this latest would be undertaken. He would normally just follow instructions, do what he was told, but now he had some experience under his belt, maybe this time he could make some suggestions. Now, that would be impressive.

  He had just been bawled out by an irate hotel guest. A tubby little South Korean, with dubious personal hygiene, had checked in half an hour previously with his wife. Apparently the room was facing the wrong way, the bathroom was too small, and his wife had seen a cockroach. Kevin knew the view from the window consisted mainly of the trash cans belonging to the premises out back, but the guy hadn’t paid the rate for a view of the traffic on Western Avenue; the bathroom - well, maybe if his wife wasn’t so ugly, the bathroom would seem larger. Where this idiot was wrong, Kevin knew, was that there was no way his wife had seen a cockroach. The hotel had been visited by two men from the Environmental Health Division only five days ago, and the place got a clean bill of health. So, Kevin had to stand there for five long minutes while the little gook shouted about how bad the hotel was. Kevin stood there calmly, and when the guy had finished, just said, ‘I’ll go get the manager, then.’ But all throughout the Korean’s diatribe, Kevin’s mind was s
omewhere else: the stuff he had bought the day before, and how they were going to use it.

  The hotel manager followed Kevin up to the room, and the Korean repeated his outburst to Kevin, word for word. English was not the man’s first language, and it seemed that he had prepared what he had to say, and learned it phonetically, maybe not really understanding what he had to say. Kevin remained in the corridor outside the closed door for two or three minutes, listening to the Korean’s voice, and the manager trying to placate him; eventually, with a grin on his face, he returned to the lobby. As he swaggered down the corridor to the elevator, and as he rode down to the lobby, he continually checked his phone for any text messages. One did come through, by coincidence, but not the one he was hoping for.

  The sense of excitement and anticipation was building up: he kept checking the time by the large clock in the lobby, and figuring how many hours, how many minutes it was until his shift ended, and the evening began.

  The afternoon was quiet, which meant that it passed slowly, much to Kevin’s frustration. In his daydreaming, he wondered about what they would do once this evening was over. Would they just go their separate ways as before? Maybe this time, Kevin would suggest getting a drink, or going for coffee. As he thought about this, the butterflies in his stomach started fluttering all the harder.

  Two more groups checked in later; each time, after leaving them in their rooms, Kevin returned downstairs, checking his tips, and checking his phone for messages. Nothing.

  Now it was four o’clock. No messages. Two hours to go.

  The man in Room 413 - a guy who was in IT - checked out. As Kevin hailed a taxi, he thrust a $20 bill into his hand. Once he recognised Andrew Jackson’s face on the bill, Kevin waved to the man as his cab pulled away. This guy can come again.

  Now it was 4:45. No messages.

  Five o’clock. One hour to go. No messages.

  Kevin’s anxiousness was turning to frustration and impatience.

  He had just been talking to two lady guests, giving them directions to MacArthur Park, and trying to convince them that, although it did not look far on the map, it was, and they would be better off taking the subway or a bus or cab than walking. As they left in the direction of the Red Line station, he felt his phone vibrate. It was now 5:20. His heart in his mouth, he snatched it out of his pocket.

  At last, the message he had been waiting for all day.

  Clutching his phone in his sweaty hands, he ran to a small alcove adjacent to the hotel bar entrance. Looking round to make sure he was alone, he pressed a couple of keys and read the message.

  Hey, r u ready 4 tonite? pick u up same time, same place

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘WHICH WAY ARE we going to go?’ Quinn asked. ‘The 101?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘Nah. We’re not on vacation. We’ll take the 5 as far as where it hits the 46, then get onto the Interstate from there. I’ve done the coastal road before; this is about half an hour quicker.’

  Quinn said nothing; just nodded and stared out of the window.

  After half an hour or so of almost wordless driving, Quinn asked, ‘Just tell me exactly why we’re going up to see this guy. He obviously didn’t do it.’

  ‘I know he didn’t do it. I think I remember him.’

  ‘You send him away?’

  ‘No, it was…don’t remember who it was. Might have been Farmer…don’t remember. Anyhow, if I remember rightly, his MO is the same as our guy.’

  Quinn leafed through the folder. ‘Yes, you’re right. He was burglarizing a house in Torrence, and the occupants disturbed him.’

  ‘Just him?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘Let me see….yes. So not quite the same as ours.’

  ‘No, not quite. Does it say what happened? When the occupants disturbed him, that is?’

  Quinn scanned the notes. ‘Jesus, Sam. He pistol-whipped the man, and sexually assaulted the wife.’

  ‘Sexually assaulted? What did he use?’

  ‘It was attempted, but conventional.’

  ‘Mm. Not like the Hutchinsons.’ Leroy paused. ‘Similar, arguably.’

  ‘Maybe he’s moved on to the next stage. Started to enjoy it.’

  ‘And has taken on an apprentice, perhaps. Oh, shit!’

  ‘What’s up?’ Quinn sat upright in his seat.

  ‘Look.’ Leroy pointed ahead at the row of tail lights, blinking red into the distance.

  ‘Must be something up ahead. It’s too early for rush hour,’ said Quinn.

  ‘Yeah, and I want to get back home before midnight. Ray, put the light on.’

  Quinn reached down, picked up the red stroboscopic light, and attached it to the roof. Leroy activated the siren, and swung the wheel, steering the car onto the shoulder. Once on the shoulder, Leroy was able to pass by the line of traffic. For safety reasons, he kept below forty, and it was a good five minutes before they were able to reach the front of the line. A Walmart truck had had a blowout and jack-knifed, blocking most of the northbound lanes. Two patrol cars were guiding the traffic round the end of the trailer, partly mounting the median. Leroy sounded a whoop, and one of the officers halted the line, allowing them to pass by the truck. As they passed, the officer returned Quinn’s wave.

  ‘Told you we should have taken the 101,’ Quinn said, retrieving the light, and settling back down in his seat. Laughing, Leroy switched off the siren, and put the Taurus back up to seventy as they headed north.

  ‘Getting back to Crosby,’ Quinn said. ‘What exactly are we looking for from him, given that he has the best alibi in the world?’

  ‘Information, really. Maybe he recognises the MO; maybe he can suggest a possible perp.’

  ‘Why should he do that?’ asked Quinn. ‘Even if he can help, why should he?’

  Leroy nodded at the fuel gauge. ‘We’ll need to stop off for gas on the way. I’ll pick up a box of dugans at the gas station.’

  ‘A box of what?’

  Leroy laughed. ‘Cigarettes. A box of cigarettes.’

  ‘Oh, right. Sorry – not being from New York City, I -’

  ‘I keep forgetting you’ve never set foot outside California.’

  ‘Very funny. Look – there’s an Exxon up ahead.’

  ‘That should do.’ Leroy indicated to move to the No 1 lane, then to exit the highway. After filling up, both men wandered into the gas station store. On leaving the restroom, Leroy picked up a box of 500 Marlboro Reds while Quinn bought two paper cups of coffee and two burritos. On their way out, Leroy picked up a free copy of the Bakersfield Clarion. Once in the car, he threw the newspaper and cigarettes onto the back seat, and after they both sent texts to say they would be home late, they were soon back on the highway.

  ‘What if he doesn’t smoke?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘If he doesn’t, they’ll make good currency,’ replied Leroy, taking a bite from his burrito.

  Further up, Leroy left the freeway and took the 46 west towards Paso Robles. After ninety minutes, he was turning north again at San Luis Obispo. Now they were on US-101, and passed a sign advising Soledad 100 miles.

  ‘The prison is about five or six miles north of Soledad,’ Leroy told Quinn. ‘We should be there by four.’

  Leroy was correct. Apart from one instance of having to use the siren and light as they neared Soledad, their journey was trouble free. The 101 was slightly elevated as they passed Downtown Soledad, and Quinn gazed out of the passenger window. A freight train rumbled along past Cesar Chavez Park, its boxcars disappearing into the distance.

  ‘Looks quiet down there,’ Quinn muttered.

  ‘It is. I went there one day, but it was closed,’ Leroy joked. ‘I think the main industry is Best Westerns and Holiday Inns catering for relatives who are visiting the prison.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ Quinn said. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, and no,’ said Leroy, as the indicated to leave the highway. ‘It’s the right exit, but you can’t see the actual prison from here. That building over there is t
he Correctional Training Facility. The prison is further up, past the CTF.’ He took them down the main entrance road, and past the CTF. After two stop signs, he said, ‘Look – there it is. Up there, on the right. We take the first parking lot.’ He followed the road as it curved to the right, then made a right into a parking lot signed Visitors. Once parked, Leroy looked over at Quinn. ‘Ready?’ he asked. ‘We go to the Administration Building first; then they’ll take us over to whichever facility he’s in.’

  Leroy picked up the box of cigarettes from the back seat and he and Quinn walked up to the prison doors.

  THIRTY-TWO

  LEROY AND QUINN sat in the small interview room, waiting. Leroy nudged Quinn and nodded over to the large mirror on one of the walls. Quinn nodded, saying nothing. It was obviously more than a standard mirror. Leroy wondered who would be watching them.

  He checked his watch and took a deep breath: although this was a trip they needed to make, he hoped they would not be here too long. It was a long drive back to LA, and his late night-early morning with Darlene West was still taking its toll. He suppressed a yawn.

  ‘How long do you think they’re going to be?’ Quinn asked quietly. ‘They knew we were coming.’

  Leroy shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms.

  At that moment, the door opened and two men entered. In front shuffled David Crosby, dressed in standard white tee-shirt, grey sweat pants and white sneakers. He was handcuffed. Behind him, wearing what looked like army fatigues, was one of the guards. A large revolver rested in his pouch; Leroy and Quinn had had to surrender their weapons when they entered the facility.

  ‘Sit down, Crosby,’ said the guard. Once Crosby had done so, the guard sat on a wooden chair in the corner of the room. Crosby turned round to face the guard, holding up his manacled hands. ‘Give me a break,’ the guard growled. Crosby looked over at Leroy and Quinn, smirked and shrugged.

  ‘Nice of you folks to come visit me,’ Crosby said. ‘Don’t reckon we’ve met before.’ He looked at Leroy and frowned. ‘Wait a minute….do I know you? Your face seems familiar.’