Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  Home for Noah Prescott was a large, colonial style residence set back from the main Escondido Road, roughly halfway between the island airport and the picturesque Little Harbor Overlook. Once past the airport, the road is all dirt and a ten percent downhill grade. It passes through Rancho Escondido, the historic breeding place for the Catalina Arabian horse, before one more sharp left-hand bend before the dirt track lead up to Prescott’s whitewashed house. He was in a hurry, and covered the seven miles in about four minutes. Twice he had to brake sharply to avoid a collision with one of the wild pigs endemic to the island.

  Leaving a cloud of brown dust in the air, he swung into his driveway and up to the house. Once inside, he ran upstairs to his bedroom. His own bedroom since his wife of twenty-two years walked out on him five years ago. He pulled a small suitcase from a closet, threw it on the bed, and began frantically grabbing clothes from a chest of drawers. As he feverishly packed, he wondered where to go: the East Coast perhaps, maybe Europe. As for how long, he figured a week, ten days perhaps. Just enough time for it to all blow over.

  He paused in his packing to think. He had read the newspaper reports about Murray and Barbara Hutchinson; he knew also about Ed Travis, and Eddie Dexter. And that crazy old Freddie Freeman.

  He was the only one left.

  Surely it would only be a matter of time before the police figured it all out and made the connection. But what evidence would there be left? It was all years ago, and that period in history had been erased forever.

  Of course the irony was, it was not the police he had to worry about.

  He jumped as his phone rang. It was the office number. He swore: what did that moron Nina want now? He let it ring.

  Once his packing was completed, he reached into the small drawer of the bedside cabinet and snatched out his passport. Just in case.

  As he rushed down the stairs, carrying the suitcase and attaché case, he thought about his options. He did not want to use LAX: Long Beach Airport was closest, and he could get a direct flight to JFK from there.

  He closed his front door, double locked it, and turned to his car. His heart missed a beat as a motor cycle turned from the main road and up the drive. The rider switched off the engine, secured the bike, and took off the helmet.

  Prescott exhaled loudly. ‘Oh, it’s you. Thank God for that!’

  FORTY-NINE

  IT WAS THE following morning, and Leroy and Quinn were back on Catalina Island. Not in Avalon, not in the Mission building, but about twelve miles further north west, on the approaches to Two Harbors. They were accompanied by Deputy Sheriff Ferrer.

  They were standing by the rusted iron gates through which there was a dirt track leading to a large house. The gates were fastened shut with a thick, heavy length of chain and padlock. They could see the house from the road, at the end of the curved track. The land surrounding the house was bordered by a six foot tall brown stone wall. The bricks of which the wall was constructed were not smooth, evenly built bricks; rather pieces of stone of a certain size which had been gathered from the surrounding landscape. Parts of the wall were overrun with ivy and another evergreen which Ferrer informed them was yerba santa, an indigenous shrub. Adjacent to the gates, on the wall and much worn by the elements, was a grey stone name plate. On the name plate was chiselled the name SCULPIN HOUSE.

  Ferrer explained that the sculpin is a local fish. Great to eat but needs to be bought in a fish market, as it is venomous. He explained that the only safe way to handle the fish is to grab the lower jaw with the thumb and forefinger. Although it has no teeth, the sculpin has spiny fins which carry a toxin, contact with which will produce severe pain, shock and nausea. There is no antidote; the symptoms dissipate with time. Neither Leroy nor Quinn had any interest whatsoever in fishing and just stared at Ferrer while he gave this impromptu lecture.

  Leroy had had enough of hearing about local fish. ‘Max, you’re saying this had been closed for years?’

  The deputy nodded, looking through the gates. ‘Sure. Twenty at least.’

  ‘And how did you know about it?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘I’ve been deputy here for getting on for six years,’ Ferrer replied. ‘I knew the Mission was based down in Avalon; I knew - know - the sort of good works they do with young kids and all that. When I took up my post, I recall that Sheriff Jackson who I replaced drove me around the island and pointed this place out. Didn’t go inside, of course; he told me the Avalon Mission - and Noah Prescott wasn’t CEO then - once ran a children’s home and school here. Nothing too big, he told me: just twenty, thirty kids. Until they could be formally adopted, you know.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell us this,’ Leroy said.

  ‘You never asked me. You just came over here from your fancy offices in LA, overrode all established protocol, and kept me out of the loop. Maybe if you’d come to me first, I could have saved you a lot of time.’

  Leroy put his hand on Ferrer’s shoulder. ‘Okay, Max, okay. I take the point. I apologise.’

  Ferrer shuffled his feet and grunted, ‘Forget it.’

  ‘You’ve no idea why it closed?’ Quinn asked.

  Ferrer shook his head. ‘No idea. Like I told you guys, when I arrived on the island, it had been closed for some years, then.’

  ‘Who owns it now?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘Avalon Mission, I guess. If someone else had bought it, then surely they would have done something with it, not just left it to decay.’

  Quinn asked, ‘And they’re still paying property taxes on it?’

  Ferrer shrugged. ‘Guess so. Not my jurisdiction.’

  Leroy stepped back a few feet and looked up at the gates. Then stepped forward and shook them. ‘They’re still quite sturdy, even after all this time.’ He turned to Ferrer. ‘Max, we need to get in.’

  ‘I’ll need to call Noah to get his permission. Otherwise it would be illegal entry.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  They watched Ferrer as he speed dialled Prescott’s number. Then shook his head and tried again.

  ‘That’s mighty odd,’ he said. ‘Can’t reach him.’

  ‘Leave a message, then,’ said Leroy.

  ‘I can’t,’ Ferrer explained. ‘It’s not letting me. It’s not even ringing.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s got it switched off,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Well, we can’t wait.’ said Leroy. ‘Max, I’m going to need to get in. Is there anything in your car to cut through these chains?’

  ‘I have something in the trunk,’ Ferrer said, and walked back to his car. He opened the boot and pulled out a large pair of bolt cutters. ‘We call them the jaws,’ he said as he put the jaws over one side of the link, then squeezed. The link broke, and he did the same for the other link. Then he pushed and the gates swung open. Leroy began to walk up the drive, Quinn following. Ferrer got into his car and slowly followed them.

  As they made their way towards the house, Leroy and Quinn on foot, Ferrer in his car, they looked around. Where there had once been a lawn was now an expanse of bush and shrubs and rocks and straw. There had been two St Catherine’s Lace bushes planted in the centre of the lawn: now these shrubs, which are normally broader than they are tall, had laterally invaded the grounds, their long stems with silvery-grey leaves extending over the ground like a flat, lacy canopy. Once away from the gates, the drive on which they were approaching the house was at times indistinguishable from the former lawn. Covered in weeds, branches, leaves and other garden debris, it had not been set foot upon for years.

  The house was no different. On their way from the Sheriff’s office in Avalon, Ferrer had explained that the house was originally built as a private residence in the late 1890s by the landowner and entrepreneur George Shatto. It became a sanatorium in the early 1920s, and then bought by the Avalon Mission after some years as an asylum; the Mission then converted it into a home and school for runaway children, at least until they could be reunited with their families or formally adopted.

 
‘The Deputy seems to know an awful lot about this place, and its history,’ Quinn said quietly to Leroy once they had reached the house.

  ‘Mm,’ agreed Leroy, looking up and down the façade.

  Ferrer got out of his car and joined them. ‘Told you guys this place has been empty for nigh on twenty years. Still can’t imagine what there is to gain by looking here. You figuring on breaking in?’

  Leroy sniffed. ‘Not sure yet. I want to have a look round the outside first.’ With that, he walked off to the left hand corner of the house. Quinn immediately followed; Ferrer muttered something under his breath and went after them.

  There must have originally been a path, either gravel or something more permanent around the house, but over the years it too had degraded and become derelict. Out back was little different from the front: more abandoned gardens, and two doors leading into the house.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Leroy said to the other two. ‘This was once a children’s home, right? Then why the fancy gardens out back? Why no football field, no soccer pitch, no tennis courts, no playground? Where did the kids play, for Chrissake?’

  Quinn and Ferrer did not reply. Quinn looked up at the second floor. ‘It all looks secure, even after all these years,’ he said, squinting in the bright sunshine.

  Leroy put on his sunglasses. ‘Who’d want to come here?’ he asked, and stepped onto the former lawn. Turning round to Quinn and Ferrer he called out, ‘I just want to look around out here before we try to get inside.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Quinn asked, as he joined Leroy in surveying the grounds.

  ‘Something. Anything,’ came the reply.

  After twenty minutes of looking around the grounds, from the rear of the house to the back section of brown stone wall, Leroy stopped by a clump of bushes. Stared down at the ground. Partly hidden beneath some undergrowth, a patch of ground seemed different to the rest, less vegetation springing from it. It also had several small holes dug, with corresponding mounds of soil next to it, as if an animal had been digging for something.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Leroy said. ‘Ray, you know what this is?’

  Quinn stood next to Leroy and studied the ground.

  Leroy crouched down, put the flat of his hand on the slightly raised mound of earth and looked up at Quinn.

  ‘Ray, it’s a grave.’ He pulled up the undergrowth covering the soil. ‘Look at the size of the plot.’

  He dropped the branches and swallowed. Looked up again at Quinn.

  ‘It has to be a child.’

  FIFTY

  NOW THE GAME had changed. Leroy called Lieutenant Perez and reported what he had found. The first thing Perez said was to stand back and not touch anything. Not that Leroy needed telling that. There was a time when it was kind of okay to break protocol and there were times when it was not. This was one of those times.

  As far as police matters were concerned, Santa Catalina Island came under the jurisdiction of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. This meant the crime scene was now under the control of Deputy Sheriff Max Ferrer.

  Ferrer, however, was out of his depth. Catalina Island was hardly a den of criminal activity. In the past three months, there had been six separate weeks where not one single crime had been reported. The residential population of the island was slightly over 3700: in the last three years property crime had affected 3.17% of that population; violent crime only 0.53%. Ferrer did not know when the last homicide took place; years before his arrival.

  And now there were two homicides to add to those statistics.

  A team of three crime scene investigation officers had flown in by helicopter from the mainland, as had Ferrer’s boss, the Sheriff herself. After two hours’ painstaking examination of the scene, they confirmed Leroy’s worst fears: it was a shallow grave. It had been dug many years ago. It had been disturbed several times over the years by animals; probably, one of the officers said, by either island foxes or feral cats, or both.

  The remains that were left, however, appeared on first examination to be that of two young children. The remains would have to be taken to the Forensic Science Center to ascertain exact cause of death and to extract DNA. They could not tell from the remains the sex of the children, but Sheriff Paysinger said she was aware that Avalon Mission had run a children’s home many years ago - she had attended a trespass incident there once - but seemed to recall only boys were staying there. The girls’ equivalent was on the mainland.

  After Leroy had first spoken to Perez, the lieutenant had spoken to the captain, who had spoken to the commander, who had spoken to the deputy chief, who had spoken to the chief of police, who might as well have spoken to the White House as far as Leroy was concerned: the order came down that while the two bodies might be connected somehow to what Leroy was investigating, it was for the moment the Sheriff Department’s case. Leroy and Quinn must focus on Anthony Wong and Murray and Barbara Hutchinson.

  Leroy was not in any mood to argue.

  It was around three in the afternoon. A couple of hours earlier, just as the crime scene investigation team had arrived, Ferrer said to Leroy, ‘Sam, we need to find Prescott now. This property is still owned by Avalon Mission.’

  Leroy nodded. He was right, even if Prescott had nothing to do with these two children himself.

  ‘I’ve tried calling him on his cell,’ Ferrer continued, ‘but I’m getting nothing still. And my signal’s strong here. I got through on his office landline, and the lady there says he left the office earlier today.’

  ‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ said Leroy.

  ‘I know Noah Prescott. I’m sure all this is just a coincidence, nothing sinister. He owns a place here on the island. I’ve been there a few times; it’s just a few miles further down the road. I’m going to take a look, see if he’s there. You want to come along?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll stay here. I want to see what’s buried.’

  Now Ferrer had returned to the crime scene. Immediately after getting out of his car, he walked over to Sheriff Paysinger, who was talking to one of the crime scene officers. They spoke for a moment, and then he went over to Leroy and Quinn.

  ‘I take it you didn’t find him?’ Leroy asked.

  Ferrer said nothing. He took the small bottle of water out of his jacket pocket, took a mouthful and spat it out. ‘I’ve just come back from Prescott’s house,’ he said. ‘I found his car parked outside. What was left of it anyway.’

  Leroy swung round. ‘What do you mean, what was left of it?’

  ‘I was so long because we had to put the fire out. There’s not much left of the car, just a burnt out frame. Anything that wasn’t metal - rubber, plastic, upholstery - that’s all gone.’

  ‘What about Prescott?’

  ‘What’s left of him is in the car.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  THIS TIME LEROY accepted Ferrer’s offer of a ride, and he and Quinn accompanied the Deputy back to Prescott’s house. Ferrer waved to the driver of the fire truck which was just leaving, and pulled up next to another police car. Two officers were taking photographs of the wreck.

  The first thing they noticed on arrival was the smell.

  The car itself was parked at a ninety degree angle to the house, just where someone might leave it when parking outside. The wheels were blackened metal, their circular shape distorted in places by the heat. The tyres had naturally burned away. No glass remained. The paint had gone; the metal bodywork was scorched black and grey. The ground below the car, as if forming a six inch barrier around the vehicle, was blackened.

  They climbed out of Ferrer’s car and Leroy stepped towards the wreck.

  ‘I warn you: it ain’t pretty,’ Ferrer said.

  Leroy held up his hand and stepped to the passenger door. Even though the fire had been extinguished by now, he could still feel the heat radiating from the vehicle. He closed his eyes for a second and looked inside. It was a shell: all the plastic, all the rubber, all the vinyl, all th
e upholstery had gone. Where the seats had been, two in front, three in back, were blackened metal frames with the springs showing below.

  In the driver’s seat, partly wedged between the frame of the seat back and the springs below, was a form. It looked barely humanoid: blackened and cooked, vestiges of skin peeling away. No hair. Where the whites of the eyes should have been showing, there was nothing. What was once the head was facing down at a forty-five degree angle.

  Quinn joined Leroy at the door and coughed. Leroy looked over at his partner. Quinn mouthed, ‘I’m okay.’

  Ferrer stood, hands in his pockets in front of the car. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said. ‘What a way to go.’

  Leroy disagreed. ‘He didn’t burn to death, if that’s what you mean. Look at the body language, the expression on his face. Or what’s left of it.’

  Ferrer looked puzzled, so Leroy explained, ‘A couple of years ago, my partner - Roman Perez - and I were chasing a couple of punks. Their car hit some obstruction - the median, I think - and exploded. There was no way anybody could have survived it; no way anybody could have gotten near the wreck, let alone attempted a rescue. The screams only lasted a second or two.’ Leroy paused and took a deep breath. ‘When the fire had been put out, and we could get this close, the body language of what was left was not like him. Their arms and hands were outstretched like this,’ - he demonstrated - ‘and you could tell from their faces that they had died screaming. Look at him. I know there’s no face to speak of, but it looks if he’s asleep. No contortions as if he was in pain; no signs of choking from the smoke.’

  ‘He was dead already?’ Ferrer asked.

  Leroy nodded. ‘Or unconscious. Whatever, he was clearly unaware.’

  Quinn wandered around to the driver’s side and looked closer at Prescott’s blackened remains. His nose twitched. ‘Exact cause of death might be difficult to ascertain.’