Ready to Die (Sam Leroy Book 5)

by Philip Cox

  ‘I’ll ask around.’ Perez paused. ‘Joder Films?’

  ‘Yes, that was the name of Wheat’s production company.’

  Perez laughed.

  ‘You do know what Joder means?’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant, I do now.’

  ‘It seems the late Martin Wheat had a sense of humour.’ Perez returned to his office, chuckling. Quinn read through the list on Joder Films employees then put his notes to one side, before picking up his phone. He looked up Adrienne Wheat’s landline number and dialled. She picked up after five rings.

  ‘Mrs Wheat?’ he asked. ‘This is Detective Quinn, LAPD. We met yesterday. Is this a convenient time to talk?’

  ‘Yes, I remember you. Yes, it is convenient to talk for a while. I’m not alone. My husband’s lawyer is here with me. And before you think, “she doesn’t waste any time,” he’s here on a social call. He is a close family friend, so he called round to express his condolences. Now, how can I help you, Detective Quinn?’

  ‘I won’t take up too much of your time. It’s easier to call than driving over to your house. I was just wondering if you have any regular visitors to your home. Employees, I mean. Cleaners, gardeners.’

  ‘We have exactly that. We have a woman who comes in each day. She acts as a cleaner and cook – a cook during the day. Marty likes – liked – me to cook the evening meal unless we were planning on eating out. And we have a gardener. He works three afternoons a week. Will you need to speak to them?’

  ‘We will do, ma’am, just on a routine basis. You want to give me their names and numbers?’

  ‘Surely. Just hold on.’

  Quinn waited while she got the numbers. He could hear a muffled conversation in the distance. Assuming she did not have a TV set on, he guessed she was discussing his request with the lawyer. He hoped that the lawyer would not be getting involved so soon in the investigation.

  ‘Detective?’ She had returned.

  ‘I’m still here, ma’am.’

  She gave the name of Consuela Santoro as the cleaner come cook, and Harold Chaney as the gardener. Quinn wrote down the names and contact details.

  ‘Harold is LA born and bred,’ Adrienne Wheat explained, ‘but Consuela, she comes from TJ. I’m not… how can I put this? I’m not one hundred percent-’

  ‘Don’t worry, ma’am. We may need to ask Ms Santoro some questions specific to her employment with yourselves. We won’t be calling the INS if that’s what you’re asking.’

  He heard her exhale.

  ‘Thank you, Detective, I’d appreciate that. I’m sure her documentation is complete, but you know how it is.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Did you manage to find your dog, by the way?’

  ‘My dog? Oh, no. Those two officers you sent to meet me - thank you for doing that, by the way - and I searched for about an hour but didn’t find a trace.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Will you be looking again?’

  ‘Not personally, I expect. I’m thinking on hiring somebody to make a thorough search of the canyon. Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?’

  ‘No, that’s all I need for now. Thank you for that, Mrs Wheat, and have a good day. As good as you can in the circumstances, I mean.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective. Goodbye now.’

  Quinn took the two names and ran the same database checks. Harold Chaney had been booked for doing seventy-five down Cahuenga Boulevard seven years back. How the hell he managed that Quinn had no idea. Must have been three in the morning. Of Consuela Santoro there was no record. Quinn was not in the least surprised at that; when somebody in LA says one of their domestic staff comes from Tijuana and is then cagey about their circumstances, that meant only one thing. Department protocol stated that if, during an investigation, it came to light that a person is an illegal then the INS had to be informed. In practice, that rarely happened, unless the investigating officers felt it was in the public interest to do so. Quinn had already decided that it was not, although in some cases the threat of reporting them gave enough leverage to get what they wanted.

  Mrs Wheat herself. Quinn recalled that she had been one of the performers before she married Wheat. No surprise then that she had been picked up three times for street-walking, twice on Hollywood Boulevard, once on Vine Street. There was also a conviction for shoplifting from Fredericks when she was nineteen. She served probation for that.

  There was just Marty Wheat himself to check out. He was much older than his wife, so Quinn’s instincts or cynicism told him that the databases might be holding more on him.

  It was nearly eleven. Unless Sam was back, Quinn planned on calling him to update him. One call to make first. After making sure no other officers were in earshot, Quinn called home. He and Holly had a fight when he got home, late, the night before. Holly had prepared dinner for six pm and that had gone in the trash at eight. The argument ran its normal course about was he married to Holly or to Sam or to the LAPD. Her job never made demands on her like his did. Maybe he should reassess his priorities and look for another job. Holly’s father had said that’s what he should do; maybe go work for him. Ray then told his wife hell would freeze over before he did that, at which point Holly stormed to bed and Ray spent another night sleeping on the couch. He left that morning without waking her.

  There was no answer. He checked the time: she might have left for work. He dialled her cell phone. It rang for about fifteen seconds then went to voicemail.

  Quinn returned to his lists and tried to cross-check the results. No matches. Nothing.

  He hoped Sam was having a better morning.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Leroy was headed downtown. Headed for the Open-Unsolveds Unit. This unit, otherwise known as the Cold Case Special Section, was based on the Third Floor of the Police Administration Building, situated on West 1st Street. Part of the Robbery-Homicide Division, it is responsible for the review and investigation of historic murder and sexual assault crimes. This would have to be Leroy’s first stop, as the murder book would contain all the information Leroy would need.

  He had already called Quinn on his way, telling him to get on with the Wheat investigation. He updated Quinn on where he was headed, but did not want Perez to find out. He knew Perez’s view on “working off the page”, as he called it; even when they were partners, Perez would not want any distraction from the primary case. All hell would break loose if they were passed a secondary investigation. So long as Jordan Washington did not interfere with Martin Wheat, and there was no reason why it should, then what the lieutenant didn’t know didn’t hurt him.

  The entrance to the underground parking garage is actually on Second Street; Leroy flashed his badge at the automatic reader, drove down the ramp, and found a space on the second level.

  He wanted to make this visit as discrete as possible. Whether his request was legitimate was debatable; it was a genuine case, and he was accessing the records as a police officer, but it was not assigned to him and by the book, it was the responsibility of the CCSS. However, from experience, he foresaw no problems with the officers in the unit; it was just that if he was spotted here, and the wrong people started to ask the right questions, then it could be awkward for him.

  He took the elevator up to the third floor. As the elevator doors slid open, to his relief, he saw a face he recognised. The face also recognised him.

  ‘Well, goddammit, Sam Leroy, isn’t it?’ asked Detective Niall Malone.

  ‘Well, well,’ replied Leroy as they shook hands. ‘So this is where they sent you. Counting the days to retirement?’

  ‘Not exactly, my friend. I’m on DROP.’

  ‘DROP?’ I thought you have to have hit the big five-o.’

  ‘I did. Two years back.’

  ‘Shit, I’d never have guessed.’

  Malone shrugged.

  ‘It suits me. Not for everyone. Now: what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m interested in a case. One of yours.’

  ‘Take your pi
ck, pal. We have hundreds here.’

  ‘So you won’t miss one?’

  Malone’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘What are you up to, Sam? You moonlighting?’

  ‘Not exactly, but…’

  ‘Look, let’s go to one of the offices. It’s a tad too public here.’ Malone dialled a number, and said, ‘Harry; can you cover for me a while here? I just need to help someone out.’ He logged off and led Leroy to a side room. ‘Just to be on the safe side. You never know when some prick’s gonna get too curious and be a stickler for procedure,’ he added as he closed the frosted glass door. Through the matching walls, Leroy could make out the silhouette of a uniformed officer at the desk. ‘So,’ Malone said, as he logged on, ‘what are you after, Sam?’

  ‘The case I’m looking into is in the name of Jordan Washington. I need the murder book.’

  ‘The murder book. I see. What was the vic’s name again?’ As he spoke, Malone’s two index fingers tapped firmly on the keys. Leroy repeated the name.

  Malone waited a few seconds for his screen to populate. He shook his head.

  ‘Nothing. You want to spell the name again?’

  He tried again.

  Leroy looked at the screen.

  ‘That can’t be right. Try Robert Trejo. He was the killer.’

  ‘T-R-E-J-O?’ Malone tried again. This time the screen populated.

  ‘There’s names here, Sam, but no Jordan Washington.’

  Leroy checked the screen.

  ‘They are the other kids he took.’

  ‘But no Jordan Washington.’

  Leroy slapped the tabletop.

  ‘Of course! Trejo was never charged with Jordan’s murder. They never found the body, and he was sentenced to life for the others. He was already serving time when we were investigating this.’

  ‘Which is why you came to us. But we only process murder and sexual assault crimes here, Sam.’

  ‘Shit.’ Leroy sat back and rubbed his face. What was he going to tell Jasmine? ‘Wait a minute - that first search you made: did you use any filters?’

  ‘Why, yes. I looked at murder cases. That’s what you asked for.’

  ‘I know. Try that name using a sexual assault filter, or set it to All, whatever you have to do. It may have been logged as a sexual assault. One of the kids he took managed to escape. After he’d been raped by Trejo.’

  ‘So you’re thinking the Washington kid might have been logged as a suspected sexual assault, not murder?’

  ‘Straws, Niall. Just clutching at straws. Jones and Khan were unorthodox, to say the least.’

  ‘Jones and Khan? “Genghis” Khan?’

  ‘Yeah; why? You know them?’

  ‘Two old guys?’

  ‘That’s them. They were on DROP as well, by the way.’

  ‘In the old days, we used to call them dilettante cops. Even when they were younger, they used to cut corners. Had to make an arrest; didn’t have to be the right person they arrested. As long as he was the right colour.’

  ‘Colour? But Khan…?’

  ‘Khan was Indian, of course. Jones was white, as WASP as you could get. How the fuck they got partnered and stayed partnered all those years is anybody’s guess. Maybe somebody on the Fifth Floor thought it was a good idea at the time, you know, good PR, good for the Department’s image, and they somehow clicked. But Khan was even worse than Jones. Jones: well, he was to the right of the KKK – he’d never get away with it now.’

  ‘You’d hope he wouldn’t.’

  Malone’s eyes met Leroy’s. ‘Yeah. You’d hope. But Khan was more than that. My old partner had this notion that Khan had a bug up his ass about not being white himself, and just hated anyone who wasn’t. African Americans especially. What race was Trejo? Hispanic?’

  ‘Mexican. Family from TJ, I think.’

  ‘That would explain it. Khan - and Jones - would have decided he was guilty before the ink on the crime report had dried. So what happened with the investigation?’

  ‘They both retired for good not long after all this happened. I think they decided that he had done it, he was already serving life, so what was the point? The fact that no body had been found or that the family might want some answers didn’t figure one bit; they retired, and things just drifted. I don’t think the case was ever closed. I’m hoping you guys have it here. I realise there won’t be a murder book, but there must be some shake cards, the report Mrs Washington filed; stuff like that.’

  ‘Let me search again.’ Malone returned to his keyboard. ‘Here you go, Sam. We’re in luck.’

  Leroy looked at the screen. It was the Jordan Washington case.

  ‘Now we have a case number,’ Malone said, standing up, ‘I can get the file.’

  ‘I’ll wait here?’

  ‘Sure. Be right back. Give me ten.’

  The Murder Book is a standard investigation case file. This process has been in use in the Department since the early 1980s, and enables the investigating and other detectives, supervisors, and prosecutors to locate and review key reports, photographs, and other materials. It is discoverable, which means the contents may be turned over to defence counsel during pre-trial proceedings. It is a record of the investigation, so that anybody reading can understand how the investigation proceeded. It will be held either electronically or as a hard copy. A hard copy would comprise one or more three-ring binders, sectioned. The standard content would comprise a full and structured record of the investigation, including, but not limited to, the crime scene log; reports of the scene, the death, any vehicles, the arrest; details of the victims, the suspects; medical reports, crime scene photographs, and search warrants. A digital murder book would also include any video or CCTV evidence. Leroy was aware that this investigation did not get very far, so was unsure exactly what Malone would be bringing him. When the Department began its digitization process, only cases which were likely to succeed were scanned, so he was not expecting much.

  It was actually twenty-two minutes before Malone returned with the case file. Leroy had contemplated giving Quinn a call, more to pass the time that anything else, but decided that his partner had been given enough to do, and if he was observed talking to Leroy on his cell, it might prompt the question of where Leroy was. He considered texting, but hopefully he would be back at West LA station before long.

  ‘Not the biggest case file I’ve ever seen,’ Malone said as he passed Leroy the box file. Leroy put the box on the table and opened it. There was not much in the file: the original report Jasmine made; there were some photographs of Jordan and of the street on which the school was situated, and a handful of Field Interview Cards. Leroy scan read the top shake card, which was a record Detective Jones had with the parent of another child at the school.

  Leroy closed the box. ‘I appreciate this, Niall. Did anybody see?’

  Malone shook his head. ‘You’re in the clear; nobody saw. I can’t see it being missed; I had to blow some dust off the box. What’s the date on the inside of the lid?’

  Leroy opened the box. There was a letter-sized form affixed to the lid, columns of dates and initials. ‘The latest date is April fifteen, this year.’

  ‘That would be the date the last due diligence check was made, so nobody’s gonna look at this till April fifteen next year.’

  ‘I’ll have it back long before then. Do I need to sign for it?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m afraid you will. Do that outside.’

  Malone led Leroy back to the desk by the elevator and thanked the officer whom he got to cover.

  ‘No problem,’ replied Harry, who then disappeared down one of the aisles.

  Malone took a clipboard out from a drawer, entered the file number, and held it out for Leroy to sign.

  ‘Thanks again. I owe you one.’

  ‘No sweat, Sam. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘So do I,’ Leroy muttered as he pressed the elevator call button.

  He managed to get back to his car unobserved and
unmolested. Once behind the wheel, he went through the contents of the box again. ‘Lazy bastards,’ he muttered. Malone had been right: Jones and Khan never took this case seriously. It was convenient and expedient to hang this onto Trejo. Maybe Trejo was guilty; but there had been no investigation. Much as he hated the thought, he was sure if Jordan Washington had been a little white boy, things would have been different.

  He closed the file and tossed it onto the passenger seat. This would be his homework tonight: Jordan Washington and his mother deserved justice, and he would do all he could to get it for them.

  .

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Leroy arrived back at the station and headed straight for his desk. On the way to his desk he had to pass the bank of vending machines, where Lieutenant Perez was standing, holding a burrito and a soda, chatting with the Watch Commander, Ronny Rosenberg.

  ‘You got a second, Sam?’ Perez asked.

  ‘Sure thing, Lieutenant. Double-R,’ he said to Rosenberg.

  Rosenberg nodded back.

  ‘Sam. Catch you later, Roman,’ he said to Perez, before returning to his office.

  Leroy paused in the corridor, returning Rosenberg’s nod as he was left alone with Perez.

  ‘Everything okay, Sam?’ Perez asked.

  ‘Everything’s cool. Why?’

  ‘Ray said you had to take some personal time. I wondered if everything was okay, or if you were still looking at houses.’

  Leroy bought himself a coffee.

  ‘No,’ he said, blowing on the surface of the coffee to cool it down. ‘I wasn’t looking at houses. I was just visiting one of my informants. I wanted to see if he had heard anything about Martin Wheat.’

  ‘Had they?’

  ‘Nah. Squat. He’s gonna keep his ear to the ground, though. And I wasn’t looking at houses this morning, either. No rush on that one.’

  Perez nodded and took his burrito and soda back to his office until Leroy called out.

  ‘By the way, Lieutenant: does the name Lew Bridger mean anything?’

  ‘Bridger?’ replied Perez, pausing. ‘Ray asked me about him. I told him I’d ask around. He said you think he’s cool.’