by Philip Cox
‘No reason to think otherwise. I understand he left the job on account of getting shot. Said he was offered a desk job but declined.’
Perez shrugged.
‘If you say so.’
Leroy and Perez stared at each other for a second then the lieutenant turned and returned to his office. Leroy joined Quinn at his desk.
‘Hey, Sam,’ said Quinn, leaning back in his chair. ‘How’d it go?’
Leroy sat at his own desk and looked around.
‘I couldn’t get the murder book because there isn’t one. It never got that far. Just a report of a missing child. It was just like I said: those lazy fuckers gave up on it once they found out Trejo was already doing time.’
‘Khan and Jones?’
‘The very same.’
‘You gonna talk to them?’
‘I don’t know, Ray. I’m not sure there’d be any point.’
‘If there was no murder book, you came away empty handed?’
‘Not exactly. I came away with the report the kid’s mother filed and half a dozen shake cards.’
‘Not much.’
‘Tell me about it. It’s a start. I’ll go through them tonight.’ He paused, downing half his coffee. ‘So: what do we have on Martin Wheat?’ He leaned back in his chair while Quinn updated him on what he had managed to do that morning. ‘Great,’ he said when Quinn had finished. ‘So nobody obvious.’
‘Not yet. I think we ought to speak with the performers and crew, one to one. Weller first; there’s something about him…’ Quinn shook his head as his sentence tailed off.
‘Yeah, I got a definite vibe about him. We’ll see what the others thought about his relationship with Wheat. Any rivalries; what was Weller’s part of the business, or was he just an employee like the others.’
‘What about Bridger? The lieutenant didn’t know anything about him, said he would ask around.’
‘He said the same thing to me. I’d be interested to know the background to him leaving the Department. Let’s give Perez a day or so to find out. We can include him on the list of who to interview, along with the cast and crew. Did you speak to the widow this morning?’
‘I did, when I got the names of their domestic help.’ Quinn tapped the names on his legal pad.
‘How was she this morning?’
‘She sounded okay. She had company – her lawyer.’
‘Her lawyer? Jesus, what the hell for, the day after her husband was murdered?’
‘She said he was a close personal friend of them both, and was calling on her in that capacity, not as their lawyer.’
‘Interesting. What was the lawyer’s name?’
‘I didn’t ask. Didn’t think it was appropriate at that time.’
‘No, maybe not. All in good time. We’ll need to visit her again soon.’
‘So what do you want to do first? I have all the names and contact details we need.’
‘We need to start talking to everybody. But first, let’s get back down to the company offices. It was just a flying visit yesterday. I want to go through that place with a fine-tooth comb, to check everything. The offices, the physical stuff, the company’s accounts, the emails. I’m hoping the widow will have no issue with that; after all she had no problem giving us the keys to the premises; it would make life a lot easier if she was just as free as that with passwords, and anything else to do with the company.’
‘If she is a former employee, she might be able to tell us quite a bit. Unless she has something to hide herself.’
‘That’s another reason why I want to get over there asap. Before anybody else does. You ready?’ Quinn grabbed the coat off the back of his chair. ‘You eaten yet?’ Leroy asked.
‘No, I was going to grab something out of here.’
‘Not that shit,’ said Leroy as they passed the vending machines. ‘Let’s get something on the way up to Chatsworth.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Leroy drove the city car to Chatsworth. From the station, he took Santa Monica Boulevard east then turned left onto Sepulveda for the journey north.
He had chosen this route for a reason: on the intersection with Olympic, there was one of his favourite food stands.
Leroy pulled off the street and parked. Good timing: there was only a short line for Soho Taco, and they were soon served. He ordered pulled and marinated chicken; Quinn smoky carne asada. Both tacos came with onions, shredded lettuce, peppers, griddled potatoes, and salsa. They leaned on the car as they ate.
‘Good?’ Leroy asked Quinn
Quinn nodded, his mouth full of Mexican beef.
Leroy was done. He wiped his mouth, and tossed the napkin into a trash can.
‘Higher price here, but always better quality.’
Quinn finished his taco while Leroy hit the road again. Even though they were between rush hours, the journey was still slow, and Leroy was conscious of the hour by the time they arrived at the Joder Films offices.
Once again, they used the stairs to reach the third floor. The police tape was still across the door, undisturbed. Leroy pulled the tape off, and unlocked the door. A couple of seconds after they stepped over the threshold, the alarm began a quiet beep. Quinn lifted the plastic flap and keyed in the code. Immediately the alarm went silent.
Leroy stood in the centre of the room and rubbed his hands together. He passed Quinn the car keys.
‘Ray, I need you to go back to the car. See if there’s anything in the trunk we could use to take this shit back to the station.’
‘You got it.’ Quinn took the keys and left.
Leroy walked behind Wheat’s large oak desk. He looked around the desk: on one side, between the desk and the window stood Wheat’s disk drive. He followed the wiring to its end and pulled the plug from the wall outlet, then did the same to disconnect from the keyboard and screen. He would not need to take those back as well as the drive. He looked up as Quinn returned with a large plastic box.
‘This is all there was in the trunk,’ said Quinn resting the box on Wheat’s desk.
‘Shit,’ said Leroy, looking at the box. ‘That won’t be enough. I should have thought of that before we left.’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘I know what we can do.’ He nodded over to the filing cabinet. ‘What’s in there, Ray?’
Quinn walked over to the cabinet and pulled at the top drawer.
‘Locked.’
Leroy pulled open the top drawer and rummaged around. No keys. Above the top drawer was a pull-out tray, with compartments for pens, thumb drives. There was a small keyring with two small keys. He tossed it over to Quinn.
‘Here; try one of those.’
Quinn tried the first key. Nothing. The second worked. He pulled open the top drawer and leafed through the contents.
‘Just a load of those hanging files.’
‘Files of what?’
Quinn checked the tabs on the files.
‘Names. Women’s names, some men.’ He took a file out and opened it. ‘Pictures, a resumé, looks like a contract.’
‘Employee files, I guess. Can you load the stuff from there into the box? I know what I’ll do with these.’ Leroy pulled the top drawer out as far as it would go then tugged at it. It soon came off its runners. He laid the drawer on top of the desk and did the same with the others.
Quinn has moved the contents of the filing cabinet drawers to the plastic box.
‘What about the DVDs?’ he asked.
‘We’ll take them also. We’re gonna need to look at them: there might be cast member or crew we didn’t see up at that house yesterday.’
Quinn picked up a disc and looked at the back.
‘Do they have credits on this stuff?’
Leroy looked over to him.
‘No idea. Take them all, anyway.’
‘Is there anything specific we’re looking for here?’ Quinn asked.
Leroy rubbed his hand over his chin. It felt stubbly already.
‘I guess it’s a case of we’ll kn
ow it when we see it. Anything here that might point us in the right direction. Any emails, anything on paper, anything online, that might uncover something. There again, his murder might have nothing to do with his line of work.’
‘You mean something closer to home?’
‘We’ll go see the merry widow tomorrow. I’m guessing she’s the sole beneficiary of Wheat’s estate. She didn’t show much interest in this place, so I’m guessing she’s more interested in the value of the house, and of his bank balance.’
‘She didn’t seem exactly distraught at the news of her husband’s death. Seemed more interested in the dogs.’
‘Maybe. People deal with grief in different ways though, Ray. She might have been bottling it up until she was alone. You never know.’
Quinn picked up the box.
‘I’ll take this down to the car, and come back up, give you a hand with the rest.’
‘Sure. I’ll take one more look around here in case there’s anything else we could take.’
There wasn’t. Leroy waited for Quinn to return. He took four of the drawers and Quinn took the other two, plus the drive. Once the trunk was loaded, Leroy went back to the office, used his cell phone to take photographs of the office, the kitchen and restroom area. After checking the drawers and cupboards, and the cistern, he took pictures of all the portraits on the wall, reset the alarm, locked the door, resealing with fresh tape, then joined Quinn in the car.
‘It’s ten after four,’ Leroy said. ‘When we get back to the station it’s gonna be five thirty at least. You get off home to Holly. We’ll meet up back there in the morning and head over to the widow. I’ll call her later, just to make sure she’s around and it’s convenient: we must observe the niceties at this point.’
‘Cool, I’ll do that. Are you going to look at the Washington case?’
‘Not today. I spent enough time on it this morning. I’ll start to go through what we’ve got in the back; get it in some kind of order. See what’s on the drive. I didn’t see any disks or thumb drives back there. I might have to ask the widow for passwords when I call her. I told Perez I was talking to one of my informants this morning, about Wheat. I may well do that: he may be able to be of use. Oh shit.’
All four lanes of traffic were slowing down, brake lights coming on in succession.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He couldn’t resist the temptation.
Leroy had taken the Washington file, what there was of it, home. It was past eight when he finally arrived home at his Venice apartment. His plan was to leave it for tonight; hopefully, the next day would not be so long, and he would not be so bushed in the evening, and could begin reviewing the file then.
He called in at In-n-Out on the way home, picking up his favourite Double Double. Once home, he sat at his table with the still hot food. Vowing that from tomorrow he’d begin to eat more healthily, as he vowed every night, he reached over for the file and began sifting through it.
He read through the original report, the report Jasmine Washington first made, all those years ago. Although for him, it was a secondary investigation, as he read, the details started to come back to him.
He picked up the small pack of Field Interview Cards, and began to sift through them. He yawned and rubbed his face. Dropping the cards back on the table, he took a final draught of his bottle of San Miguel. He was sure he had one more in the fridge.
Taking the last bottle out, he decided he needed some fresh air. The beach was only six or seven minutes’ walk from his apartment, and was always a good place to go for a head clearing session.
Most of the shops on the boardwalk were preparing to close: some had already done so; others were ushering the last customers out. One of the regular traders who peddled his wares from a blanket on the edge of the beach was gathering up his stock. His sign said that he was a veteran of the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan; Leroy knew that in reality the nearest he had gotten to conflict was a Blu-ray of Zero Dark Thirty. That was cool: the tourists believed him, and the guy had to make a living somehow.
Leroy paused as four youths sped past on skateboards. Maybe he should have told them to stop before they got hurt, but he was off duty, and in any case, when he was their age he was probably doing the same thing around Coney Island.
He left the boardwalk and walked across the grass to the beach. Any other time, he might have taken his shoes and socks off and walked barefoot, but in the dark he could not see where he was stepping. It is not a pleasant experience, cleaning dog shit out from between your toes.
Leroy stepped over the little wall that separated the grass from the sand. Now it was safe to do so, he perched on the wall and took off his shoes and socks. He put his feet on the sand and moved them about: that felt good.
He walked down the sand to halfway between the grass and the waves, and sat on the beach. The sand was dry; so the tide was coming in. To his right, he could see the lights on Santa Monica Pier, the outlines of the Ferris Wheel and the little rollercoaster. Oddly enough, he could hear nothing from the pier, but if the wind was blowing in the right direction, the screams were as loud as if he were under the pier itself. To his left, he could see the lights from an airplane climbing. He watched the blinking lights for a few minutes to see which direction they took. After take-off from LAX, aircraft would head over the ocean, then turn left, or right, or do a complete one-eighty. This particular flight turned right and headed north, up the coast. Leroy speculated where it was headed: maybe it was one of the regular shuttles to and from San Fran; maybe it was headed further afield. Then another set of lights, this time heading straight out to sea. He could make out another set of lights in the distance, out to sea. At first he guessed it was a ship, but after five minutes there had been no movement, so maybe it was an oil platform, or just a craft that had anchored. It was the wrong direction to be coming from one of the Channel Islands.
Leroy twisted the cap off his bottle and took a mouthful of beer. He swivelled in the sand and looked back at the boardwalk. Most of the first floor premises were now in darkness, the shops having closed, but the taco restaurant and Starbucks were still open. Numerous lights from the second floor windows were lit, the apartments being occupied. Somewhere behind the buildings on the beach front was his own building, the apartment he had lived in for the past ten years.
He took another mouthful. He felt unsettled, not a feeling he was used to. How long had he lived here? Ten years in that apartment, fifteen in LA.
He reflected on his age. No longer the dynamic thirty-something who moved out here, full of optimism. Now he was in his forties, and what had he achieved? Sure, he had achieved the rank of detective 3, but was that the right place in the chain for his age and experience? Years back, when the position of lieutenant was vacant, he had applied, but his erstwhile partner Roman Perez got the position. Of course, Perez was at least ten years older than Leroy, and he hadn’t really wanted to be Lieutenant Leroy: he was not sure if he did even now.
Or was the way he was feeling more personal? He was still in the same apartment – apartment, not house, like Quinn and Perez – still more or less doing what he was doing ten years ago. His sister was married and had two children; Perez was married with two sons; Quinn was married, and trying for kids. Leroy was not even partnered.
He had the feeling he was getting left behind.
Moving back to New York was never an option. He had been here too long: LA was home now, and at times he felt more of an Angelino than born and bred here Ray Quinn.
He had to do something, but had no idea what, although buying a house was a good start, had to be.
He shivered. A cool breeze was coming off the ocean, which was in total darkness, save the froth from the waves, just visible in the light coming from the boardwalk. The tide was coming in; those waves were not too close when he first sat down. The night sky was clear of any cloud cover, and but filled with thousands of stars, and more than a few aircraft lights.
His head may n
ot have been much clearer, but for Leroy, the time for reflection was over. It was eleven thirty, and he had an early start. He took one more swig, decided he did not want any more, and stood and walked back to the little concrete wall, where he sat to brush sand off his feet and put his socks and shoes back on.
Tossing the beer bottle into a trash can, he walked back to his apartment. He was not sure what he had achieved by coming down here tonight, but now the Washington file would have to wait till tomorrow evening.
As he walked along his street to his empty apartment, he reflected how Quinn and Perez would not be going back to an empty home.
Leroy quickened his pace. He needed to get his act together. Melancholy did not suit him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ray Quinn was indeed not going back to an empty home, but it was hardly the nirvana Leroy was imagining.
As his car came to a halt on the double driveway of the one storey house in Morningside Park where he and Holly had lived for nine years, he wondered if she would still be up, or even awake. The blinds were closed, but a light was on, and he thought he could see flickering from the TV.
As he slowly and carefully opened the door, he saw Holly sitting on the couch watching TV. She was still dressed. She looked up as he entered.
‘Hey,’ Quinn said quietly, as he closed and locked the door.
‘I’ve already eaten,’ Holly said. ‘Yours is in the kitchen.’
‘Okay,’ Quinn nodded, dropping his keys in the little bowl they kept on a shelf by the door and wandering into the kitchen. Eventually, he found a plate of spaghetti inside the microwave, and a small bowl of salad in the fridge. He heated up the spaghetti and looked around for something to drink. They kept a small wine rack on the countertop, slots for eight bottles, two rows of four. Every slot was empty. He frowned: they needed to replenish, but he was sure there was an unopened bottle of Merlot there last night.
He peered into the living room.
‘Any wine? I thought we had some Merlot left.’
