Another Way to Die

by Philip Cox

  ANOTHER

  WAY

  TO DIE

  PHILIP COX

  The author is British, but the story takes place in the United States, and most of the characters are American. So: British English or American English? The narrative is in British English, and the dialogue is mostly American English. So US readers please note that some words may be spelt differently, such as tyres for tires, centre for center.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sam Leroy switched off the engine and let the Taurus coast the last ten to twelve feet until it came to a stop directly outside the house. He applied the parking brake and sat back.

  The house was a typical single-family home, virtually indistinguishable from the hundreds of others here in Van Ness. The street was virtually indistinguishable from the others: long, straight, lined with wide grassy parkways and oak trees.

  It was a small bungalow. In the light from the street lamps you could tell it had once been whitewashed, but the paint was fading. Unlike some of the other houses in the street, there was no chocolate-box picket fence: the front lawn ran right up to the four steps which led to the front door. The house number was 6006, the final 6 hanging loose, at right angles to the rest of the number.

  It was eleven thirty, and most of the houses were in darkness. Which is what you’d expect: they were single-family homes, occupied by parents and children. It was Wednesday - a school night - and by now most of the residents would be in bed.

  6006 West Third Street was the exception. It was not occupied by a family. The occupant was a single man, the thirty-nine-year old Harlan Cordell.

  ‘Can you see the light?’ Leroy asked his partner.

  Detective Roman Perez peered through the glass of the windshield at the house. ‘Yeah. Our boy’s in.’

  The front of the bungalow was in darkness, but through the blinds of one of the windows, Leroy and Perez could make out a light. There was a lamp on at the back.

  ‘Unless he keeps a light on to deter intruders,’ said Leroy.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Perez replied. He paused a moment, then put his hand on the door handle. ‘Come on, Sam. Let’s go see him.’

  As the two LAPD detectives walked up to the house, Perez looked over at Leroy.

  ‘You know what to do?’ he asked.

  Leroy knew.

  There was a bell push by the side of the door. Perez left his finger on it for three or four seconds. They could hear a bell ringing faintly inside.

  After a minute Perez rang again. He stepped away from the door and looked around. Apart from a car pulling into the driveway of a home across the road, on the next block, the street was deserted.

  ‘You stay here. I’ll go round the back,’ Perez drew his weapon from its holster. Leroy nodded and took out his. Perez stepped away to go around the side of the house, only to pause as Leroy called out.

  ‘Roman – he’s here.’

  As Perez returned, the door slowly opened about six inches. In the darkness and the small gap, they could just about make out part of a face.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Harlan Cordell?’ Perez asked.

  ‘I asked you what is it? What do you want?’

  Perez held up his badge. ‘Detective Perez, LAPD. This is Detective Leroy.’

  Perez could see the whites of Cordell’s eyes as they flashed over to Leroy. He could also see Cordell was unshaven and was sweating heavily.

  ‘What do you want?’ Cordell asked. ‘Do you know what the time is? Couldn’t you wait till morning?’

  ‘Sir, I’m aware of the time,’ Perez said, ‘and I apologise for calling so late, but we just need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Questions? About what?’

  ‘Just a few questions. Could we come in?’

  ‘Come in? Now?’

  Perez looked up and down the street. ‘We don’t want to disturb the neighbours.’

  Cordell sighed. ‘All right. Just for a few questions. Hold on.’

  Perez glanced over to Leroy as the door closed. There was a rattle while Cordell took off the chain, then the door opened wider.

  ‘Come in, quickly,’ Cordell said. He remained behind the door, merely peering around the edge.

  Perez and Leroy took the steps two at a time and went inside. As soon as they were in, Cordell closed the door and replaced the safety chain.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, sir,’ Perez said. ‘You’ll be quite safe while we’re here.’

  Cordell shook his head fussily. ‘You can never be too careful. Now, you said you had some questions.’

  Perez looked around. The front door led directly into one large room. There was one door the opposite side to where they were standing. It was open, and you could see a short hallway with doors on either side. A light was on in one of the side rooms.

  The lounge was untidy, and smelt as if nothing had been cleaned for a while. There was a 1950s-style couch in the centre, facing a low table on which a flat screen television stood. The TV was off. Behind the couch was a bureau on which ornaments, and a couple of pictures stood. Perez and Leroy could see one of the pictures was of a couple. By the dress, it looked to have been taken some years ago. On the side wall was a framed colour photograph of a young woman. She was dressed in a red swimsuit and was carrying a surf board. The picture felt incongruous with the rest of the décor. Clothes were scattered all over the couch and at various places over the floor. There were also piles of newspapers and magazines in places. Leroy could make out a TVGuide and MetroSource.

  ‘So, you have some questions for me?’ Cordell drew himself up to his full height, which was still a good twelve inches less than the detectives. He had dark, balding hair and wore thick, black framed glasses. He wore a white vest, tartan shorts, and sandals. The vest could not hide the fact that he was hairy: over the top of his chest and down his arms. He was sweating heavily, which did not help the smell of the room.

  ‘Yes,’ said Perez. ‘We’re investigating a murder.’

  ‘A murder?’

  ‘Yes.’ As Perez spoke he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a handful of photographs. ‘You’ve pr
obably heard about these murders from the TV or the papers, but -’

  Cordell interrupted again. ‘So what does that have to do with me?’

  ‘There have been four murders, and all but one of the victims came from the Van Ness area. So, we’re asking residents if they knew any of them.’

  ‘You saying you don’t know who they are?’

  Perez shook his head. ‘I’m not saying that. We have identified the victims, but as they were killed in the same way, their murders are connected somehow. We’re just trying to find if there’s any connection between the victims themselves.’

  ‘At’ - Cordell glanced at his watch - ‘almost midnight?’

  ‘We’re working on this case 24/7, sir,’ Perez explained. ‘Before there’s a fifth.’

  ‘But why are you asking me? I don’t…’

  ‘We’ve been calling on all the houses on the street, sir.’

  Cordell frowned.

  Perez said, ‘So as soon as you’ve looked at these pictures, we’ll be on our way.’

  Leroy clutched his stomach and groaned.

  Perez and Cordell looked over.

  ‘What is it?’ Perez asked.

  Leroy shook his head. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Perez turned back to Cordell.

  ‘So, Harlan, is it?’

  Cordell nodded.

  ‘Please take a look through these.’

  As Perez handed Cordell the pack of photographs, Leroy groaned again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sir, would you mind if I use your bathroom?’

  Cordell looked open-mouthed at Leroy, then to Perez, then back at Leroy. ‘Sure. Go ahead. It’s the second door to the left. Here, I’ll show you.’ As he spoke, he began to head for the door leading to the hall.

  ‘It’s all right, sir. I’ll be able to find it. Sorry about this.’

  Appearing disorientated, Cordell turned back to Perez, who shook his head in either disbelief or disapproval.

  ‘I’m sorry, Harlan. Here: look at the pictures.’

  Leroy found the bathroom. Opened the door and closed it again, firmly and loudly, remaining on the outside. He noticed the toilet almost adjacent to the door, the bath being the other side of the room. He paused a beat, listening to Perez and Cordell talking, then took one step across the hallway into the room where the light was coming from.

  It was Cordell’s den, as untidy as the living accommodation. God knows what the guy’s bathroom would be like, Leroy mused as he looked around the tiny twelve-foot square room.

  There was on old table against the wall, heavy wooden. An open laptop lay in the centre. The screen was black: Leroy touched the space bar and the screen filled with Cordell’s screensaver: a naked woman sitting on a rattan chair, legs wide apart. Not a picture Cordell would have taken himself; obviously a download. Two piles of newspapers and magazines also adorned the table: the National Enquirer was at the top of one pile. The front cover had a feature about a celebrity in rehab for sex addiction: Leroy could not tell who the celebrity was as a large circle had been cut out above her shoulders.

  Leroy turned: in the corner there was a small filing cabinet. He quietly tried the top drawer to find it was locked, but he noticed on the top of the cabinet was a half-filled box of Kleenex and a plastic bottle of baby oil, also half-filled. Leroy grimaced, glancing back at the laptop.

  I got a feeling we’ve found our man.

  He could still hear Perez and Cordell talking. Cordell’s voice was sounding more agitated. Leroy left the den and stepped over to the bathroom. Opening the door, he reached over and flushed. The flush worked the second time. The bathroom smelt of stale urine. Grimacing again, he closed the bathroom door.

  As he went to return to the lounge, he noticed what was at the other end of the hallway. It led to Cordell’s back yard. The yard was of course in darkness, but the light from the house partially illuminated a vehicle outside. Leroy could only see the back of the vehicle, but it looked as if it was an old station wagon. What struck Leroy was that it appeared spotless, almost brand new.

  Leroy returned to the lounge. Perez and Cordell were still standing by the front door, Perez in the process of putting away the photographs. Cordell looked more relieved than before. They both looked over at Leroy.

  ‘You okay now?’ Perez asked.

  Leroy nodded and rubbed his stomach. ‘I am now, thanks. Sorry about that. Thanks for the use of the bathroom, Mr Cordell.’

  ‘No problem,’ replied Cordell, as he reached out for the door chain.

  ‘I noticed,’ said Leroy, ‘you have an old station wagon out back. It is a Chevy?’

  Surprised, Cordell nodded. ‘An Impala.’

  Leroy pointed down the hall. ‘Would you mind if I took a look?’

  Cordell glanced at his watch. ‘Well, it is almost -’

  ‘I’ll only be a few minutes,’ Leroy began to walk back outside. Perez and Cordell followed. As they got outside, Cordell flicked a wall switch and a floodlight came on. Now they could see the vehicle clearly.

  It was indeed a Chevrolet Impala, in spotless condition. The bodywork, two shades of brown, and the chrome gleamed in the floodlights.

  ‘Wow,’ said Perez, staring at the car.

  Leroy walked around the other side. ‘My brother-in-law collects,’ he explained. ‘I don’t suppose it’s for sale?’

  Cordell gave him a smug smile. ‘No, Sorry.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘1977,’ Cordell replied.

  ‘Mileage?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘A few thousand. I’m not sure of the exact figure. I only bought it a few months back.’

  ‘In this condition?’ Perez asked. ‘Or have you been working on it?’

  ‘I’ve done some work.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look inside?’ Leroy asked as he opened the front passenger door.

  Cordell opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. He paused and then said, ‘Take a look, Detective. I just need the bathroom myself.’

  Perez nodded as Cordell went back inside and into the bathroom. Once Cordell had gone, he walked up to the car. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  Leroy had been leaning in, looking at the dashboard. He sniffed and stood up. ‘Smells new.’

  Perez shrugged his shoulders. ‘And?’

  ‘Look at it. It’s pristine, like new. How does that sit with him in there, in that shithole?’

  Perez nodded, and turned back to the house. He stepped inside and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘You okay in there, Harlan?’

  No reply.

  He knocked and called one more time. Still no answer. Drawing his weapon, he kicked at the door. It flew open easily.

  ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sam, he’s gotten out through the window. I’ll follow; you go round the outside.’

  Leroy looked around the yard. The yard was bounded by 6-foot-high fences, but there was a wide double gate. It was closed but not locked. Leroy kicked it open. And ran out. He was at the side of the house, between number 6006 and the property next door. Nowhere to go but out to the street.

  Leroy ran out into the street, weapon drawn. He met Perez out front.

  ‘There he is!’ Leroy said. In the distance, he could see Cordell running. For a paunchy middle-aged scumbag, he was surprisingly agile.

  ‘He’s headed for Gage,’ said Perez. ‘You follow, Sam. I’ll take the car and head him off.’

  ‘Got it,’ Leroy called out. He was already on his way. Perez ran back to the car and headed off down 66th, this time blue-lighting it.

  Leroy was fitter and faster than Cordell and was gaining on him. Perez was right: Cordell was heading in the direction of Gage Avenue, although how a guy in vest, shorts and sandals was figuring he could lose himself there was anybody’s guess.

  ‘Cordell! Stop!’ Leroy called out, but Cordell kept on running.

  At the next cross street, Cordell made a sudden right. Not actually down the street itself, but an alley which was leading between a small apartment bu
ilding and a closed 7/11. Leroy followed. Cordell clearly knew where he was going.

  The alley opened out into a small parking lot at the back of another building. Cordell ran towards a chain-link fence, and leapt upon a piece of dumped furniture, a sofa upside-down, to help climb over the fence. Yes, he was certainly surprisingly agile. But this gave Leroy the chance to catch up. He was now fifty feet away.

  Slowing down, Leroy raised his weapon. ‘It’s all over, Harlan. There’s nowhere to go.’

  Cordell turned to face Leroy and…

  No, it couldn’t be.

  The guy was wearing a vest and boxer shorts: how could he be carrying?

  Leroy assumed the position and pointed his Glock at Cordell.

  ‘LAPD,’ he called out. ‘DROP YOUR WEAPON.’

  Cordell glanced up and down the parking lot and back to Leroy. Raised his right hand.

  ‘DROP IT. NOW,’ Leroy called out, one more time.

  Cordell ignored him.

  Leroy fired.

  Two shots. Tap-tap.

  Cordell collapsed onto the furniture and rolled onto the ground. Leroy reholstered the Glock and slowly walked over. He was feeling Cordell’s pulse when Perez arrived. Perez leapt out of the car and ran over.

  Leroy was still crouching over Cordell’s body. He looked up at Perez and slowly shook his head.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEVEN YEARS LATER

  Five pm at West LA Station.

  Business as usual.

  Well, almost.

  An hour earlier, Sam Leroy and his partner, Detective Ray Quinn, had high-fived as they left one of the interrogation rooms. They had just taken a confession.

  There was an urban legend that members of the LAPD did not take murders of hookers seriously, that they were farther down the list of priorities than the killing of say, a stockbroker or a movie producer. That is not the case; although solving the crime often met with a different degree of success. Statistically, a homicide victim knows their killer; in the case of a sex worker, things are slightly different.

  In this case, the dead woman was found naked on the bed in a seedy motel room on Sunset and Sepulveda. The elderly woman who was manning the motel reception spoke poor English, and so Leroy and Quinn brought with them Officer Pena, who could translate to and from Spanish. She could not recall the man who had booked the room; motel records, which consisted of jottings ironically on a legal pad, showed he had paid his thirty bucks in cash.