Ready to Die (Sam Leroy Book 5)

  READY

  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

  Cougar scat.

  It was unmistakeable. Well, almost unmistakeable.

  It was probably a female. The males tended to restrict their wanderings to the vast wooded areas, near to water. The females would roam closer to development, closer to human habitation. In fact, they would deliberately avoid the wooded areas just to evade the males. Invariably, they would have a litter of kittens with them, and would want to prevent their offspring encountering a male.

  Marty Wheat studied the ground for tracks. However, it was dark, and it was only by chance that he had caught sight of the droppings. He would have recognised any tracks if he saw them: mountain lions have four toes on both front and hind paws, with an M-shaped heel pad; but the moonlight was not bright enough for him to see any.

  He shivered slightly and looked around. He was able to see for at least a hundred yards in all directions, the moonlight illuminating the landscape: the sides of the canyon, the bushes, the shrubs, the rocks. He could see nothing; in any event, if there had been a big cat anywhere near here, Fifi and Trixie would have detected it.

  Fifi and Trixie were sisters, a pair of six-year old Doberman Pinschers. Calling them Fifi and Trixie was his wife’s idea, but their silly names belied their potency as guard dogs, willing to and more than capable of deterring any intruder, any threat. If they had heard something, or picked up the scent of any threat, they would be growling by now. Generally, the growl was enough. Since the dogs had moved into the house on West Hollywood Boulevard, there was only one occasion when somebody had tried to break in. The intruder was climbing over the wall into the back yard, only to be greeted by two sixty-six pound pieces of muscle and teeth. Their barking continued long after the invader had gotten back over the wall and fled the scene.

  But even with the dogs with him, Marty Wheat was still uncomfortable. They stood twenty-six inches shoulder to ground, but an adult cougar had maybe six inches on them, plus weighed twice as much, and had more strength and stamina. And that was just the female. In a battle between a cougar and two Dobermans, the cat would probably come off worse, but would still inflict significant damage. No, it was best to get back to the car.

  Wheat quickened his pace: not running, but walking briskly. Normally, his pace and direction depended mostly on what the dogs wanted to do or go, where they would sniff, which part of the arroyo they would drink from, where they would want to squat, but tonight it was Wheat who led the way, hurrying the dogs along, tugging at their leashes to get them to move faster. Not running, not panicking, just with a sense of urgency.

  The dogs fought against Wheat’s pulls of the leash and led him over to a group of trees. Both agitated, they began to sniff and scrape at the ground.

  ‘What is it now, girls?’ Wheat asked them. He pulled Trixie back to so he could see what she was interested in. ‘Oh, shit.’

  Badly hidden under some brushwood were animal remains. Wheat guessed it was what was left of a deer. It was probably a mule deer, named so because of its ears, which are large like those of a mule, and indigenous to western North America. He had once read in National Geographic or somewhere that the mule deer comprises ninety-five percent of a mountain lion’s prey. This looked adolescent, with two short antlers: no longer a fawn, but not quite a fully-grown buck. The article also related the hunting habits of the cougar. After making the kill, it will first eat the organs. Then it will drag the prey to a place of seclusion, and cover the remains with branches, leaves, and debris, with a view to returning to continue feasting later.

  That meant it would not be far away.

  ‘Come on, girls; come on, come on,’ Wheat urged them quietly, although any cat around would have detected them not by their sound, but by their scent. The night was still, so Wheat had no idea which way their scent was carrying.

  He hurried on with Fifi and Trixie through a small pass and down a slope to where he had left the car. The slope was quite steep in places, and had it been the dogs who were leading the way, he could well have been dragged; however, this time it was he who was trying to get them to the car, and their resistance to the leash enabled him to stay upright.

  Eventually, and to his relief, they reached the spot where he had parked. It was at the foot of the embankment: the other side of Mulholland Drive, the terrain continued down as far as Mandeville Canyon, so this spot could hardly be called an overlook as it was on the mountain side of the road; merely a clearing as the road bent to the right.

  As he emerged from the trees, he came to an abrupt stop.

  When he parked his white Audi Q3 forty minutes earlier, there was no other vehicle here; something you would expect at eleven pm. But now, a second vehicle, black and shining in the moonlight, was also here, parked about fifty feet away.

  Even with two Doberman Pinschers with him, Wheat still felt anxious. He paused momentarily before taking the dogs over to his car. There was no movement from the other vehicle: maybe the occupant was doing the same thing he had been. He contemplated going over to the other car, and if the occupant was there, warning them about the mountain lion.

  At that moment, two doors of the other car opened, then slammed shut. In the moonlight, Wheat could make out a figure walking round the back of the car, and joining the driver.

  In unison, the men began to walk towards Wheat.

  Fifi began to growl.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It had been a long journey, but she was nearly there.

  They had reached Exit 42 of State Route 14, evocatively named the Antelope Valley Freeway.

  Jasmine looked over at the peach coloured building on her right. The signage caught her eye: Ross Dress for Less. She was sure she had bought
clothes from there in the past, but had no recollection of the journey. Maybe there was another outlet nearer home.

  ‘Almost there, Jasmine,’ reassured her driver, James Fillmore. Pastor James Fillmore.

  It was almost midday on Friday. This time three days ago, Jasmine had no idea she would be here at the end of the week. She got the call Tuesday evening.

  It was just after eight. She had not long gotten home from attending her weekly Bible Study Group at her church, the Second Southern Baptist Church, three blocks from her house in Culver City. She had enjoyed that night’s meeting; she found every meeting rewarding, but that night in particular. The theme that week was Grief and Hope, a subject Jasmine found particularly apposite.

  The text to be studied that night was the Gospel of John, Chapter 11. As Pastor James said in his introduction, ‘In the midst of turmoil, the story of the resurrection of Lazarus creates space for both grief and hope’, and Jasmine felt he must have been thinking about her when he spoke. Apart from one moment of irritation when two of the teenagers there giggled at the verse which went ‘Jesus wept’, which earned them a glare from two parishioners and a benign smile from Pastor James, who informed them that this was the shortest verse in the entire Bible, she found what she learned, and the opportunity to meditate, most rewarding and comforting.

  The telephone call she received, however, was anything but.

  Why now? Why was he bringing up the past? Why did he want to see her? She would never forget the events of four years earlier, not that she wanted to, but she wanted to store those memories away in her own way, on her own terms.

  With a tear in her eye she ran her fingertips over the picture in the frame. He looked so smart and grown up. She remembered when it was taken. His first day in Third Grade.

  She put the picture back onto the shelf and sat down. She blew her nose and considered what she should do. After a moment, she decided what she would do first.

  She telephoned Pastor James. He would know what to do.

  Pastor James listened carefully, without interrupting, and then said, ‘You need to do as he asks, Jasmine. Just think what it says in the Bible. Only you know if you have fully forgiven him, but he is reaching out to you. He is in a bad place right now, and you should let your natural Christian compassion overcome whatever other feelings you might have, and accept his remorse, for that’s what I believe he wants. You may even find the experience cathartic.’

  ‘I’m not looking for closure, Pastor. I never want to forget.’

  ‘I understand that, Jasmine, but right from the start you’ve never been in control. You’ve had to react to events which were beyond your control. Now you are in control: you can show him your forgiveness, or not. Your decision.’

  ‘But how can I get there? It’s miles away, up in Lancaster County.’

  ‘I know where that is. Don’t worry, Jasmine. I’ll take you. In the car it’s only a little over an hour on the freeway, traffic and God willing.’

  So now, Pastor James was driving Jasmine Washington to the Antelope Valley Hospital. As he had said the other evening, traffic and God willing, slightly over an hour from Culver City; today God and the traffic must have been very willing, as they had been driving for fifty-eight minutes when they exited the 14 and crossed over Avenue K to take 15th Street West up to the hospital.

  Around three quarters of a mile along 15th they saw the beige hospital building. Pastor James made a left into the main entrance, and was directed by signs to the separate entrance for the Institute for Heart and Vascular Care, around one of those traffic circles you rarely see in the United States, and to the parking lot. Jasmine looked up at the building.

  ‘He must be really sick if he’s in here,’ she said. ‘Isn’t there a hospital in the prison?’

  Pastor James nodded.

  ‘I’ve been up here a few times, both the hospital and the prison. The prison isn’t far from here, only around five miles, I guess. The other side of the 14. There are medical facilities there, but when somebody’s suffered a heart attack, they need more than the prison can offer.’

  Jasmine nodded, picked up her bag and walked with the pastor to the entrance.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked as they stepped inside.

  Jasmine nodded. She was nervous.

  ‘I need some water,’ she said, pausing at the water cooler in the lobby.

  ‘Surely. I think I’ll join you. It must be almost ninety degrees out there today.’

  They both paused to drink some water, tossed their paper cups into the trash and headed for reception.

  ‘We’re here to see Mr Trejo,’ Pastor James said to the receptionist. ‘Robert Trejo.’

  The receptionist checked his screen and looked up.

  ‘Second floor. Make a left as you exit the elevator.’

  Pastor James nodded his thanks and led Jasmine to the two elevators. In a few moments they were on the next floor. Jasmine clung tightly to her bag.

  ‘I think that’s where he is,’ said Pastor James, pointing to a door at the end of the corridor, which had two uniformed police officers standing outside.

  A nurse seemed to appear from nowhere.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, we’re here to visit Mr Robert Trejo.’

  The nurse’s eyes darted to and from the police officers who looked up when they heard Trejo’s name.

  One of the officers approached. He checked the screen on his phone.

  ‘Jasmine Washington?’

  ‘This is Mrs Washington. My name is James Fillmore. I am the Pastor from Mrs Washington’s church. She asked me to bring her.’

  The officer looked over at his colleague.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but our orders are that only Jasmine Washington can see the prisoner.’

  Fillmore huffed.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. What am I going to do? Help him escape? Can’t you call…’

  ‘It’s all right, Pastor,’ said Jasmine gently. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  Fillmore sniffed loudly.

  ‘If you’re sure.’ He glared at the officers and sat down.

  The nurse let Jasmine and the second officer into the room, quietly closing the door behind. The other bed in the room was unoccupied.

  ‘He’s sleeping right now,’ said the nurse, ‘but you’re welcome to sit and wait.’

  Jasmine nodded her head, and the nurse left them.

  ‘I’ll just be over here, ma’am,’ said the police officer, as he sat down in a chair in the other corner of the room.

  Robert Trejo was asleep. Various drips and tubes were connected to his arms and nose. A screen by the side of the bed was monitoring his vital signs.

  Jasmine Washington stood in silence.

  Staring down at Robert Trejo.

  Staring down at the man who had murdered her son.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time Sam Leroy arrived at the scene, the location was filled with official vehicles. He could see a forensics van, the coroner’s wagon, and two marked police cars. Ray Quinn’s car was there also, although Leroy could not see his partner. The area was cordoned off with yellow and black crime scene tape, and at the back of the scene Leroy could make out a white car which was surrounded by more tape. A small crowd, including the tech with the video camera, was milling around near the car. He guessed that would be where the victim was located.

  Leroy parked, showed his badge to the uniformed officer at the perimeter, who lifted the tape so he could duck under.

  It was nine am. Leroy felt he had done well to get to the scene so quickly. Had it been a normal day, he would have made it here before Quinn, who would have had to negotiate the traffic from his home in Morningside Park. Leroy, having come from Venice, would have had the advantage of the freeway for most of the journey up here. Today he was delayed in Venice: his plan was to take Venice Boulevard east, then get on the 405. However, this morning, as he approached he could see the northbound traffic on the freeway at a standstill,
so headed north on Sepulveda as far as Skirball Center Drive, then onto Mulholland as far as the clearing where the crime scene was located. End to end today it was a forty minute journey.

  As he dove under the tape, Leroy saw his partner by the car.

  ‘I’ll be late getting to the scene, Ray,’ Leroy had said when he called him earlier. ‘Just get things started until I arrive.’

  Quinn walked over to Leroy as he saw him approach. He squinted in the sunlight and put on his shades. Leroy was already wearing his.

  ‘Ray?’

  ‘First question, Sam: why us? Why here? Shouldn’t this be West Valley? The uniforms are from West Valley; why not the detectives from there? Why not RHD?’ RHD, or Robbery-Homicide Division, comprises five sections – robbery, homicide, cold case homicide, special assault, and a special investigations section. Each section is tasked with investigating or providing surveillance support for crimes which are often high profile in nature. They also act as intermediaries between other law enforcement agencies in cases of mutual interest, and, where required, coordinate multi-agency investigations.

  Leroy took off his shades and flicked something out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘The highway here is the actual boundary between our division and theirs. Now, as the crime scene is this side of the highway, I guess you could say it’s in their territory, but…’ He pointed in the direction of the city: the downtown buildings were gleaming in the morning sun. ‘In real estate terms, this is what you’d call a jetliner view.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is what it is, Ray.’ Leroy put his sunglasses back on and walked over to the gathering around the body. They each took a step back as Leroy held out his badge.

  The victim was a man, middle aged, probably around fifty. He was wearing a black tee-shirt, loose grey sweatpants, and off-white sneakers. He had some middle age spread. Leroy’s guess was that the man’s weight was the wrong side of two hundred pounds. He had a deep tan, and thick silver hair with a receding hairline. There was a small black hole in the centre of his forehead.

  Leroy crouched next to the body. He looked up at Quinn.