Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2) Read online

  ‘So,’ asked Julia, ‘what are you going to do?’

  He reached over and kissed her. ‘Give me five minutes, ten tops. I promise.’

  ‘You got seven and a half, Detective.’

  Leroy grinned and got out of the car. Ran up the street and into the building. He flashed his badge at the commissionaire standing in the doorway. ‘Which floor?’ he asked.

  The commissionaire, who must have been seventy years old if he was a day, pointed to a flight of stairs. ‘Up there on second. The paramedics just arrived.’

  Leroy nodded and ran up the stairs. On the second floor was a further flight of stairs, leading to the third floor; either side of the stairs were three apartment doors. Two doors were open: the first, apartment C, was slightly ajar, and an old lady in a pink dressing gown was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a faded blue baseball cap, and was chewing gum. She was also staring at the open door to apartment E, across the hallway. When she saw Leroy, she shook her head, muttered something unintelligible, and slowly closed the door.

  Leroy stepped over to the open door and looked in. The two paramedics were standing either side of a figure slumped in a high backed armchair. One of the medics noticed Leroy and stepped over, holding the flat palm of one hand out. ‘Excuse me, sir; you can’t come in here.’

  He relaxed when he saw Leroy’s badge. ‘Sorry, officer. Wasn’t expecting you that fast.’

  ‘I wasn’t responding to the call,’ Leroy said, standing in front of the figure in the chair. ‘I was just passing. I’m supposed to be off duty; I was seeing if I could be of help.’

  ‘I don’t think you can be of much help,’ the other medic said. ‘Too late for this one.’

  Leroy studied the figure in the chair. A grey-haired man, late sixties, maybe early seventies, dressed in blue jeans, a check open-necked shirt under a buttoned up cardigan. The man was clearly dead, but the fact that the back of the chair was so high meant that the body remained upright. Only the man’s head was slumped, at a forty-five degree angle. He was still wearing a pair of glasses, although these had slipped slightly. Next to the chair was a small table, on which rested the previous day’s copy of the Los Angeles Daily News, an empty whiskey bottle, and an empty glass.

  There was also an empty pill bottle.

  ‘Who called it in?’ Leroy asked, taking in the scene.

  ‘The old lady from across the hall,’ replied the first medic. ‘She told 911 she hadn’t heard or seen the old guy since yesterday, so she got the commissionaire to unlock the door.’

  ‘Nothing we can do for him here,’ said the other medic.

  ‘No,’ agreed Leroy. ‘Look: I’ll leave you guys to it. Guess I shouldn’t be here, really. I’ll let the responding officers do their job.’

  ‘Caio,’ the second medic said, and with that, Leroy left the apartment. He nodded again to the commissionaire on his way out, and as he walked down the street back to his car, he noticed two patrol cars arrive, pulling up next to the ambulance. He slowly climbed back into the Taurus where Julia was waiting. She was doing something on her phone.

  ‘What was it?’ she asked, as he got settled back in his seat. ‘Anything interesting?’

  Leroy shrugged. ‘Some old guy found in his armchair next to empty bottle of booze and pills.’

  ‘God. He took an overdose?’

  ‘It looks like it, but there’ll have to be an autopsy and an investigation.’

  ‘Did he leave a note or something?’

  ‘Not that I noticed, but it won’t be my investigation.’

  Julia shuddered. ‘Ugh. That’s horrible.’

  Leroy pulled out into the traffic. ‘What is?’

  ‘Dying alone. Poor old guy.’

  ‘Welcome to my world. Come on; let’s finish our evening.’

  Leroy found his way onto Venice Boulevard and they headed home, home tonight being Julia’s apartment. They sat on the floor, their backs against her couch, and she opened a bottle of red wine. Their subsequent lovemaking began slowly and gently on the floor, becoming more frantic and energetic as they moved to Julia’s bedroom, finally settling down to sleep in each other’s arms.

  *****

  In general, adults need between seven and eight hours of sleep. However, some people can function after sleeping for much less time. Winston Churchill would sleep for an average of six hours a night; for Bill Clinton it was between five and six. Margaret Thatcher would only sleep for four hours a night. One can cope with the occasional night of no or less sleep – one just feels tired the next day. Sam Leroy had had many nights of no sleep at all, or of only two to three hours. If he was lucky, he might have caught an hour or so during the day.

  Tonight he was relaxed; he had had an enjoyable evening, good food, good wine, good sex. Tonight, he was heading for a restful, recuperative, eight hours of sleep.

  Just as well.

  FOUR

  LEROY WAS DRIVING himself to the LAPD Homicide Desk, West Los Angeles, the next morning when the call came through. Rather than Despatch, it was his partner.

  ‘Sam, where are you?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘About five minutes away. Where are you?’

  ‘At the Desk. Just about to leave. We’ve had a call. The lieutenant says to go straight there.’

  ‘Okay, will do. Where’s there?’

  ‘It’s an address in Malibu. Grasswood Avenue.’

  ‘Malibu? Jesus. What number Grasswood?’

  ‘Er – 20820.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll head straight there. What’s happened?’

  ‘The lieutenant says it’s a homicide, but it’s big, apparently.’

  ‘I see. See you there, Ray.’

  Leroy activated his siren and light and swung the Taurus round, heading for the Santa Monica Freeway. The I-10 feeds directly into the northbound Pacific Coast Highway at Santa Monica and Leroy headed for Malibu. He turned off the Highway at the signs for Point Dume, and soon reached Grasswood. You could not mistake the house in question: two ambulances and two black and whites were parked in and at the foot of the driveway. Leroy recognised Quinn’s car parked by the side of the drive. Quinn was standing by the car.

  As Leroy parked the Taurus in front of his partner’s, Quinn walked down to meet him.

  ‘Glad you’re here, Sam.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘It’s a homicide,’ Quinn replied. ‘A double homicide, apparently.’

  ‘You’ve not been in yet?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘No. Waiting for you. The CSI team and the ME are upstairs.’

  The house was a large, white-walled Spanish-style building. It was set back from the road by about a hundred feet, with a wide driveway and large lawn in front. The two uniformed officers standing in the double doorway stepped to one side as Leroy and Quinn walked in. In the expansive, marble-floored hallway was a wide, curved staircase. At the foot of the staircase was a chaise-longue, on which a woman dressed in a maid’s uniform sat with a female police officer. The maid was in tears, and the female officer was talking quietly to her and holding a box of Kleenex. The second officer was standing and walked over to Leroy and Quinn.

  ‘Detectives Leroy and Quinn?’ he asked. ‘Sergeant Roscoe. It’s all upstairs, in the master bedroom.’

  Leroy nodded his head at the maid. ‘Was she first on the scene, then?’

  ‘She was. Took their breakfast up on a tray as she did every morning, and found them.’

  ‘Them?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Hutchinson. Murray and Barbara, apparently.’

  ‘Found them dead, you mean?’

  ‘You’d better look for yourself, Detective,’ Roscoe said grimly.

  Leroy took one more look at the maid, and then led Quinn upstairs. At the top of the stairs, they walked along a short landing to the master bedroom. Quinn quietly gasped as they stood in the doorway.

  The room was large, about twenty feet by thirty. The door to the ensuite bathroom was open. The floor was
covered with a thick magnolia carpet, and in the centre, at the foot of the king-sized bed, was a white rug. Adjacent to the bathroom door was a white, ornate, dressing table, filled with containers of cream and other cosmetics. It looked antique. Two large pictures adorned another wall: one was a landscape - a rugged sea shore - and the other was a photograph of the Hutchinsons, posing by the ocean. Six smaller, black and white portraits were on the wall above the dresser. A large LCD TV screen was attached to the wall opposite the foot of the bed. There was another door on the wall by the headboard: the door was open, and the detectives could see it was a walk-in closet. On the fourth wall was a large, ornate mirror, next to which were the bedroom windows, their curtains still closed.

  A man came out of the bathroom and addressed Leroy. ‘Morning, Sam, Ray. You guys drew the short straw, then?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Leroy replied to Russell Hobson, one of the City’s MEs, and an old friend.

  ‘Come and look at the victims,’ said Hobson. ‘I hope you’ve not had breakfast yet.’

  Leroy looked over at the bed. The bedclothes must have been originally white, or maybe the same magnolia as the carpet. Two bodies lay on the bed. Both seemed in their sixties or early seventies. Both were naked. Both had their hands tied behind their backs. Both had bruises, around their upper bodies and their faces. Both had reddish black circular marks on their bodies and faces. Below the waist and above the knees they were both covered in blood, which had run and soaked into the bedclothes and down onto the magnolia carpet. Putting his hand to his mouth, Leroy peered at the man’s body: through the by now congealing blood, he could make out damage to the man’s genitals.

  ‘Jesus, Russ; what’s happened?’

  ‘What’s happened? Sam - a lot’s happened. They’ve been bound up and beaten up. Or beaten up and bound up - I can’t tell yet. Those circular marks…’

  ‘They look like cigarette burns.’

  ‘Yes, they do. Although probably a large cigar going from the size of them.’

  Leroy sniffed. ‘Can’t smell any smoke.’

  ‘No, neither could I. But if we are talking cigars or cigarettes, then the smell could have dissipated by now.’

  ‘Time of death? And cause of death?’

  ‘Time of death around nine to twelve hours ago, I would say.’

  ‘Early last night, then. Ideas on COD?’

  ‘Now we come to the sick part. As well as being beaten up, tied up and burnt, both had been shot.’

  ‘I noticed his genital area.’

  ‘That’s the tip of the iceberg, Sam. Both had been shot in the anus. The woman had also been shot in the vagina.’

  Leroy looked over at the woman’s body, then to the man’s. ‘And he - don’t tell me: shot in the balls.’

  ‘Virtually castrated.’

  Leroy looked over at Quinn, who had said very little. He looked pale. ‘You okay?’

  Quinn nodded.

  Hobson continued, ‘Now being shot where they were isn’t necessarily fatal, although in the woman’s case it might depend on the angle of the shot and which organs the bullet passes through, and even a man could survive these wounds here, but only with timely medical attention.’

  ‘Which they didn’t get,’ said Leroy.

  ‘No,’ said Hobson. ‘So basically, my preliminary findings are they died of exsanguination.’

  ‘They bled to death.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In a lot of pain.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Quinn ran into the ensuite bathroom. Leroy and Hobson could hear him vomiting.

  Leroy paused for a moment and then said, ‘Well, I’ll wait for your report. Once you’re done with the bodies here, I can get to work.’ He addressed one of the crime scene investigators. ‘How are you guys getting on?’

  The officer took one more photograph of the bodies. ‘We’re almost done with the deceaseds. Once Dr Hobson takes them away, we can get to work on the room.’ He looked over at the bathroom door. Leroy turned to see Quinn standing in the door, wiping his mouth.

  ‘Sorry,’ Quinn said quietly. ‘I don’t know what happened to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Leroy replied. ‘Look, let’s leave Russell and the CSIs to finish; then we can get on with our job.’

  ‘Shall I talk to the maid?’ Quinn asked as they walked downstairs. She was still with the female officer.

  ‘Presently. Let’s get some fresh air.’

  A few moments later, as they stood outside by Quinn’s car, Leroy asked, ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  Quinn nodded. ‘Sorry about that, Sam. I feel so embarrassed.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’d only been in the NYPD a few months. My partner and I got a call about a shooting near Battery Park. It was about three in the morning. We found two guys lying in some bushes, their heads, arms and legs separated from their bodies. I threw up, but not in the bathroom like you. I puked on one of the bodies. Got my balls cut off by the captain for contaminating evidence.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah. Then a couple of years later, at his retirement party, he told me he’d done the same thing as a rookie.’

  Quinn smiled and looked up at the second floor of the house.

  Leroy went on, ‘It’s been a while since even I’ve had anything as bad as that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood.’

  FIVE

  LIEUTENANT PEREZ RUBBED his eyes and drained the last of his coffee from a paper cup, then tossed the empty cup into a trashcan. His hand wavered over the half-eaten chicken and cheese fajita which rested on a napkin lying on his desk. He opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the telephone on his desk.

  ‘Perez,’ he answered. Leroy tilted his head to one side and flashed a glance over to Quinn. Maybe he was imagining it, but ever since Perez was appointed lieutenant, Leroy was sure he was gradually losing his accent.

  ‘I’ll call him back,’ Perez said into the phone. ‘And give me ten minutes. No interruptions.’

  Perez hung up and looked up at Leroy and Quinn. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Where were we? You were telling me about the ME’s report on the Hutchinson murders. The report’s online now; I’ve read through it, but give me your angle, Sam.’

  Leroy cleared his throat. ‘Well, the report confirms what Russell told me at the scene. Both of the victims, Murray Hutchinson and Barbara Hutchinson, died of exsanguination.’

  Perez pulled a face. ‘Yeah. I saw some of the pictures. Was there any blood left inside them?’

  ‘Not much, according to Russell. He did say at the scene that had they - well, had the man received medical attention, he might have survived. They also appeared to have been tortured as well: bruises around the face and torso.’

  ‘Burn marks as well,’ added Quinn.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Perez fiddled with his mouse. ‘Circular, weren’t they? Cigarette?’

  ‘Russell said they were too big to be from a cigarette.’

  ‘Cigar?’ asked Perez.

  Leroy nodded.

  ‘What are your thoughts on motive?’ the lieutenant asked.

  ‘Well, it couldn’t have been robbery,’ replied Leroy. ‘Right there in the bedroom, behind the mirror, was a wall safe. It hadn’t been touched. And it looks as if the perpetrators were at the house some time.’

  ‘No signs of forced entry?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘None at all. The house has an alarm, but it wasn’t activated. It looks very much that the Hutchinsons knew their attackers; they certainly let them into the house.’

  Perez frowned and glanced at a sheet of paper on the desk. ‘No staff? Most of the houses in that neighbourhood have staff.’

  ‘They do. They did. A maid - it was the maid who found them in the morning - who works from 7AM to 8PM, and a cook who’s there 7AM to 7PM.’

  ‘So we’re assuming, then, that the perpetrators arrived at the house after eight.’

  Leroy nodded. ‘That’s right. Russell put the time of
death at around eleven last night, so the Hutchinsons must have let them in themselves.’

  ‘If they let them in at that hour, they must have known them,’ said Perez.

  ‘Possibly; or they let them in at gunpoint, maybe.’

  ‘Security cameras? Gates?’

  ‘None, and the property isn’t gated. And, maybe they weren’t in the habit of setting their alarm until they went to bed.’

  ‘They were naked,’ Perez said.

  Quinn answered this time. ‘There was a pile of clothes in the middle of the bathroom, the ensuite bathroom.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Leroy added. ‘Just thrown in, no logic or anything. There was a laundry basket in the corner of their bedroom, so I’m thinking…why weren’t the clothes in there?’

  ‘We think they were told to strip,’ Quinn added.

  Perez rubbed his chin. His hand wavered once more over his fajitas. ‘Was there any sign of sexual assault? The report…’

  ‘There was no sign of foreign DNA or semen on either of them. Anywhere.’

  ‘Hm,’ Perez murmured. ‘I spoke earlier with a contact I have with the Bureau…’

  ‘You spoke to who?’ Leroy asked, indignantly.

  ‘Hold your horses, Sam. I’m not calling them in, and I’m not questioning your abilities in this case; I just wanted to get another point of view on things.’

  ‘O-kay,’ Leroy replied, slowly, now with suspicion in his voice. ‘And what did your contact say?’

  Perez leaned back in his chair. His cell phone bleeped, and he picked it up to check the screen, and then put the phone down again. ‘I asked them about any sexual angle there might have been; you know, with where and how they were both shot.’

  ‘I had some thoughts on that myself,’ Leroy said. ‘So does Ray, here. And remember, I have my own contact there.’

  ‘Yes, of course you do. I’d forgotten. Are you…?’ Perez paused a beat, then continued, ‘Well, anyway, according to my contact, and I have to say it’s also true in my experiences, that the type of injuries that Mr Hutchinson suffered, tend to be inflicted as some kind of sick revenge for a sexual assault, maybe a rape. The fact that he was also shot in the ass would indicate that….well, I don’t need to draw you a picture, do I?’