The Dark Halo, page 11
A bar came up on his left and he walked inside.
The interior was dark and it suited his mood just fine. He made his way to the front and sat on one of the bar stools. It was polished leather, and it was still warm from the last occupant. He folded a twenty-dollar bill lengthwise and held it out between thumb and forefinger, waiting for the bartender to notice him. There was a mirror behind the bar and he stared at himself in it. He didn’t look good; it was no wonder he wasn’t getting served. Stubble, wild hair, crazy eyes. Same as it ever was. He used his free hand to get his hair pointing in the right direction. A television was mounted high up on the bar, angled directly at where he was sitting. A sports channel. He sighed. At least it was muted.
Coombes thought about Julie not being at the gym. On its own, it meant nothing. Something might’ve come up, a friend needing help. A flat tire. She could’ve just been in the gym’s locker room, or in the showers. More likely, she’d actually told him she wasn’t going to the gym and he hadn’t been listening. Rebecca’s trip to Vegas could’ve been a last-minute surprise by her husband, causing Julie to change her plans.
Causing her to forget her cell phone.
Behind him the doors clattered open again.
Coombes glanced around and saw the brunette standing framed in the doorway. She paused for a beat, eyes searching for him in the dark. He recognized her; she wasn’t IA, she was a journalist. Not one of the main players, some kind of junior position. Always on the periphery, watching. Hungry for a case that would launch her career, which explained why she was following him. She saw him and gave no reaction to the fact that he’d seen her, walking straight over and sliding onto the stool next to his, like they were old friends.
“Mind if I sit here?”
“And if I say yes?”
She gave a small laugh.
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’m wearing a push-up bra and a low-cut top.”
Coombes glanced at her and nodded. She was, as advertised.
“I feel like I owe you dinner and a movie and we just met.”
“You’re kind of old fashioned, huh?”
He knew old fashioned was code for sexist, or worse.
The bartender came over and stood in front of the brunette, ignoring him. The journalist asked for a double vodka on the rocks and a drink suitable for a Neanderthal. When the drinks came, she gave the bartender the folded twenty from between his fingers and told her to keep the change. The woman didn’t check if that was okay with him, or thank him for the tip. Coombes took a sip from his Bud, his gaze fixed on the brunette’s reflection in the mirror.
“I’m curious if you want me to hit on you and try to get the information that way, or if you’re going to be up front and introduce yourself like a professional.”
“You recognize me.”
“I’ve seen you about.” He shrugged. “We get our coffee in the same place.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
She wasn’t embarrassed. People who said they were embarrassed never were.
“How about we start over,” he said.
“Monica Sullivan, LA Times.”
“No comment.”
She laughed again. “You’re funny, I didn’t expect that.”
Coombes left that alone, his eyes returning to the television above the bar. He didn’t feel funny. He felt the opposite of funny, whatever that was. His wife was having an affair, he was in no doubt. He wondered if this was the first time, or simply the first time he’d noticed. Things hadn’t been right for a long time; he’d known it and done nothing.
The TV was showing an ice hockey game. He’d never taken any interest in the sport before, but the presence of the journalist made now seem like a good time to check it out. After a couple of minutes, commercials came on.
“You know it was insulting being ignored when hockey was on, but now they’ve cut to commercials I’m getting pissed off.”
“I didn’t come here looking for company, quite the reverse.”
“Tell me about the coins.”
Coombes forced himself not to react. He stared at his drink, wishing he’d stayed home. It was bad news that she’d uncovered the coins, but it was no great surprise either as they had been mentioned in daily briefings to cops all over the city. It was almost Christmas and cops had gifts to buy same as anybody else.
“You know I can’t comment on an active investigation.”
“All right, but I already know about the coins. We’re going to run the story anyway, with or without you.”
“And I suppose nothing will convince you to sit on it?”
“The information’s out there to be found, Coombes. If I don’t publish it, someone else will. A journalist, or some fearless blogger wearing sweatpants in their bedroom. You know the score, there’s no sitting on information anymore.”
“So, what do you need from me?”
“I need to know what he does with them.”
“With the coins?”
“Yes.”
Coombes took another drink from his beer, an idea forming in his head. Perhaps they could help each other out. As she’d stated, they were going to run with it anyway, he couldn’t stop that, but he could do something. Add a twist they could use to filter out copycats and fakes. He turned to face her and saw for the first time how attractive she was close up. Sullivan had her eyes wide, her body leaning in like she was interested in him.
“Whatever I say is off the record, right? I can’t be a source.”
Her eyes twinkled. “We can do that.”
She leaned in even closer, her mouth parted like she was ready for a kiss. Her lip gloss made her mouth glisten in the semi-dark of the bar. Coombes guessed a lot of men fell for her act, maybe some women too. He spoke softly, so that no one overheard.
“He puts the coins on their eyes.”
The reporter nodded, a blush spreading across her cheeks.
“Of course.”
He frowned, his mind trying to make the same connection.
“Because of the eye on the dollar bill?”
“No, no. In ancient Greek literature, coins were placed on the eyes of the dead to pay Charon to transport them across to the otherworld.”
“Ahh. My knowledge of ancient Greece is a little spotty.”
She smirked. “I’m sure.”
“Did the Greeks ever place coins anywhere else?”
Like on hotel nightstands, he thought morosely.
“Sometimes on the mouth, or inside the mouth.”
“And you know all this how?”
Sullivan said nothing and tilted her head to one side. She was still flirting with him. Perhaps she liked the feeling of control it gave her, or maybe it was just habit. She was wasting her time; she wasn’t his type. Yet, he reflected, he was talking to her. If a male reporter had approached him like this, he would have told that reporter to get lost.
“This Sharon, who was she?”
She smiled. Her teeth were perfect.
“Charon with a C. He was the Ferryman.”
He got a flash of an old movie. A figure on a boat crossing sea taking coins with a skeletal hand. It was too bad he’d made the whole thing up, it worked well. It was the kind of lie that would survive the truth. When a detail like that was strong enough, it didn’t matter what would come later, nobody would want to believe it.
“Want a word of advice, Coombes?”
“And if I say no?”
She swatted that away like a fly.
“Shave. Brush your hair. Better yet, get a haircut. The shorter the better, this isn’t the 60s. Nothing longer than an inch, you’d suit it. There’s a nice face under there, the kind of face you could make room for in your life.”
“You sound like my lieutenant. The first part anyway.”
Sullivan slid off her bar stool and emptied her untouched vodka down the back of her throat. He watched her larynx pulse up and down as she swallowed, her crotch pressed casually against his knee. He realized she was his type after all. She put the glass down on the bar and smiled, their eyes locked together.
“There you are, and just as I’m leaving.”
She pressed against him harder than ever. The heat from her body restored him.
“What if I have more questions about ancient Greece?”
Her smile turned into a half-snarl.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You are a detective after all.”
He liked her better like this, when she needed nothing from him. He supposed he liked all women better that way. Strong, independent. If someone who didn’t need you spent time with you, it meant something. Of course, she wasn’t spending time with him. Now that she had what she wanted, she was leaving. He wasn’t sure he didn’t find that attractive too.
“I’ll see you around, Sullivan.”
“No doubt.”
Coombes watched her walk away and was still looking when she reached the door and turned back, catching him. He knew she was going to look back and felt no shame at being caught. In his opinion, the back was as good as the front. He raised his beer and she smiled again before she continued on through the doors.
In the past, he would have gone after her and made a fool of himself trying to make something happen. But that was a lifetime ago and he’d learned his lesson.
Besides, he had a beer to finish and it had cost him 20 bucks.
16
It took Coombes almost two and a half hours to find the problematic areas in the mountain of footage that Jake Curtis had provided. Twenty days before Curtis took his long rest on the floor, he was doing lines of coke off the underage girl’s glistening bare chest with a rolled-up $100 bill. It looked like a scene from one of Pacific Pictures’ retro action movies, and he thought that was pretty much what it was.
In real life, cocaine sticks to sweat and begins to dissolve, something that immediately happened in the footage. Curtis laughed and began to lick the dusting of the drug he’d left behind. Coombes shook his head. Not only was the scene offensive to him given her age, it was clumsy and over-the-top. He noticed Sato silently watching his screen.
“What are you thinking, Grace?”
“He’s acting out for the camera.”
“Agreed, but to what end? Maybe that’s why he had the cameras put in. To record all his conquests. Dollars to doughnuts he’s got a folder of the good stuff saved away somewhere.”
Sato ignored this; her attention fixed on the screen.
The underage girl was Tammy Watkins, a student from a wealthy family in Pasadena. She was petite, and when she wasn’t giggling, she was talking. It seemed to Coombes that words never stopped tumbling out of her mouth, and every one of them was drivel. He’d muted the playback pretty quickly. It was obvious to him that she was underage and, in his opinion, it didn’t even look close. She looked fifteen. Curtis’ claim that he didn’t know her true age, while not a legal defense, wasn’t even credible based on the video.
“How old would you say she looks?”
Grace shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“She looks underage, doesn’t she?”
“How old would you say I looked, Johnny?”
Coombes felt his face turn scarlet and he turned to face her.
“What?”
“I’m not too big myself. Breast size does not indicate age.”
“Look at her. She’s wearing no makeup yet her lips are red, her cheeks flushed.”
“Yeah? So are yours.”
“Come on. I wasn’t-”
“Fuck that. Say something nice to me right now or we’re done.”
He wasn’t sure how this had become about her, or what it meant that it had. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching but the detective bureau was quiet. He beckoned her closer and spoke softly.
“Grace, if I had footage like this of you, I’d keep it forever. I’d erase my wedding pictures to make room for it. You’re perfect, okay? Absolutely stunning.”
She laughed, her hand up over her mouth. He’d shocked her and she’d liked it. It was there in the light of her eyes, the continued proximity of her body. For whatever reason, the case was changing the way they were together and he couldn’t say why.
“One day, Johnny, that mouth’s going to get you in a lot of trouble.”
“I think that ship’s sailed.”
Coombes liked the way she was looking at him and he turned back to the screen before it became obvious to her. In Jake Curtis’s bedroom, Tammy was now drinking from a can of beer. It was the final thing he’d been waiting for, providing alcohol to a minor, and he made a note of the time so he could find it again if he needed to.
He tilted his head over to the side, thinking.
“What is it?” Grace said.
“The way this camera system is set up, each camera records a single file all day. Midnight to midnight, right? As far as I can tell, everything that was waved under his deal with the District Attorney is on this file. All there is on the other cameras are shots of this girl arriving, sitting next to the pool sunbathing, and leaving again. Nothing illegal. There isn’t even an angle of them going into the bedroom on any of the other cameras.”
“You’re saying he only needed to delete one file?”
Coombes shook his head.
“No. If he deleted it, there’d be a gap. We’d know he’d deleted it. What I’m suggesting is kind of the reverse. Remove all the bedroom camera footage from the files he gave us and we’d never know it was missing. We only know there are 16 internal cameras because that’s what he gave us. The bedroom’s not part of his alibi so we’d never get a warrant for it, and if he deleted it no warrant could bring it back anyway.”
“You’re right. So why didn’t he do that?”
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
A silence fell between them.
Curtis had an alibi for the day of Vandenberg’s death, but his alibi stuck in Coombes’ throat. It was a stupid alibi, in his opinion, and it stank. There was something wrong with it, beyond the underage girl. It was too neat, too clever. Rather than make him believe they had the wrong man, it did the opposite. He believed more than ever Jake Curtis was their killer.
Monica Sullivan had published her story about the coins and it had exploded across the media spectrum. The coins changed the mood music for a very simple reason. The killer now had a name, a name he himself was responsible for giving him. It was catchy, and everyone had immediately adopted it.
His phone rang. He paused the video playback. “Coombes.”
“This is Franklin. You got a Walter Ford to see you.”
He frowned. The name didn’t ring a bell.
“Yeah? What’s he want?”
He heard the desk sergeant repeat the question, but he didn’t hear the reply.
“He said to tell you he’s the Ferryman.”
Walter Ford was huge, probably close to seven feet tall and three feet wide. His shoulders tapered up to his thick neck and his arms looked like they could rip Coombes apart. He walked along the corridor swinging from side to side like a bear that had been taught to walk on its hind legs, his head tilted down to avoid the ceiling. Four uniformed officers escorted him, one with his hand resting on his sidearm.
The man was bad news and everyone felt it.
Coombes and Sato hung back while he was led into an interview room, then watched via the camera from the monitor station as he was seated and handcuffed to the table. The giant was placid, without a care in the world. It was a look Coombes had seen before from killers when they confessed. Whatever turmoil had been going on inside their head, they knew it was almost over. Gantz appeared next to them, her eyes wide.
“Jesus, look at the size of him!”
Coombes nodded. “He barely fits behind the table.”
“What do you think, John? Is this our boy?”
“He looks like a killer, but he doesn’t feel right for this.”
“Be careful in there.”
Coombes and Sato filed out, leaving Gantz watching the monitor. They glanced at each other as they put their sidearms in lockers. Normally this didn’t faze him, but he was uncomfortable facing such a big opponent unarmed. Grace was putting on a show, her brave face, so he winked and she flashed a smile at him. They walked into the interview room and closed the door. Ford’s eyes skated right off him to look at Grace.
“You Chinese?”
“I’m American, same as you.”
Ford snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“Okay, Chief, settle down,” Coombes said, sitting opposite Ford. “We’re here to talk business not trade insults, yes?”
The big head swung toward him.
“That’s right. Business.”
“I’m Coombes, this is Sato-”
“I know who you are, I saw you on the news.”
“My wife thinks I look fat on TV, what do you think?”
A frown appeared on Ford’s head, puzzled by the comment. For the first time, Coombes noticed that there was a cut in the skin near Ford’s hairline and his hair was matted down with blood.
“You look the same I guess.”
It was notable that people confessed to crimes, and there were a lot of them, always expected the conversation to be about them and dealt badly when conversation shifted elsewhere. Coombes smiled humorlessly.
“What happened to your head? I see you’ve got an injury.”
“I hit a door. Not the first time.”
“Okay. This is all being recorded, so right off the bat I’ve got to ask you if you want to have a lawyer present, or if you want to waive your rights.”
“I don’t want no lawyer. I’m here to tell you what I did.”
“Tell us about the death of Theodore Sutton.”
