The Scapegoat, page 12
“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
“All right. Hey, how did you get my number anyway?”
“A magician never reveals his secrets.”
Coombes disconnected.
He had what he needed, everything else was noise.
“Their investigation is stalled,” Sato said.
“No kidding.”
Above, a traffic light changed on them and their slow crawl came to a halt.
It was beginning to look like Walton set up the kidnapping scheme using men she picked up on dates to fund a lavish lifestyle and a view over Los Angeles that was second-to-none. There were a couple of problems with this theory that needed to be sorted out.
To begin with, Elizabeth Walton’s murder in the former governor’s house.
Her killer appeared to have bypassed a $28,000 alarm system and removed all trace of himself from security cameras. This seemed like a lot of extra work if he was a guest at her apartment just days beforehand with plenty of opportunity to kill her there.
The most logical explanation, was that the killer changed his timescale after his chance meeting with Adam Finley in the parking garage. Being the last person seen with a victim was a fast track to a prison cell.
By killing her later, Finley’s role changed from being an eyewitness to a dark alibi. When questioned, the killer would admit to visiting Walton’s apartment but would point to the fact that she’d been alive after he left.
Having an opportunity to kill her and not taking it was his alibi.
It was hardly airtight, but the defense would doubtless be able get Finley to repeat his claims about Walton’s love life and the frequency of male guests at her apartment. Each one, a possible killer. The sexual appetites of those close to the top of society was pure catnip for juries and was a lot more interesting than the science of fingerprints.
He noticed Grace was smiling, the evidence bag held carefully in her hands.
“You know if he admits being in her apartment, that glass proves nothing.”
“I don’t believe that and neither do you. This gets us to the next screen.”
“The next screen?”
“Don’t be a fossil, Coombes. Like a computer game.”
He nodded. A fossil. There was plenty there to dig into, but instead he chose to see her point.
The fingerprint evidence would confirm the identity of their killer one way or another and be enough for a warrant to search his address. If Amy Tremaine was locked in his basement, it wouldn’t matter if he had left Walton alive in her apartment.
His train of thought returned to its previous track. Taking Amy by necessity meant killing Elizabeth Walton, which in turn meant the end of the lucrative dog kidnapping business.
This, he understood.
Even in L.A., the pool of potential targets was going to become exhausted pretty quickly.
If the dog caper had come to its natural end, then some form of diversification was going to be necessary. A crew like the one he’d witnessed on the drone camera would always migrate from easy low-value targets, to difficult high-value ones.
Unless they were stopped, Amy Tremaine would not be the last victim. His cell phone rang.
“Coombes.”
“John, it’s Mark. Are you on your way in?”
“No. We’re fairly certain we’ve got the son of a bitch’s fingerprints on a wine glass so we’re running it directly to the lab ourselves.”
“That’s good news, brother. Well done.”
“Yeah. You got something?”
“I’ve got Anderson’s address if you’re interested.”
Coombes smiled so hard he felt his cheeks become tight.
“Today’s getting better and better. How did you manage that?”
“I got it through his website.”
Coombes felt himself deflate.
No kidnapper worth their salt was going to put their name on a website where it could be found by law enforcement. It went against logic, never mind his working theory as to why he could find no photographs of Anderson online. That he was smart and methodical.
“He has his postal address on his website?”
“Not exactly. I got it from his domain name. Actually, truth be told, Gonzalez did. She was always the technically-minded one. You remember my old partner, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, when Anderson registered his website domain, he didn’t check a privacy option so all his contact details are right there. It also listed a company which I assume he owns, although I’ve not done anything with that yet.”
Traffic was moving well and he’d coasted through a couple of yellow lights. They were already on Los Angeles Street, approaching 3rd.
“They just list all that online? You don’t need a warrant?”
“Oh yeah. It’s called a whois lookup. The internet used to be a free and open system remember, now people want their privacy on account of all the crazies.”
“No kidding,” Coombes said. “What’s the name of his company?”
“Sequoia & Main. Weird name if you ask me.”
Coombes smirked.
“Do you know what a Sequoia is?”
“Yeah, it’s a huge tree. Oh. Tremaine, I hadn’t got that.”
“Send me the address and we’ll head there next.”
“You got it, John.”
18
James Anderson lived in a run-down apartment building off Beverly Boulevard between a 24-hour launderette and a pawn shop. The structure had the charm of a state penitentiary but what Coombes found most interesting was that this squalid box lay less than a mile from Amy Tremaine’s apartment overlooking MacArthur Park.
Coombes parked on the opposite side of the street where they could see the entrance and killed the engine.
He opened the door and waited for Sato to walk around the front of the Dodge so that they could cross over together. It was just after 3 p.m. and traffic on the street was in a lull period.
They got across quickly and were inside Anderson’s apartment building less than thirty seconds later. The apartment was on the third floor, and although it was pretty much a toss-up time-wise, they took the elevator as it was the most likely way for a resident to travel. He didn’t want to miss Anderson by taking the stairs.
The hallway on three was poorly lit and dirty.
It felt like something bad had happened there, or was about to. Coombes felt a steady increase in his heart rate as they moved towards Anderson’s apartment. There were dark marks on the wall and floor that looked a lot like cast-off blood. He silently pointed to them with his left hand and Sato nodded grim-faced.
He drew his Glock as he closed the last few feet.
What they were doing here was the exact opposite of what he’d told Tremaine was the best course of action about trailing a suspect back to where Amy was secured. Instinct told him they were against the clock and that she didn’t have much time left.
They were at Anderson’s door now.
Sato moved past, so that she was on the far side of the door, the hinge side. When the door opened, she’d be hidden for longest.
Coombes put his head against the surface of the wood and covered his outer ear. Silence. No TV, no radio, no music. Not even an air conditioner.
He gave the door a cop knock with the base of his fist, pounding hard enough to flex the wood.
“LAPD! Open the door!”
His heartbeat was around one forty and the hairs on his arms were standing on end. In his head, Coombes imagined kicking the door down and shooting the creep until he dropped.
He was ready for it, he had to be.
Forward-thinking reduced reaction time. Decisions had already been made, all that was left was aiming. He pounded on the door harder than ever and shouted loud enough to fill the building.
“Last chance, Anderson! Open the door!”
He placed his head against the door again, hoping Anderson didn’t have a shotgun ready on the other side. No muffled calls for help, no distressed thumps, no tinkle of breaking glass. Nothing. After the noise he’d made, the silence came back louder than ever.
He looked at Sato. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think he’s in.”
He let a couple of seconds drift by. “Me neither.”
Coombes re-holstered his weapon and Sato did the same. His body was jacked up on adrenalin and it felt good. His vision was turned up to 11, everything was enhanced. The grain of the wood on Anderson’s door, the specks of dust hanging in the gloomy air of the hallway, the slight gap between Sato’s lips.
“Let’s check if his vehicle is outside.”
“Something wrong with my mouth, Johnny?”
“Not a damn thing.”
Grace smiled as they walked back down the hallway. The elevator hadn’t moved and the doors opened when he pressed the button. They got on and rode it to the first floor in silence.
There was plenty of street parking, which was just as well as the apartment building had no dedicated lot. According to Becker’s latest information, Anderson owned a pale blue VW Beetle that had entered the world six years before Coombes had been born.
The distinctive profile of the old bug made it an easy vehicle to spot even with the number of bulky SUVs that were now in use. Anderson’s Beetle wasn’t there. He should’ve checked when they arrived.
Coombes looked at his watch. 3:20 p.m.
If Anderson had gone out for lunch, he should be back by now. He was self-employed so they had no other location to check. A possibility, was that he was wherever he had Amy Tremaine secured. It stood to reason that he wasn’t holding her in his apartment and walking her up and down public hallways and elevators. He’d have her in a disused warehouse, or a storm drain. Somewhere close enough to be handy, but not personally linked to him if she was discovered.
“What do you think, Johnny? Come back later, or sit and wait?”
“Let’s wait for a bit.”
They got back into the Dodge and an awkward silence fell on them.
Stakeouts were boring and it always seemed to him like time moved slower on a stakeout when he had company. On his own he could let his mind drift but the presence of another person meant he had to split his attention between them and whatever he was watching.
He considered telling her about catching his wife with the lawyer, then wondered why he hadn’t told her already. It wasn’t a conversation he knew how to start.
Coombes checked his watch again. 3:32.
They couldn’t sit and wait all day like a private investigator, yet he could think of no shortcut. There was insufficient probable cause to enter Anderson’s apartment, or ping his cell phone location. That’s where the wineglass fingerprints would come in.
Going away and coming back later stood no more chance of finding Anderson since he could return and leave again within the unobserved window. They had, in any case, no other leads. Anything they needed to run down at the PAB they could get Becker to do for them remotely.
Waiting for anything could be a trap. You became reluctant to give up on something on account of all the time you had already invested in it. If you gave up, that time was all wasted. On the other hand, the amount of time you’d spent there surely took you closer to your goal. Whatever it was Anderson was doing, he had to be closer to being finished.
Coombes again imagined Anderson checking up on Amy Tremaine. Perhaps taking her some lunch and some bottled water. There were worse things he could be doing to Amy; she was a beautiful woman. Coombes blocked those thoughts out.
He turned to Sato and saw she was looking at him with a foxy expression.
“You want to make out to help pass the time?”
She smiled sweetly, like butter wouldn’t melt.
“Grace, you’re a class act.”
“I’ll take that as a maybe.”
He nodded and turned to face the street again. One thing was for sure, Sato was a lot easier to resist when he wasn’t looking at her.
It was possible that Anderson no longer lived here and that there was nothing at the end of the wait, no matter how long it was. A change of address might be a smart move before kidnapping Tremaine’s daughter.
Coombes decided they’d wait until 4. No later. An absolute deadline. If Anderson wasn’t back by then, he’d try something else. There was a contact form on his website, perhaps they could lure him out with the promise of an interview with Harlan Tremaine.
The street was getting busier now and more of the parking spots were filling up. The nearest space to the apartment was now a block away.
At 4:05 they were still there and, two minutes later, the pale blue Beetle drove past. It sounded like a Zeppelin and it was trailing a cloud of smoke. Anderson drove slowly down the line of parked cars. A gray Toyota pulled out and Anderson was able to get a space only thirty feet from the apartment entrance. Sato reached for the door release.
“Wait! Not yet.”
Anderson came around to the side of his car and opened the passenger door. He pulled out a backpack which he put over both shoulders, then picked up three bags of groceries and closed the door with his ass. He locked it awkwardly with a key, then started along the sidewalk with his hands full of purchases. Anderson’s head was darting around nervously.
“What are we waiting for, Johnny?”
“For him to be separated from his vehicle. I don’t want this to become a car chase.”
Anderson was almost at the front entrance to his apartment building now.
“Let’s do this,” Coombes said.
They opened the doors of the Dodge at the same time. Diagonally across the street, Anderson caught the movement and his head snapped around, locking on to them. There was a crash and Anderson turned and ran back down the sidewalk.
“Shit. He’s rabbiting.”
Traffic moved between them, preventing him from crossing. Coombes pulled his gun out and two cars came to an abrupt halt, allowing them to cross. They ran across the road, between parked vehicles to where Anderson’s groceries lay spread out on the sidewalk.
Anderson was almost back to the Beetle.
Coombes sprinted after him, adrenalin flooding back into his system. With his long legs, he quickly left Sato behind, chewing up the distance to Anderson.
The other man had his car keys out and was trying to get them into the lock. No central unlocking on the old bug. Anderson glanced at him and then at the slow line of cars coming down the street.
If he got in the car, he’d be trapped there.
Anderson ran on down the sidewalk.
He had an odd faltering run. He bobbed up, and to the side, up and to the side. Coombes quickly closed on him. 30 feet. 20. He could almost smell him moving in front of him. The backpack had a handle on top, between Anderson’s shoulder blades.
Coombes focused on the handle. That was the best way to grab Anderson, no doubt at all.
A large man appeared out of a doorway directly between them and Coombes was unable to avoid hitting him, falling onto the concrete. His gun spun out his hand against a car tire. The large man remained standing, his eyes fixed on the Glock.
“Sorry,” Coombes said to the other man.
He picked up his gun and took off again.
Anderson had opened up a huge lead and had reached the end of the block. He took the cross street toward 6th Street. He focused on the spot where Anderson had turned out of sight and lost himself to the pursuit.
Ignoring the traffic to the right, analyzing the sidewalk for future obstacles, the regular thump of his shoes on the concrete.
By the time he got to the cross street, he’d halved the distance between them. Anderson kept glancing back, that was his mistake. It didn’t matter what he did, Coombes knew the result would be the same.
He was a faster runner, with longer legs. A head start had only hidden what should have been obvious to Anderson from the very beginning.
They were two parked cars apart now.
Anderson’s left leg was hurting, it had to be the way he was running.
They were picking up speed as Grand View dipped down onto 6th Street. MacArthur Park sat directly across from them. Traffic was well-spaced giving them clear sight of the sidewalk on the far side.
An invitation Anderson was intent on accepting.
Coombes grabbed the handle of Anderson’s backpack just as he stepped out on the road and yanked him backward. A bus steamed past in the space where Anderson would’ve been, sucking the air away from both of them. He got Anderson on the ground and roughly cuffed him behind his back, his face pressed into the sidewalk.
James Anderson was panting, his face sweating.
“I know what this is, but you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“You sure got a funny way of showing that, Anderson.”
Coombes looked up and saw Sato running toward them. Her cheeks were flushed, her hips were twisting from side to side, and her suit jacket was fanned open to show her tight-fitting white shirt and her gun holster.
It was the hands-down best thing he’d seen all week.
He grabbed the other man by the left arm and pulled him to his feet. Anderson’s teeth were all going in different directions, like tombstones in an old graveyard.
Close up, he did not look like the man in the security video. Probably, he didn’t look like him from any distance, but he’d been too busy trying to catch him to notice. He glanced at Anderson’s wrist and saw an old metal Casio.
No field watch, no NATO strap.
“I didn’t kidnap that woman. That’s why you’re here, right? Because of Amy?”
“That’s right. If it wasn’t you then why did you run?”
“Because you’re cops, man!”
It wasn’t the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. In fact, he’d heard it before.
“We need to talk, Anderson. If I uncuff you, are you going to run away again?”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“I’m not running after you again. I’m wearing my best suit. I’m just going to shoot you next time. Okay?”
