The Scapegoat, page 13
“All right!”
Coombes unlocked the cuffs and grabbed the handle on the top of the man’s backpack with his left hand in case he took off again.
He didn’t, he was through running.
“Let’s go back to your apartment and have a conversation like regular people.”
19
James Anderson’s apartment smelled like the inside of a sneaker after a long run. Hygiene didn’t appear to be a top priority and it was a solid bet that Sato was the first woman in the apartment since he’d moved in. Coombes resisted an offer to sit on a dirty chair opposite a laptop where Anderson presumably alternated his time between stalking Tremaine and watching pornography with his pants at his ankles.
Anderson was as far from being a buttoned-down officer as it was possible to get, and the only real reason he had remained a person of interest for so long was his personal paranoia and suspicious behavior. A single social media portrait photograph would have been enough, particularly if his teeth were visible.
This Anderson, he realized, had been on the DMV database.
“I knew you’d come for me,” Anderson was saying, staring at his hands. “The outsider always gets blamed. Like Lee Oswald.”
A large gray bird sat in a cage in the corner of the room and he went over to take a look. Coombes didn’t like birds being kept as pets. The practice of keeping something that could fly in a small prison was plainly wrong, even a child could see that. The bottom of the cage was full of excrement and the bird looked embarrassed about it.
He turned back to Anderson.
“You remember what you were doing May 10th of last year?”
“How am I supposed to remember that? I don’t remember last week.”
Coombes let it go. It was obvious that the man in front of him was not the same person who had taken out three armed men with a fire extinguisher. He saw it now, that person had given a fake name and melted away into the L.A. landscape.
It didn’t matter. The man he wanted was on the other end of a fingerprint on the wine glass he’d just dropped off at the lab.
This guy, was a clown.
“Explain to me your interest in Tremaine.”
The other man came alive at the mention of his hero.
“He speaks to me. Everything he does or says, I relate to or agree with. I feel like I’m not alone anymore, that here’s someone out there just like me. If he can be successful, can become the Governor of California, then I could too. You see?”
“Not really.”
“I know how people look at me. How you look at me. Like I’m something they need to scrape off their shoe. I go outside and I feel two inches tall. Look at that loser, that’s what people think. It’s depressing. Then Harlan has a new podcast or a video, and I feel myself being lifted up. All my problems disappear, I can do anything, achieve anything. I listen to some of his speeches on my cell phone when I’m at the store. I feel 10 feet tall and strong, like I could flip my car over if I wanted.”
“How long have you lived in this apartment?”
The question seemed to startle Anderson out of his daydream.
“About five years.”
“Do you know where Amy Tremaine lives?”
“Why would I?”
“Give me a break, you sell T-shirts and tote bags with her dad’s face printed on them. Why would you do that?”
Anderson frowned, like he didn’t understand the concept of comparison.
“Because Harlan is amazing.”
“So it would surprise you to learn that she has an apartment a couple of minutes’ drive from this location and that she’s been living there for roughly five years?”
Anderson’s eyes opened wide in panic.
“You can’t still think I had anything to do with her…situation?”
Sato was holding a laugh inside, her hand up over her mouth.
“Come off it, Anderson. What would you assume in my position?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t do anything to her.”
“Yesterday morning, where were you?”
“Here. I was working on the website until after 2 a.m. so I slept late. By the time I woke up her abduction was all over the news.”
Coombes wrote this in his notebook and glanced back up.
“Would I be correct in assuming that you were on your own?”
Anderson looked back down at his hands.
“Just me and Jennifer.”
“Jennifer. Who’s that?”
“She’s behind you.”
Coombes glanced back and saw the cage.
“You named the bird Jennifer?”
“I named her after a girl in my school I used to like.”
“Uh-huh. What do you think, Grace?”
“Jennifer’s probably under the floor, it would explain the smell in here.”
Coombes nodded gravely, like he was considering it. Sato was getting good at this, she was spending way too much time with him. Anderson gripped his head in both hands and rocked back and forth for a moment.
“Look. I didn’t do anything to Amy or Elizabeth. Jennifer lives in Phoenix and is married to a dentist that looks like a walrus - I looked her up on Facebook once. If you waste time on me, you’ll be letting the real people get away with the killing and the kidnapping.”
“All right. Let’s say none of this has anything to do with you.”
“Yes.”
Eager, desperate.
“I’m just wondering if there is a single person in the world that knows Tremaine as well as you do. You’re his biggest fan, right?”
“Definitely.”
“And you know, a guy like Tremaine is going to be really pleased with you if you help us get his daughter back. He might take you out on his yacht, or on his private jet. Maybe have you around to his mansion. The two of you could be grilling meat on his back deck with some beers, smoking big cigars together.”
“You really think so?”
“He’d totally do that,” Grace said.
“You would probably get on the news, maybe even some chat shows. The man that saved Amy. This could be it for you, James, your chance at the big time. They’d make movies about it, you could write Tremaine’s biography. You’d be all set.”
Anderson’s eyes were bright.
“What do I have to do?”
“We’ve seen your website. You’ve taken a lot of photographs. Tremaine doing this, Tremaine doing that. I bet you’ve got a bunch of photographs that you haven’t uploaded. Hundreds, maybe thousands of images. I’m thinking maybe you got a picture of our suspect on one you didn’t use. Someone that’s been hanging around recently, acting suspiciously.”
A sour look came over Anderson.
“Three weeks ago, I was in Brentwood taking pictures of Harlan welcoming guests for a charity lunch. This guy appears out of nowhere and stabs me in the leg with a long, thin blade. It was agony. I fell on the ground and my best lens broke. It was worth five and a half thousand dollars. He told me to leave Tremaine alone. Said if I didn’t, he’d kill me.”
“Can you describe him?”
“I can do better than that. His name is Nathan Marks, he was Harlan’s head of security when he was governor. He’s a total psycho. The next day, I was served paperwork that said I couldn’t go within 200 feet of Harlan. I assumed the two events were connected, that Marks was back inside the tent. That he was feeding Harlan a line of shit about me. It’s what he did last time.”
“Last time?”
“Last time he worked for Harlan.”
Coombes thought about it.
Tremaine claimed he carried a weapon in case Anderson came at him. He claimed he’d felt safer before, when he had his own security guy, presumably Marks. If he’d re-hired Marks it didn’t seem likely that he would have made either statement.
He took out his cell phone and brought up the picture he’d shown Finley, the man trailing Amy Tremaine.
“Is this Nathan Marks?”
“That’s him.”
No hesitation, no doubt.
Coombes had been doing this a long time. The picture was terrible, Anderson should’ve taken a longer look. He’d glanced at it, then looked straight back into his eyes. It felt off. Like he said it was Marks because he wanted it to be.
Because he didn’t like Marks.
“Show me where you got stabbed.”
“I’d have to take my jeans down.”
“James, we’re trying to save a woman’s life, you want my partner to avert her eyes? She’s seen a man’s leg before.”
Anderson sighed then unbuckled his belt and lowered his jeans. A fabric dressing was wrapped around his left thigh. The dressing looked dirty from years of use and there were multiple blood stains on it from where the wound had leaked through and been re-applied.
“Take off the fabric.”
Reluctantly, he did so. The wound was real and badly discolored. Anderson wasn’t lying about being stabbed.
Coombes moved closer and angled his head for a better look. His nostrils filled with the smell of dried blood and with the sweet-sour smell of decay.
It wasn’t poor hygiene he and Sato were detecting in the room, it was rotting flesh.
“Before I joined the LAPD, I was in the Army. I say that to give you some context. To let you know I have experience and that I’m not bullshitting with what I say next. Your wound is infected, James, and you need immediate medical treatment from a professional.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“No, it won’t. Either you lose the leg, or you’ll get sepsis and die.”
Anderson looked at him like he was expecting a joke and when one wasn’t coming, he swore.
“That son of a bitch.”
Behind him the bird kicked off.
“Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!”
A talking bird. Maybe he should interview Jennifer.
“Get some stuff together, we’re taking you to the closest emergency room.”
Anderson seemed to deflate; his fight gone. He nodded meekly, then re-wrapped his dirty bandage and pulled up his jeans.
Coombes had come here ready to kill James Anderson and instead he was probably going to save his life. While they were waiting for Anderson to pack some clothes, Sato poured birdseed through the bars of the cage until it was piled up. As she did this, the bird pooped copiously into the tray below.
Homicide, it was a laugh a minute.
20
They took Anderson to the Good Samaritan hospital on Wilshire Boulevard and walked him inside. Coombes believed James Anderson would likely take off without being seen by a doctor, so they sat with him until he was, a process that removed 40 minutes from their day. When he came out with Sato the sky was half-dark and the sun was sitting low on the horizon, behind any building it could find.
He crossed the 110 on 4th Street, then turned on Main toward the PAB.
The miss-step with Anderson had cost them a lot of time, time Amy Tremaine could ill afford. Coombes thought about her again in that tank of water, doubtless believing her captors were trying to kill her. She’d pushed through her fear and shown strength and determination, something he couldn’t stop admiring.
“Why do you suppose Nathan Marks let Anderson live? He had to know that he would be recognized and could place him near Tremaine before the kidnapping.”
Coombes was quiet for a beat, the car moving slowly along.
“I think we can assume Marks is the man who did the hero act at the animal hospital. He takes those guys out then calmly waits for police to arrive. The two facts together - the being a hero and the waiting - means no one looked too hard at his story. He’s out for a run, so he’s not carrying ID. So he says his name is James Anderson because the guy’s been annoying him for years. He doesn’t know Anderson’s address so he makes something up.”
“Which is why the D.A. couldn’t find him, but that doesn’t-”
“Well, I was getting to that. I think Marks plans to frame him, knowing that Tremaine will instantly believe it. Anderson’s practically been setting himself up as a patsy the whole time he’s been stalking the former governor. As we know, he made a perfect suspect.”
“But for that to work…” her voice trailed off; the thought left unfinished.
It didn’t matter, he knew how it went.
For that to work, Amy Tremaine had to die. If she was alive, she would clear Anderson and identify Marks. It didn’t mean she was dead already, it just meant that the kidnappers would have no use for her after they got their money.
As he entered the parking garage, Sato turned to him.
“I’m beat, Johnny. You mind if I take off?”
“Not at all.”
She pointed to a vehicle coming up on their left.
“This is me here.”
Coombes came to a halt. The question was on her face before she asked it.
“Are you okay? You’ve been distant all day.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
His voice came out hard and angry. Sato’s eyebrows lifted.
“This about us?”
“No, we’re good.”
She nodded, then got out the car and walked around the front without glancing back. Grace Sato wore flat shoes and had a muscular walk like she was ready to kick a man in the nuts. He smiled at the idea, then put the Dodge in gear and pulled slowly away.
When he got to his desk there was no email or telephone message identifying the wineglass fingerprint from Walton’s secret apartment. This came as a disappointment rather than a surprise, as the lab had only received it about four hours earlier.
There were a number of emails from Mark Becker detailing his probe of Tremaine’s charity foundation. Becker didn’t mess about, his investigation was root and branch. Starting from the foundation’s website he had built outward, analyzing first beneficiaries, then frequent donors.
Of particular note, was a crossover with the last case they’d worked together, a serial killer known as the Ferryman. An auction of rare goods and memorabilia for a children’s charity where a pair of shoes worn by the killer had been bought. There was no link to the current case, but it had got Becker thinking about criminal connections and he had begun feeding names of donors through the NCIC database.
On the face of it, a fishing expedition carried out by a bored detective on desk duty with nothing else to do. So far, Becker was about halfway through the list of names and had already landed fourteen hits. The fish seemed small so far, but it was promising enough to let Becker continue, see what else turned up.
Coombes closed his email and sat for a moment looking at a stack of envelopes sitting on his desk. He’d been out all day and had missed the mail. He saw a thick envelope on top of the pile made from an expensive-looking light green board. It would be paperwork from the District Attorney related to an upcoming trial that was due to begin in just over a fortnight.
He decided that could wait another couple of days and took out his notebook and re-read his notes from the Anderson interview. He’d written delusional? on the top right-hand corner of the page and circled it.
The doctor at Good Samaritan had told him he’d probably saved Anderson’s life, but that wouldn’t mean much if he went after Tremaine later.
Saving Anderson made him responsible.
That brought him to Nathan Marks.
The positive ID was tainted by the source due to his personal dealings with Marks, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
He opened his browser and ran a search on Google.
There were hundreds of thousands of results. It always amazed him how many hits Google reported, but he knew there would be a lot of false matches or irrelevant part-matches that were worthless. He saw that Nathan had his own website and clicked on it.
The home page had a photograph of Marks standing next to Tremaine outside a building he didn’t recognize, doubtless in Sacramento. The photograph was taken from across a street and showed both men full-length with a couple of feet of sidewalk below and three feet of building above.
Coombes moved his face up to the screen to zoom in.
Marks was looking toward the camera as if he’d spotted a potential threat, while the governor had his right arm up, holding a cell phone to his ear. It looked like a photograph taken by a newspaper photographer, except the quality wasn’t quite good enough. A friend had taken it, he thought. Or maybe James Anderson, the memory card confiscated by Marks seconds after it was shot.
The face-on shot of Marks was perfect for facial recognition, but it was hard to compare it to the side-on kidnapping footage. That said, Marks was at least a 70% match for Coombes and he could see why Anderson would so quickly identify him.
He sat back and took in both men again.
Harlan Tremaine was six foot two inches tall, an inch and half shorter than himself. In the picture, Tremaine and Marks were the same height. This made him at the top end of Becker’s height estimation for the kidnapper, but still within the ballpark.
This was his guy, he was sure of it.
The picture was eight years old, the 30% difference was easily explained by the time elapsed and by the angle of the drone camera. Coombes began clicking through the website, looking for a more up-to-date picture of Marks, but there were none.
Text on the website was small and filled with corporate security waffle that was of no interest to Coombes and he quickly began to skim, then abandon. It was clear that there had been no updates to the site in years. This in itself meant nothing. Everyone thought they needed their own website, but few realized what a cross they were making for themselves just in terms of security updates, even before you consider new content.
Anderson’s website had consumed his whole life.
He flipped over to Facebook.
Social media required no maintenance from the user and new content was simple to upload. There was no bar you had to reach, you could upload a picture of your dinner or a cat, no-one would consider that unprofessional or irrelevant.
Nathan Marks had posted nothing in four years.
He still listed his employment as Head of Security, Governor of California. After leaving Tremaine’s side, Marks had posted nothing anywhere online. It was as if he was unable to cope with losing a once in a lifetime job and gone into hiding.
