The Scapegoat, page 2
The logical takeaway from her nightdress was that the man had made a noise loud enough to wake her and she’d come to investigate. Probably because of the alarm system, she’d imagined it was Tremaine himself making the noise and had no cause to worry about her safety. Sometimes, he reflected, those who lived a good life lacked the critical imagination required to imagine things taking a turn for the worse.
“Are you mad at me?”
He glanced up at Sato. “For what?”
“For what I said to Tremaine. About shooting him in the face.”
“No. Look, you have nothing to worry about with a guy like Tremaine. He’s not going to report you. If you apologized to him, he’d be disappointed. You showed him what you’re made of and that you’re not afraid of him. He respects that, and so do I.”
“Still. I shouldn’t have said it.”
Coombes said nothing for a moment.
“Aside from his politics, what do you think of him?”
Sato chewed her lip.
“Maybe his foundation does good things, but it’s him, you know?”
“Grace, I’m asking you if you think he’s good for this.”
Her mouth fell open in shock.
“Are you kidding? No. I don’t think that at all.”
If someone who was ready to shoot a potential suspect in the face thought he was innocent, maybe he should listen to them.
An undoubted problem with working in Homicide, was that you saw the worst side of people all the time. After a while, it was easy to believe that it was a fair representation of the wider population.
He felt himself slump. Without caffeine in his system, he was flagging and his mental focus lacked clarity. It was a situation he resolved to fix as soon as possible.
“Let’s take a look at her bedroom.”
They walked into the hallway and into the next room along.
A double bed lay to the right, with a nightstand on either side. The floor was carpeted and he could tell from the wear pattern which side of the bed Walton had used to get in and out. There was a large closet on the wall next to the door, a dressing table and mirror on the left and a window opposite.
He opened the closet and saw a line of fussy, conservative clothing.
Serious clothes, for a serious job. While her nightdress had highlighted every curve of her body, these clothes spoke of nothing but professionalism and confidence in her abilities. Of having no need to leverage her appearance to get what she wanted.
He felt the case against Tremaine begin to dissolve.
If the two were mixing business with pleasure, something Coombes knew a little about, he’d doubtless want her dressed a certain way. Tremaine was a testosterone guy, a guns and ammo guy. He’d want the full cliché.
Behind him, Sato whistled.
He turned and saw she was at the dressing table, with the contents of a clutch purse pulled out in front of her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were alive. Coombes moved closer and she held up Elizabeth Walton’s wallet. There was a clear window inside, showing a California driver’s license. Grace lightly tapped her gloved index finger next to the date of birth. He glanced up at her, surprised.
“Is that right?”
“If it isn’t, it’s the best damn fake I’ve ever seen. Who would even fake being older past the age of 21? Nobody, that’s who.”
“I thought she was in her forties.”
“You and me both,” Sato said.
Elizabeth Walton was 61 years old.
“I hope I look that good when I’m in my sixties,“ he said.
“You don’t look that good now, Johnny.”
“Right.”
He saw an iPhone sitting on a charge mat on Walton’s nightstand. He picked it up and the screen lit up and buzzed. Face ID. He walked through to her office where Walton still lay on the floor awaiting collection. Her tongue was partially sticking out and there were strong petechial hemorrhages in both eyes. Coombes had experienced mixed result trying this before, but he had nothing to lose. He pointed her iPhone at her face and when he turned it back, it was unlocked.
He swiped up, and at the same moment, heard doors slamming outside.
Coombes went to the window and glanced out. Two black Suburbans were now parked in front of his personal vehicle and six suited men were gathered around them. He stepped back from the window and called out to Sato.
“Grace, we’ve got company.”
“Who?”
“FBI.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Whatever you’re doing, nail it down fast.”
He returned to Elizabeth Walton’s cell phone and brought it back to life before it shut off again.
The feds would take the phone, he had to get everything he needed off it now. He saw nothing in Messages or WhatsApp that could lead to Walton being murdered and moved on. Next, he brought up the recent call record and using his own iPhone, photographed several screens’ worth of names or numbers.
Going back to the beginning of the year, there were only calls from three named contacts; Harlan Tremaine, Amy Tremaine, and Cora Roche. He brought up the details for each and took a photograph of their contact information.
The unnamed numbers would all have to be checked, and there were a lot of them. Coombes heard the feds moving through the hallway downstairs, they’d be with him in seconds.
They were looking at the selfie gallery.
He was in the office, which he figured was the first port of call for the agents who would want to see the crime scene, whatever their interest in it might be. He stepped quietly out into the hall and into Walton’s bedroom where Sato was flicking through a leather-bound journal.
Coombes changed apps on Walton’s cell, bringing up her email.
He didn’t need to unlock her laptop to see her email, it was all mirrored onto her cell. There were no threatening subject lines and it appeared that all were work-related. The names of charities were in a lot of them, along with words like fundraiser, gala, evening, or lunch. He photographed the inbox anyway, then put his cell away.
He heard the fast rumble of a man’s voice in the room next door. Something about the energy in it was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
One thing was for sure. his job would be a lot easier if he could take the cell phone with him and give it to the feds if and when they needed it. He muted her iPhone, started a maps navigation to the federal building, and slipped the cell into his pocket. The maps app would keep the screen alive without needing Walton’s face to unlock it again.
“You ready for this?”
Sato nodded. “As much as I’ll ever be.”
3
Four men stood in the home office staring at Walton on the floor. None of them were wearing gloves or shoe protectors, and the vibe was that of four businessmen at an expensive restaurant waiting impatiently for a maître d’ to seat them. One was fat with thinning hair, one had a beard and bushy eyebrows, one looked like he’d just got out of college, and the last had a face as gray as poured concrete.
Coombes figured the fat man was in charge and turned to face him.
“Fellas. I’m Detective-”
The man lifted his palm to cut him off.
“We know who you are. Detective Coombes with an e, formerly of the US Army; Detective Sato, formerly a security officer with the Japanese Consulate. I’m Special Agent in Charge Tobias Henderson and this is my team.”
Henderson didn’t introduce them, there was clearly no point.
Coombes noticed that Eyebrows was almost standing on Walton’s outstretched hand. The lack of respect made him angry.
“This is awkward, Henderson. I never heard of you before.”
The SAC clenched his jaw so hard that a muscle the size of a walnut popped out around his molars.
“All that matters, Coombes, is that we’re taking it from here. You just got started, so I assume that you’ve got nothing. The best possible time for a change.”
He decided to leave that alone for now.
“What’s the Bureau’s interest in this?”
“Amy Tremaine was kidnapped off the street on her way to work.”
Coombes was still for a moment, processing the new information. The two crimes had to be linked, but he couldn’t make the pieces fit. Had the killer come here first looking for Amy?
“I’m going to save you some time, Henderson. We’ve processed this room, the one next door, and the point of entry downstairs. None of it is going to help you with a kidnapping investigation, so how about you get the hell out of my crime scene and tell your friend with the eyebrows not to stand on the corpse on his way out.”
“I don’t take orders from the LAPD, you little punk.”
“And I don’t take orders from Justice. Brentwood isn’t federal land, or a Native American reservation. If you tell me this is national security issue I will laugh in your face and so will the chief. Our turf, our rules.”
Henderson came forward to square-off but he was four inches shorter than Coombes and had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. Behind him, College Boy looked like he was about to start laughing.
“Your chief will be my next call, Coombes, make no mistake.”
“I hope so. Because in exchange for giving you a piece of this, he’ll insist we get a piece of the kidnapping. Joint Task Force. He’s big on the optics of inter-agency cooperation. The two of us shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the TV cameras. Are you ready for that?”
Henderson considered it for a moment. Too long. Any pause was the same as conceding, anybody in the room could’ve told him that but by the time it occurred to the SAC it was too late. A sour flavor seemed to form in Henderson’s mouth before he spoke again.
“All right. You take the homicide; we’ll take the kidnapping.”
“You say that like you’re giving me something. I already had the homicide. I want a background to the kidnapping to eliminate possible avenues from my investigation.”
“Are you high, Coombes? That’s never going to happen.”
“Broad brush strokes, that’s it. Or I take it to the chief myself. Jackson and I are on good terms, by the way. Ever since I closed the Ferryman case. I’ve played golf with him more than once. The man has a dark sense of humor, we get on like a house on fire.”
“I pity your lieutenant, Coombes, putting up with this all day.”
“Then we have a deal.”
Henderson nodded once and turned away, walking out the room. The other three agents walked out after him. College Boy flashed him a wide grin as he left.
He followed them down the stairs and out into Tremaine’s driveway. For the first time he registered that there was now only one Suburban parked out front and it dawned on him the significance of the missing SUV.
“You took Tremaine.”
Henderson turned to face hm. “That’s right.”
“What if I have more questions for him?”
The SAC said nothing and instead looked amused.
“You told Tremaine not to tell me about the kidnapping before I interviewed him.”
“Look at you figuring things out, Coombes. It’s like watching a child taking its first steps. One last thing and it’s non-negotiable. I’m going to need the phone.”
Coombes took out Walton’s cell and threw it fast at Henderson’s head. The agent caught it one-handed, fumbled it, then caught it again.
“Eat it.”
Henderson glanced at the screen, which was still lit up with a map.
“The federal building. What a great idea. Guess I’ll see you there.”
The G-men got into the big SUV and Coombes watched it take off down the driveway. Sato came over, the back of her hand casually brushing against his leg.
“You really play golf with the chief?”
“Of course not, but he didn’t know that.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Johnny. You tore that guy a new one like you were peeling a banana and he’s a head cheese at the Bureau.”
“He got Tremaine and Walton’s cell phone, so I figure he came out ahead. All we got to keep what was ours by rights anyway.”
Sato said nothing and they walked over to where their personal vehicles were parked as an unmarked van made the turn through the gates and headed toward them.
“Can you handle things for a couple of hours? I’ve got my…thing.” She shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s Tuesday, you know?”
They’d been given mandated time with a psychiatrist after an officer-involved shooting at the end of the previous year. Specifically, when he’d shot a suspect who pulled a gun on them. An investigation had ruled in his favor, but gave them both compulsory time with a psychiatrist. It was a meaningless protocol, designed to cover the department’s ass in case they went rogue at a later date. Like they were wild animals that were going to become rabid killers after their first taste of meat.
“You’re still doing that? We’ve been cleared for active duty.”
“I find it helpful to talk to someone, thought I’d keep going for a while.”
“Talk to me, I’m your partner. It’s practically in the job description.”
Sato turned away from him and watched while the Coroner’s people sat on the loading area of their open van and pulled on their coveralls.
“You’re not just my partner though, are you?”
4
He watched Elizabeth Walton being loaded onto a gurney and get strapped in before she was transported down the stairs to the van outside. Also watching, were the line of selfie photographs that seemed to act like an honor guard composed entirely of Tremaine.
After she was gone, he stood in her now-empty office and stared at the floor where she’d been. All that was left of her life was a blood stain on the floor.
He recalled Tremaine saying he’d searched the property for the killer, shotgun in hand, and decided to follow in his footsteps.
The mansion had twenty-eight rooms including the two he had already been in and he quickly photographed each one using his cell phone in case he needed to remind himself of the layout or check for something later.
SID technicians were still working around the presumed point of entry and around a closet containing the security system. He then walked around the grounds, which were substantial, and examined the entry gate.
It wasn’t known where the killer had breached the outer perimeter, but it probably wasn’t at the gate as there was a concentration of security sensors and cameras there. Far simpler to climb the wall to the north, where thick trees provided plenty of cover.
That only left Walton’s car, a silver Lexus.
She hadn’t been killed in her vehicle but it was a fact that most victims knew their killers beforehand. If there was a chance to find the killer’s identity inside the car, he’d take it. Using keys from her bedroom, he unlocked the Lexus and opened the passenger door, the side her killer might have used if she’d given him a ride.
Coombes bent down so that he was sitting on his heels outside the vehicle. He examined the floor. There were no impressions on the mat, no dirt, or visible hair or fiber evidence. He checked under the seat, his gloved hands reaching under for a forgotten object loaded with fingerprints.
Nothing. The car looked brand-new.
The only thing of interest was a black box clipped to the driver’s side sun visor. He didn’t know what it was so he took a photograph of it in case he needed to find out later.
Twenty minutes had passed and he was getting nowhere, so he returned to his car and drove to the federal building. To save time with the lobby metal detector, he left his weapon in his glovebox and took the elevator to the fourteenth floor.
The reception area was behind a thick glass wall that to Coombes had always been the perfect metaphor for their relationship. Only light traveled both ways between the FBI and the LAPD.
He gave his name and five minutes later the lean-faced college boy he’d seen at the former governor’s home came out to see him. The other man smiled and held out his hand toward him, something no FBI agent had ever done before.
“Special Agent Barnes.”
“Detective John Coombes.”
They shook hands. Maybe he’d found a fed he could trust. Barnes led him through a security door and escorted him inside.
“You know, I was special once. Didn’t stick.”
“Army CID, I saw that in your file.”
He knew the only reason Henderson had allowed his visit was to show him that there was nothing for the LAPD to do here, that this was Bureau business. It made no difference to him what the other man’s motivation was as long as he got what he needed.
An agent in a glass-fronted office saw him and quickly began closing the blinds, drawing his attention to a large-scale map on the wall before it was hidden. The map was covered with drawing pins, too many to count. They were working an angle, which meant they had something.
The SAC sat at a computer nearby with his sleeves rolled up. With his jacket off, Henderson looked fatter than ever and his white shirt was soaked through at the armpits. Coombes’ mother had taught him not to judge a book by its cover, but he’d been in the Army since then, and had found doing just that often kept you alive.
Henderson was an asshole; he’d bet his last cent on it.
Barnes directed him to sit at a desk, then quickly leant in and typed a password into the computer. The login screen cleared and an image was frozen on screen.
A street scene.
The sidewalk where Amy Tremaine had been kidnapped, he supposed. It was taken by a camera that looked through a window at a little higher than eye-level. This was unusual, as most security cameras were mounted high aiming down with all that meant for distortion.
Barnes rolled the clip.
People walking past, mostly in the same direction.
After a moment, a white panel van pulled to a stop, the two nearer tires riding up onto the sidewalk. The side door rolled open and a man wearing track pants and a zip-up hooded top jumped out.
His right hand was unnaturally flat at his side, like he was about to slap someone.
He took two confident strides forward and put his hand across the mouth of a woman who had just passed him. She reacted with surprise and his hand dropped down to her waist as he turned her toward the open doorway of the van and boosted her effortlessly inside.
