The Dark Halo, page 23
He glanced at Sato and she took over.
“When you came on Tuesday, did the place look normal or messy?”
“Normal.”
“No sign of a struggle? Blood?”
“Oh, no! Nothing like that.”
There was a tone shift, and Sato caught it.
“But it was different?”
“I don’t know if I should say.”
Grace smiled. “We’re trying to help Mr. Sutton.”
“He’d been drinking, there were bottles everywhere.”
“Alcohol?”
The woman nodded. Coombes took out his iPhone and brought up a photograph of Olivia taken from her law firm’s website. He held it up to Romina.
“Have you seen this woman?”
“No, sir.”
It was what he expected her to say, but it never hurt to try. There would be no trace of Olivia here, he was certain. If Sutton hadn’t been here since Tuesday, then he’d likely taken off shortly after the abduction, or shortly after he’d disposed of her.
Finished with the maid, Coombes walked off through the house to the media room. He saw the television and the presentation case mounted on the wall. The case was empty.
He swore out loud.
If the shoes had still been there, the chance of Sutton being innocent were higher. There was only one reason for taking the shoes, and that was because he was the Ferryman. The latent shoe print had never been revealed by the press, only the task force and the killer knew the significance of the Nikes. On the other hand, if the shoes were never recovered it might be difficult to use the evidence against him.
He photographed the case using his cell phone. First showing the television setup, then close-ups. There was no security lock, it just hinged open. The clear plastic provided no security, it was merely for displaying the shoes. As he moved closer, he noticed the top was misted with fingerprints from all the times Sutton had opened and closed the case.
For a pair of sneakers, they sure were important to him.
A sliding glass door was open at the back and he went out and stood next to a pool. The late-afternoon sun hit his face and he stood for a moment with his eyes closed letting the warmth of it fill him up. He could imagine sitting next to the pool with a beer, relaxing.
If Sutton had all this, why was he getting into bar fights?
Why kill at least nine people and abduct his own sister?
What was missing from his life that all this wasn’t enough?
Coombes walked back into the house. It could be a trap for a detective, trying to make sense out of something that made no sense. Some people did what they did with no more idea why they were doing it than anyone else.
He found Grace in Sutton’s home office, digging through his desk. They didn’t have a search warrant, and exigent circumstances didn’t exactly cover the contents of a desk. Olivia wasn’t in a drawer. A defense attorney might not like it, but there would be another way to get the information, once they knew what it was. Sato closed the drawer and opened another. Almost immediately, she held up Nicky’s passport and he found himself smiling for the first time in several hours. Whatever hole Sutton had crawled into, it wasn’t in a country with no extradition treaty. It was right here, in the US.
“Good work, Grace.”
She looked up at him.
“He’s got a whole room back there where he keeps his clothes. Rails and rails of suits, it’s like a goddamn Armani outlet. The two of you are about the same size, you should go see if there’s one you like. He’ll never notice it’s gone from a prison cell.”
Coombes couldn’t tell if she was joking and he liked that.
“I don’t suppose you found a Rolex?”
She shook her head.
“Sutton has 19 watches in that dressing room, each more expensive than my car. It looked like one was missing, so I guess he’s wearing the Rolex.”
He’d imagined the search would have led to Sutton’s arrest and, not long after that, to charging him with multiple counts of murder. So far, the search hadn’t even located Sutton himself, never mind any evidence against him.
“Did you find out what banks and cell carrier he uses?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think we’re done here.”
“What about the Nikes?”
“Gone.”
“Pity. I wanted to see what $27,000 sneakers looked like.”
They made their way back outside, the mood between them flat. The Ferryman had been one step ahead of them the entire time, now it appeared that he was almost a whole week away. But what would prompt Sutton to run, and why would he leave his passport?
His cell phone rang. Becker. His spirits lifted.
“Mark. What’s the news from Century City?”
“Sutton Realty is closed. I spoke to someone in the unit next door and he said there’s been no sign of activity since the middle of last week.”
“Shit. Same story here. Looks like Sutton’s in the wind.”
“No doubt,” Becker said. “What now?”
“Now we pray he left his cell phone on.”
35
For the fourth time in two months, Coombes stood before the Sutton home in Silver Lake. The fire that had raged here for almost an hour had robbed it of its grandeur and stripped it back to a darkened shell that looked like it was ready to be bulldozed. The security gates sat wide open, with nothing left to protect.
He began to walk along the short driveway, his eyes probing the dark, glassless spaces of the windows. His flashlight in his left hand tight next to his firearm, ready to go.
Sutton’s cell phone had been switched off for the last five days. Since before the fire, before Olivia’s abduction. Now, it was back, pinging within the walls of the building in front of him. The only logical reason for Sutton to turn it back on was to lure him here and have the end come, however that went. For Nicolas Sutton, the game had changed, he was now the one being hunted and being hunted was no fun at all.
Coombes stepped through the stone archway where the front door once stood and paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The interior still smelled strongly of smoke and of everything the fire had consumed. He glanced at Grace next to him and indicated with his hand that he wanted her to go left, up the stone staircase. They hadn’t discussed tactics, and she shook her head. She didn’t want to split up. He made the same hand movement again and she reluctantly moved off.
The upper floor needed to be cleared and Grace was half his weight so it made sense for her to do the sweep upstairs. He went to the right, along what had been a hallway lined with oak panels and oil paintings. Beneath the trimmings, the building was cinder block and poured concrete with no more soul than a parking structure. Coombes felt nothing that it had been destroyed by fire, it was all it deserved.
Grace was wasting her time, he knew where Sutton would be. If this was to be the end, he had to be where it all started. His shoe crunched on glass. It was spread out across the floor; his eyes could just make it out.
Broken light bulbs.
An old trick from a cheesy movie, but effective at announcing his presence. He used the side of his shoe to brush the glass aside. Since his position was compromised anyway, he turned on his Maglite and swept the flashlight and pistol together.
Nicolas Sutton stepped out of the shadows holding a revolver.
“Johnny. I hoped it would be you. More poetic this way, don’t you think?”
The killings hadn’t touched him at all. He was the same as he’d always been.
“I never liked poetry. Too much like someone laughing at their own jokes.”
“Nothing wrong with that. I crack myself up every day.”
“No doubt.”
“Where’s that little bird of yours?”
Sutton squinted into the flashlight beam to search the hallway behind him.
“Come on little birdie, out you come. Flutter, flutter.”
“She’s not here. I told her you’d want privacy. She’s at the end of the driveway with some friends of mine. You and me are going to have a conversation, then we’re going outside to get everything straightened out. Okay?”
“These friends of yours, do they have shotguns and bulletproof vests?”
“I told them you were a gentleman, that you’d be unarmed.”
Sutton glanced at the gun in his hand.
“Alas, there are so few of us left. Put yours away, perhaps I’ll do the same.”
“You first.”
“All right.” Sutton put the gun in his pants pocket, grip hanging out. “Happy now?”
There was a manic edge to Sutton’s voice, like he’d taken something. Coombes decided to play along to calm him down, perhaps get close enough to take his weapon. No need to rush him outside to face the music. Coombes holstered his own gun and nodded.
Sutton was watching him closely.
“I love what you’ve done with the place, Nicky. Very modern.”
“It has something, doesn’t it? Like a good Scotch that bites you on the back of the throat as you swallow.”
They were in the room where Theodore Sutton had taken the short drop. All trace of that day was gone, but they both glanced at where he’d been, like he was still hanging there. Seconds ticked by before Sutton spoke again.
“He did it in front of me you know.”
“You never mentioned that before.”
Sutton shrugged.
“I walked in and it was all set up. The noose, the chair. He wanted me to see. He stepped up and slipped the rope over his head. He looked me in the eye. I thought it was a joke, like that kid in Harold and Maude. I laughed. Next thing, he’s swinging back and forth, his feet pumping. I went to him and held him tight until he stopped.”
“Why not help him?”
“I was helping him. It’s what he wanted.”
Sutton’s eyes dipped briefly, before coming back.
“Why do you believe that, Nicky?”
“Because I told him something he couldn’t handle. He’d rather be dead.”
“You told him you killed people?”
Sutton shook his head.
“This was before all that.”
It hit him what the look in Sutton’s eyes meant, where he’d seen it before.
“You’re gay.”
Anger flashed over Sutton’s face.
“No. Not gay. Why does everyone use that word? I hate it.”
“I thought-”
“Just you, nimrod, nobody else. You were the only one that could’ve stopped it and you never saw me. Not then, not now. All you saw was my sister and her perfect little C cups. I never stood a chance.”
This was the reason Sutton had taken Olivia captive. Not because she knew his identity as the Ferryman, but because two decades earlier, she’d dated his best friend.
“This was all for you, John. I needed you to see me.”
Again, he said nothing. If he took Sutton at his word, his childhood friend had murdered nine innocent people because he was in love with him. Coombes had no way to process that, except to think it was a detail he’d be leaving out of his report.
Sutton turned and looked at the glow of the Los Angeles skyline beneath them. He showed no concern at the possibility of being picked off by a police sniper on one of the rooftops below. As long as Olivia Sutton was missing, nobody could touch him.
Coombes closed the gap between them.
He needed the revolver out of commission.
“My dad, for all his faults, gave me everything I wanted. I never had to take some dead-end job to make ends meet. When I held him on that rope and felt him fighting to live, I never felt more alive.” Sutton sighed. “Some people never find out what their true purpose is, you know? What they’re good at. What shallow, empty lives they lead. But you found out, and so did I.”
Sutton turned back. He gave no reaction to Coombes’ closer proximity.
“Tell me, John. Does she know?”
“What are talking about?”
But he did know. He knew exactly what Sutton was going to say.
“Little bird. Does she know you’re in love with her?”
He flinched. It was likely that Grace was close enough to hear them, she wouldn’t be much use as backup if she wasn’t.
“We’re partners, Nicky. That’s it.”
Sutton nodded sadly.
“Then you do know what it’s like to be next to the thing you want most in this world and for them to know nothing about it. You should tell her, you could be dead tomorrow.”
He wondered how Sutton had managed to pick up on his feelings for Grace, when he wasn’t sure of them himself. He decided to change direction. He glanced up, as if at the still-hanging body of Theodore Sutton.
“Your dad, he did it wrong. The drop was too short.”
Sutton looked at him, his gaze piercing and bright. Conspiratorial.
“I know. No matter, he showed me the way. He showed me that nobody takes any interest in suicides, not the LAPD, not his friends, or the press. Everyone assumes the worst, that the person did it to themselves. Except you, old friend. Why did you take an interest?”
“His passing upset me. I liked your dad.”
Sutton bared his teeth.
“Then you didn’t know him. Nobody knew him like I did.”
There was no mistaking the anger in his voice, the hurt. Instead of imagining what lay behind it, he imagined Grace’s likely position in the building. It was dark in the burned-out hallway. Grace would be there, gun out in front of her in two-handed grip. There was just one problem, he was between the doorway and Sutton.
“Why the coins?”
“I guess you don’t remember how my dad got started.”
There’d been rumors for years about Theodore Sutton’s business practices. Taking over housing intended for the poor, clearing them out and replacing the buildings with more expensive properties. In later years, the process was known as gentrification, but back then there was no name for it. If something happens often enough, they give it a name to make it acceptable.
Some said thugs went door-to-door dragging people out into the street, while others claimed unexplained fires had a habit of burning down properties that stood in his way. He’d heard rumors of buildings being set on fire with the people still inside, but he’d never believed it. That didn’t reflect the man he’d known.
He took stock of the fire-ravaged room he stood in.
“Is that why you torched the house?”
“I’m not talking about the fires, man. I’m talking about the coins.”
He said nothing.
“It was his favorite story. He started with a single apartment that his old man paid for, which he sublet to someone else. Instead of using that rent money to pay for an expensive hotel room, he used it to rent a slightly smaller space, and sublet that as well. He said he was able to do that four times before the money ran out. At the end of the first month, he had four properties, and he was homeless. All he had left, was two silver dollars. He claimed to have eaten out of a dumpster more than once.”
Coombes realized he’d heard the story before, at least once.
“Rags to riches, huh?”
“It was grade-A horse shit. I got him drunk once and he told me the truth. That he dressed as a waiter and stole tip money from tables in upmarket hotels and restaurants. One time, there were two silver dollars and he kept them, never spent them. He had them in a frame in his office to remind him how far he’d come. He started to collect silver dollars whenever he saw them, put them in a jar in his office doorway.”
“He never sublet his apartment?”
“There never was an apartment. My grandfather was a deadbeat, split from my grandmother when my dad was two years old. The whole thing was fiction. He was nothing more than a common thief.” Sutton held his arms wide. “He built this with stolen tip money.”
“Little late to take the moral high ground, isn’t it?
Sutton laughed. “For sure.”
“This funny to you?”
“I did nothing but rid this world of parasites and you know it. I should get a medal for taking these people off the board.”
“If you really believe that, why stop?”
Sutton held out his left hand and unfurled his fingers.
“Because I only have two left and I’m going to need those.”
The moonlight caught on the metal in his hand. Coombes frowned. Sutton clenched his hand into a fist again around the coins. A split second later, he pulled the revolver out of his pocket with his right. It came up awkwardly between them as if in slow motion, the long barrel catching on the hem of his pocket.
Without hesitation, Coombes drew his Glock and fired twice. Sutton flew back, his body slamming against the wall with a heavy thump.
Coombes ran forward, pistol aimed low.
He kicked the revolver out of reach then kneeled next to Sutton. The damage to his chest was catastrophic. Blood rolled thickly over his collarbone and around both sides of his neck and onto the charred concrete floor.
It looked black in the moonlight.
Sutton swallowed repeatedly and Coombes reached under his head to tilt it so that blood inside cleared the windpipe. Sutton looked dully into his eyes.
“Goddamn, this hurts.”
“Where’s Olivia?”
“Outside. Trunk of my car.”
“Why, Nicky? Why’d you do this? Why kill all these people?”
“Because I had to have something that was mine.”
Sutton’s head went slack and his left hand opened. The two coins rolled across the floor and curved around in a spiral until they hit the blood, then they fell over.
36
Coombes swung his flashlight around until it caught Grace standing in the doorway holding her gun. The automatic remained level with his chest for a couple of seconds before falling away, back down to the concrete floor.
“He made you shoot, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
Coombes looked at the last two coins.
“The final tableau, suicide by cop.”
“Lass is upstairs,” she said. “He’s banged up pretty good, I already called it in. He’s unconscious, but breathing okay. I think this piece of shit broke all his fingers, torturing him for information.”
