The Scapegoat, page 28
There was nothing new to see.
He found the original unedited clips and opened the one showing the abduction. They now knew that Cassidy Stone was the getaway driver and that Schofield wasn’t behind the wheel. He watched the clip from ten minutes before until ten minutes after on double speed, waiting to see if Schofield appeared anywhere.
He did not.
Coombes switched to the second clip, the reconnaissance run. Chronologically, the first recording. He did the same thing, set it playing ten minutes before Amy appeared and began fast-forwarding it. After only two minutes, Schofield entered the shot. Coombes hit regular playback and watched as the dead man walked over to his spot at the edge of the sidewalk next to the road, facing the camera.
Schofield was a brutal-looking individual and it was no surprise to Coombes that Maria López had been scared of him.
Sato appeared next to him; her arms folded.
“Why are you looking at this again? We got him.”
He glanced up at her.
“We got him all right, but for what?”
Sato frowned but said nothing, so he continued.
“What do we honestly have linking Schofield to the murder or the abduction?”
Sato pointed at the screen in front of him.
“He’s right there! He watches Amy Tremaine with that other creep. Schofield was the ringleader, the man that controlled Marks and Stone.”
“Or he’s just a guy standing at the side of the road.”
“You’re saying we hunted this guy and he’s got nothing to do with anything?”
“I think so, yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Johnny. Why did he shoot at us?”
“Because he’s a bad guy and because we’re cops.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“What about James Anderson? We rolled up on him and he ran like his life depended on it. No doubt he’s a weirdo, but that’s not against the law.”
On screen Schofield’s head turned to follow another woman, then a short time later, another. The man was a hound dog. Next to him, Grace stiffened. She’d seen it too. The case against him was falling apart by the second. After almost another minute, Schofield glanced at his watch.
“He’s waiting for someone,” Coombes said.
“And it’s not Amy Tremaine.”
They watched it play in real time. He didn’t want to fast-forward it and miss seeing who Schofield had been waiting for. Finally, a dark shadow passed in front of the lens as someone walked close to the front of the store. It was what Schofield was waiting for, and he walked toward them, then out of shot at the last second.
Coombes groaned.
“What is it? Where did he go?”
“Don’t you see? He was waiting for the store to open, he’s a customer.”
Sato sat on the edge of his desk and grabbed his hand.
“That means we got an innocent man killed.”
“Listen to me. That’s not what happened. This asshole tried to blow us away, he had something going on, something we don’t know about. Innocent people don’t shoot at cops.”
Tears rolled down her face.
“I hate this, I really hate this.”
He stood and without checking to see if anyone was looking, put his arms around her and gave her a hug. Sato pressed her head into his shoulder and he felt her silently sob for the piece of shit that was now dead. Coombes felt no more regret over Schofield’s death than he did for pizza that fell face-down on the floor.
Her sobbing began to wane and he released her.
She nodded at him, her mouth pulled down at the corners.
Coombes glanced up and saw Wallfisch standing behind them, sipping coffee out a large paper cup. He shook his big head in disapproval. Wallfisch was old school. The only time you could touch your partner was to press a wound shut, or to hold their hand as they died in front of you. Hugging was never okay.
“Let’s take a walk,” Coombes said.
They walked through the detective bureau, took the elevator to the first floor, then walked out into bright February sunshine. He screwed up his eyes at the onslaught. His sunglasses were in the Dodge. They crossed over 1st Street and into Circle Park in front of City Hall where the trees provided welcome shade.
Sato looked up at him, her face hard to read.
“Not that I don’t enjoy spending time with you, Johnny, but why are we here?”
“We made two mistakes. First, we assumed that Walton’s murder was incidental; that she either interrupted a robbery, or that her killer was there for Tremaine. Then we assumed she was caught up somehow in Amy’s abduction and was killed by one of the kidnappers.”
“What does that leave, except for two different cases?”
“Nothing. They were never connected.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
Sato was struggling with the idea. He’d struggled with it a bit himself but he was farther down the track than she was and some of the crazy had evaporated.
They stood and watched people around them in the park and on the sidewalk. At least half were wearing masks or had some kind of fabric over their mouths. The virus was here now, it wasn’t an ocean away.
“This is going to be a problem for me, isn’t it?”
He turned to Sato.
“How so?”
“People are calling it the Chinese virus. They’re looking for a scapegoat.”
He’d tell her not to worry, but he knew she was right. It would be a waste of time telling someone like that she was American, or Japanese-American.
The hatred would remain, because it had always been there.
“Wait, what did you just say?”
“I said they’re looking for a scapegoat.”
A scapegoat.
He recalled what Barnes had said at the ransom drop about the concealed trackers.
People tend to stop looking once they find what they’re looking for.
He kissed Sato on the forehead.
“You’re a genius, Grace!”
A goofy smile flashed across her face.
“Remind me why?”
“Let’s say someone wanted to kill Walton. Someone close to her, close enough to be considered a suspect. It’s enough to hold the would-be killer in check. Then he or she finds out about the plan to kidnap Amy. It’s a window of opportunity. The killer would know Marks would become the focus of the investigation and would be blamed for the murder no matter what. It wouldn’t matter if he was caught and denied it, no one would believe him anyway. It’s a perfect frame.”
Sato thought about it for a moment.
“The only person who knew about the kidnapping was Stone. The medical examiner said Walton’s killer had to have big hands to crush her windpipe. Stone had small hands, like me.”
“I agree, but logically someone else had to know about it.”
“Someone that hated Marks almost as much as Walton.”
He nodded.
“That follows, yes.”
“Unless Walton’s death was just a way to hurt Tremaine.”
Reluctantly, he nodded again.
Finding someone that disliked both Marks and Tremaine might not be that hard, they’d worked together for a decade and it would only take someone that Marks had roughed up in that time to start something.
Someone like James Anderson.
Stabbed by Marks, then served with a restraining order by Tremaine, his hero. Had Anderson gone rogue? It was possible. For years, Anderson had stalked Tremaine. Lurking in doorways, staying hidden but close to his target. Close enough to take a photograph with a long lens, or overhear something private. Sato seemed to read his mind.
“Anderson,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“Why only maybe?”
“Walton’s head was repeatedly bashed off the floor before she died. That’s personal. We found no connection between Anderson and Walton.”
Silence fell between them and when Sato spoke again, she changed the subject.
“You never said why we’re standing in front of City Hall.”
“Oh. We’re not really. We’re standing in front of our building; you can see it better from this side of the street.”
She turned to face the PAB.
“So why are we standing across the street from headquarters?”
“Because the person that filed the missing person’s report on Schofield used their maiden name. I guess because her married name would’ve raised too many questions.”
“Why? Who is it?”
“The chief’s wife.”
“Oh, shit.”
“The store with the drone sells surveillance equipment, hidden cameras, microphones. Schofield ran a blackmail operation and that was simply where he bought the equipment of his trade. He was targeting the chief among many others.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing. The world has other things to worry about than the death of a blackmailer.”
“Can we do that?”
“He got creamed by a truck crossing the road. We were asked to find him. We found him. I imagine the chief’s pretty pleased with the way things panned out. Dead men tell no tales.”
“But his laptop-”
“There was no laptop, Grace. You’re mistaken.”
He smiled a little, then walked out from under the trees onto the sidewalk and continued back along 1st toward the crosswalk. Sato did a couple of quick steps to catch up.
“You think the chief put people onto him to hunt him down?”
“We are those people, Grace.”
“You know what I mean. Like the big guy Tremaine had with him at the ransom drop. An ex-military whack job bristling with guns and attitude.”
“Still kind of me.”
Sato sighed, exasperated.
“He was on the run from somebody before we ever heard of him.”
“The chief wouldn’t send us after this clown if he’d sent an assassin after him first. Think about it. He’d want no one looking for this guy, never mind people tied directly to him. Schofield had Russian friends on Facebook; the tattoo on his neck, that’s Russian. I should have thought of this before. That eagle with the two heads, it’s on their damn flag. I’m thinking he was Bratva and simply fell out with his former associates.”
“We’re never going to know, are we?”
“All we need to know is that he wasn’t involved in the kidnapping of Amy Tremaine, or the murder Elizabeth Walton. Which means her killer is still out there.”
44
Coombes had received medals before. Twelve in the Army, five in the LAPD. The Preservation of Life made his sixth serving Los Angeles. He’d become jaded with the whole thing, but this one was different. It was Grace Sato’s first medal ceremony, and her face was beaming with pride. He saw her face and he felt his heart surge.
The former governor seemed to draw quite a crowd, none more so than when he arrived in his battle-scarred vehicle and parked half on the sidewalk. As he walked toward him, Coombes noted that Tremaine was wearing cowboy boots with a thick heel, at least two inches. It meant that when they stood side-by-side they were almost the same height. The line of Tremaine’s suit jacket sat awkwardly, indicating a concealed weapon.
Beneath his wide, mall-opening smile, the other man was in crisis.
Chief Jackson launched into a big speech, overflowing with superlatives for the work of his three officers. His eyes reaching out first into the crowd, then landing solely on him. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, his only thanks for dealing with Schofield.
Becker got his medal first. He’d been a cop for a long time and he had received a lot of medals, too many to count. Then it was Sato, her face tight with emotion, her right hand doing little waves to her family at the back of the audience. Finally, it was his turn, the chief standing directly in front of him, eyeball to eyeball.
Jackson leaned in and spoke quietly.
“The other situation. It’s dealt with?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw it? The video?”
“No, sir, none of my business. There is one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Next time, come to me direct. Don’t keep me in the dark like a potato, it’s not necessary.”
Jackson nodded. “That’s fair.”
They were shaking each other’s hand now, then everyone was shaking hands, he even ended up shaking hands with Becker and Sato. He wanted to embrace Sato, but there was a time and a place. The mayor shook his hand last, her grip tight, her eye contact total.
“Good work, Detective.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“The boys at the federal building might not be too pleased about the way this shook out. You get any problems from them I want you to let me know and I’ll take it straight to the director. I’m sick of the unchecked testosterone.”
Coombes thanked her again, but said nothing about her offer. He preferred to carry his own beer. He’d gone around the chain of command once before and paid a price.
The crowd was melting away. He wondered if any of the press coverage would be used or if it would be seen as a non-story and binned as he thought it would. It was three days since he’d been attacked and, some bruising aside, his face was almost back to normal. The bump on his forehead, the only one not hidden by his hair, was little more coin’s depth deep. If they published a group shot, only the smudge of a bruise would be visible.
“Could I borrow you for a moment, John?”
It was Tremaine, he’d come around the back of Sato and had his arm out around his shoulders guiding him away from the group.
“I can’t thank you enough for bringing my little girl home safe. She’s my world. I don’t think I realized that before this happened. You went above and beyond.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“Good!”
The former governor flashed a big smile and slapped his back.
“Actually, I wanted to ask you something about that morning.”
Tremaine flinched, his happy-go-lucky persona falling away.
“I still can’t believe Lizzie’s gone. She was part of my life for so long. I think of things I want to say to her all the time and then realize I can’t. It’s unbearable.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Call me Harry. My friends call me that, I never liked Harlan.”
“Mine call me Johnny. John is my work name.”
“What was your question, Johnny?”
Were they friends now, is that what just happened?
“It’s a little delicate. You told me that you adjusted Elizabeth’s nightdress. I wondered if there was anything else you changed before we arrived.”
Tremaine took a deep breath, his huge chest swelling up, then relaxing.
“Yeah, but it was nothing. The bastard covered her face with one of her shirts.”
“Really.”
“Does that mean something?”
It meant the killer felt guilty about what he’d done, which fit all too well with Marks as the perpetrator, despite his denials. He said none of this to Tremaine.
“It meant the killer went into her room to get the shirt. But we fingerprinted in there and got nothing so I guess he was wearing gloves.”
“You said killer - wasn’t it Marks?”
“We’re running down some loose ends before we close the file.”
Tremaine nodded, satisfied. Procedure. It was the cop’s magician’s flourish that could be used at any moment to disguise what was actually happening. The former governor glanced toward where his bullet-damaged vehicle was parked. Coombes saw that Amy was inside.
“My daughter wanted a word with you if that’s okay.”
“Sure, Harry.”
When he got back to his desk, he found that Sato had already changed into her normal clothes, her uniform now gone. He felt the need to do the same. Sato looked up.
“How’s Amy?”
“She’s taking over from Walton running the foundation.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
Coombes took off his Class A jacket and hung it over the top of his suit jacket on the back of the chair and sat down. He had to think through what, if any, were the implications of the shirt that had been on Walton’s face.
Sato stood and looked over their partition.
“You remember that guy down at the aquarium that fed us the story about the sex club and the water tank?”
“What about him?”
“Well, I got to thinking about how everything fitted together and how we got onto Marks. I kept coming back to this idiot with the mop who just happened to have the information we needed. In hindsight, it kind of stunk.”
Coombes’ back straightened.
“Tell me.”
“I called the aquarium. He doesn’t work there. I gave his description in case he gave us a false name. Nobody knew who I was talking about. They told me they don’t even use mops; they have a motorized thing you sit on.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
When you got good intel, it was always easy to overlook the source and not question why you were receiving the information in the first place.
He returned his gaze to Sato.
“That’s fantastic work, Grace.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear it.”
“Never hold anything back, okay? I’d rather hear it from you than from a defense attorney in court.”
“What do you think it means?”
It meant that someone had helped them and tried to hide it.
“Did you call the number he gave us?”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s the number for a carpet-cleaning company. It’s fake.”
“Did you run his name through the system?”
“I only just found out before you got here.”
Coombes realized that he couldn’t remember the mop-cleaner’s name and flicked through his notebook to find it.
