The Scapegoat, page 29
Joachim Nelson.
It was a stupid name, he thought. Now that he was thinking clearly, it seemed made up. Instead of going to the criminal database, he typed it into Google. To his surprise, he got a hit.
Nelson was listed in a production of As You Like It.
“He’s an actor,” Coombes said. “Community theatre. Shakespeare.”
Sato groaned.
”I hate Shakespeare. The way everyone talks, I just want to punch them.”
Coombes glanced at Sato. “No doubt.”
He clicked back to his Google results and found an actors’ directory entry for Nelson with a list of credits; his work addresses; and his real name, which was Andrew Jones. The work address was a carpet-cleaning company in the valley.
“He really does work at that cleaning firm.”
“What are we saying here, Johnny? That mop-guy murdered Walton then pointed us toward Marks as a misdirect?”
“No. I figure her killer saw the video of Amy in the water and grew a conscience. The easiest way would be to call in a tip, but we would wonder where that came from down the line. So he has this actor provide us with the information we need in a way that seems organic. The quicker we get to Marks, the quicker he’s in the clear for Walton.”
Sato thought about it for a moment.
“Oh my god! Nelson didn’t think we were real cops!”
“What are you talking about, Grace?”
“At the end of the interview he said something weird like how did I do? Then asked if we’d be in touch.”
“Like an audition.”
“Exactly. He thought it was a real-world casting.”
Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
“Well, as fascinating as this is, it gets us nowhere. Dollars to doughnuts the killer used the form on his directory page to contact him, which will only have the website’s email address on it, and any name given setting up the meeting will be fake.”
“You’re killing me here. It’s not worth checking out?”
“I’m not spending an hour and a half driving to the valley, then an hour and a half driving back just to talk to that idiot.”
“This really gets us nothing?”
Coombes thought about it for a moment, his fingers playing with an elastic band that had been on his desk. The revelation wasn’t for nothing, he thought. He could see that a patron of a sex club might be reluctant to come forward with information about the water tank, but to go the extra step of using the actor meant only one thing.
The tipster had more to hide than embarrassment. To his mind, this confirmed that Marks wasn’t Elizabeth Walton’s killer and confirmed the framing of Marks that he’d suspected.
Her killer had followed the Marine long enough that it led him to the sex club. As he’d discovered, there were a lot of videos of the water tank online if you knew where to look, and knowing the name of the club would be enough to connect the pieces.
“Maybe we’re thinking about this all wrong,” he said. “What if the original target was Marks not Walton. Our killer follows him, waiting for the best moment to strike.”
“Because Marks is bigger and stronger than him.”
“Yes,” he said. “Go on.”
“Finally, the two fight. Caught by surprise, maybe even drunk, Marks still out-matches our killer. He takes the other man’s knife off him and stabs him in the leg.”
Silence fell between them for a beat, then he laughed.
“Come on, not Anderson again.”
“Why not? We thought he was good for it before.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Before we actually met him.” Coombes paused for a moment as he tried to pack away a vision of Anderson’s rotting leg wound. “Tremaine told to me after the ceremony that the killer put a shirt over Walton’s face. That’s shame or remorse.”
“Doesn’t that bring us back to Marks? Someone that thought he loved her.”
Coombes was about to shut her down when he stopped himself.
“What?” she said.
“Marks wasn’t the only person in love with Walton.”
“Right. Adam Finley and Cora Roche.”
“Bring up Facebook on Roche, I’ll do Finley. Go back to December.”
Coombes pulled himself closer to his computer and opened Facebook. Finley’s profile picture showed him looking younger, without the ponytail. Walton’s building manager was in denial about his age, no doubt about it.
“What am I looking for, Johnny?”
“A visit to a theatre to see As You Like It.”
“I don’t see Roche liking Shakespeare any more than I do.”
“Whoever hired that kid saw him act, they didn’t find him on Google.”
He scrolled and scrolled. Adam Finley posted a lot. Every day, ten to fifteen posts. Pictures of himself, pictures of his food, videos from YouTube. Christmas lights flicked past and he slowed his scroll.
“Nothing incriminating on Roche’s feed.”
“No,” he said. “There won’t be. It’s Finley.”
Sato scrambled around to see his screen. He brought up a picture of a theatre brochure with the title printed on it. Above, Finley had typed:
All the world’s a stage…
Coombes pulled back the elastic band and fired it at the screen.
“Gotcha.”
45
Adam Finley lived on Navy Street, just a block away from the end of the Santa Monica Airport runway. In front of his home stood a huge Indian Laurel Fig, the tree’s thick silver roots piled up and crisscrossing over one another in the tight rectangular space between the footpath and the road. A faded blue minivan sat on the driveway.
He wasn’t at work, but he wasn’t in the wind either. Perhaps waiting for everything to blow over and the dust settle back into place.
News of Marks’ suicide in police custody and had been seen by all as an admission of guilt over both Amy Tremaine’s kidnapping and Elizabeth Walton’s murder. The media hadn’t been that invested in Walton’s murder to begin with, so seemed perfectly happy to join her story onto the solved kidnap case to save time.
Sato parked across the drive, blocking the minivan’s exit.
“What are we doing here, Johnny?”
“Arresting this bozo, what else?”
“All we’ve got on him is that he went to a play.”
Coombes smiled.
“Then let’s not mention that, shall we?”
“We’re just going to bluff out a confession? That’s the plan?”
“That’s it.”
She smiled uncertainly at him, doubtless thinking he was crazy. Twenty feet back, out of sight of the house, a Santa Monica PD cruiser pulled to a stop and cut their engine. Finley lived in their jurisdiction so they had been looped into the situation.
Coombes climbed out the Dodge and gave a small nod up the street at the two uniforms then walked across Finley’s driveway to the front door of the house, rang the doorbell politely and took a step back so not to crowd the smaller man in the doorway.
The situation called for a bit of finesse.
A circle of light indicated that it was a video doorbell.
In his experience, few used the video function to screen callers. The camera instead being used as a failsafe for unreliable courier companies, or to deter burglars. Sure enough, Finley opened the door with no idea what he was about to see because his expression nosedived before he could get it back under control.
“Detectives! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“No? Where were you expecting us?”
A plane whipped past overhead and Finley used the distraction to regroup.
“Why don’t you come inside?”
Coombes nodded and said nothing, walking straight toward Finley so that he was forced to back away into his property. It was a power move, but also one that prevented the other man from slipping around behind them and escaping, or grabbing Sato as a human shield.
Only now that he was inside, did Coombes take off his sunglasses and hang them from one leg from the top of his shirt. He saw a big bookcase filled with old books, many with leather bindings.
No modern crime novels, as favored by Walton.
There was another unit with a turntable and a stack of records. He’d heard vinyl was making a resurgence, but everything looked old and well used. The other man was living in the past, pure and simple, this was no cultural front to impress the opposite sex.
He gestured Finley to sit on a sofa, where it appeared that he’d been sitting prior to their arrival. A French press coffee maker sat on a glass table next to a full mug and a television remote control. Coombes put his cell phone down on the table in front of Finley.
“I hope you don’t mind, just procedure. ‘Interview of Adam Finley by Detectives John Coombes and Grace Sato. Today’s date is Saturday 29th February 2020. Time 5:25 p.m.’”
Finley was staring at the cell phone and the digits that were now counting up on the display as it recorded. Somehow, he wanted to get Finley to forget about the cell phone and the recording and what it might mean for him.
He looked around the other man’s home as he spoke.
“You told us previously that there are no security cameras in the South Hill Street parking garage, but it turns out that’s not true. Many of the vehicles have their own cameras, designed to record activity close to them. For thieves and suchlike. A bit like your doorbell there.”
Coombes’ gaze returned to Adam Finley’s face. It looked worried.
“This is a really nice place you have here, Mr. Finley.”
The complement threw the other man off balance.
“Thanks.”
“How are you today? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” Finley said.
“That little rat-like fellow at the apartment building said you haven’t been at work all week. In fact, he said you took off right after our visit.”
Finley glanced quickly toward the door behind Coombes, then back. Interesting. Part of him hoped he would make a run for it.
“I’ve been unwell but I’m feeling better now. That’s all I meant.”
Coombes smiled, but put no light in his face.
“Really. Because you look like you’re about to throw up on the floor. What do you think, Detective Sato?”
“He doesn’t look good at all. Maybe he’s got the virus.”
“The virus. Of course. You think that’s possible, Mr. Finley?”
“Look, what’s all this about?”
“Our technical people traced a message from you to an actor in the valley who uses the stage name Joachim Nelson.”
Finley’s eyes widened, and again his gaze shifted briefly to the door beyond. Please, Coombes thought, make a run for it, I’m needing a laugh. The other man said nothing, but in the context, saying nothing was an admission. It was all he needed.
“No? Well, I’m sure you remember his performance in As You Like It, you described him as stunning on Facebook, an actor to watch out for. Five stars you said.”
Coombes turned to Sato next to him, hoping the break in eye contact would be enough to make Finley run for the door.
“Five stars, that’s good. Right?”
“The best,” Sato said.
“All right, I sent him a message, so what? I was trying to help you.”
“Help us?”
“Find the girl in the tank. It helped, didn’t it? She’s back safe.”
“Why do you suppose we’re confused by that, Mr. Finley?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it did help us. We found the tank and eventually found both Amy Tremaine and the man that took her. A man called Nathan Marks, who I’m sure you’re heard about on TV.”
Adam Finley smiled a little, sensing he was out of the woods.
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Finley. You’re not a member of the club you directed us to, we checked.”
This was a pure guess by Coombes, the club kept no names.
“I saw it online, okay? On their website.”
“You happened to visit a website for a sex club you weren’t a member of that thankfully showed the very tank we were looking for? That’s what you’re saying?”
“You’re twisting my words. I thought it was familiar so I passed it on.”
They were going nowhere so he decided to move things along.
“The next day we came to your apartment building. You described a man you’d seen with Elizabeth Walton. This man later turned out to be Nathan Marks, Amy Tremaine’s kidnapper. But you knew that already, didn’t you, Mr. Finley?”
There were beads of sweat all over Finley’s face.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Sure, you do. You followed him in your car to the sex club. That’s how you knew about it. In fact, it’s the only way you could’ve known about it.”
“That’s not-”
Coombes held up his right hand, fingers spread open.
“Before you say any more, you should be aware that there are close to a dozen security cameras outside the club and on the buildings around it.”
A twitch started on the side of Finley’s face.
“All right, fine! I followed him, big deal!”
“Because he was dating Elizabeth Walton.”
“Yes.”
“Because she’d been dating him for eight months, he wasn’t some flash in the pan like you told us, she was serious about him.”
Finley’s head dipped. “Yes.”
Sometimes, with an interview it was like backing the suspect closer to the edge of a cliff, leading them right up to the precipice and blocking off all escape routes. Getting the suspect to admit to small details that weren’t damning on their own, but led to only one conclusion.
“You were in love with her.”
“I’m still in love with her.”
“Right. But this other guy, Marks, he didn’t love her like that, did he?”
“No.”
“In fact, he was a criminal.”
“That’s right! I overheard him on his cell phone in the parking garage talking about Amy Tremaine. It was obvious he was going to kidnap her.”
“The whole time Marks was romancing her, it’s for this, to take Amy. He wasn’t in love with her, he was using her.”
“Yes!”
Whenever he used language that was supportive, Finley came back quickly, with relief, not thinking through what he was saying. Above them another small jet flew past. He waited until the sound dissipated before he continued. Everything had to be recorded.
“You followed him again, this time back to his house in Angeleno Heights. How long did you sit there, Mr. Finley?”
“Three and a half hours.”
Coombes nodded, like it tied in with something else he knew.
“That’s a long stakeout. Long enough for you to figure out he was in for the night, that it was where he lived. He wasn’t visiting a friend.”
“But he was! He had another woman there; I saw them through the window.”
Coombes knew the house on Allison Street was on a hill with steps down to the road, Finley hadn’t seen Marks and Stone through the window from his car, he’d gone up the steps to look in.
“What age was this other woman?”
“Young. In her twenties. She looked like she was on drugs. She was dancing with him in her underwear and singing. I could hear music.”
Finley seemed withdrawn, like he was describing the scene from his position outside the window. His voice was bitter.
“Seeing them together made you mad, didn’t it? You’d do anything to be with Elizabeth Walton, yet the man she loved was cheating on her with someone less than half her age. He had no class, no culture. She deserved better.”
This time Finley only nodded.
“When you got back to the South Hill building Elizabeth was gone, her Lexus missing from her spot in the parking garage. You knew she worked for the former governor during the week, the address was in your records.”
“I had to warn her about him. He was going to kidnap the girl.”
The heels of Finley’s shoes were at the edge of the cliff now. He had to know where this was going but he seemed not to care. Some killers, in their hearts, want to be discovered.
“What time was it when you got to Tremaine’s mansion?”
“Nearly four a.m.”
“She’d be asleep, the governor too.”
“It felt like the whole city was asleep.”
Coombes nodded again.
“But you had to warn her about Marks, about Amy. It was your duty. So, you climbed over the fence and go in the back door.”
“When she saw me, she screamed. It was so loud. I put my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet and tried to explain, but she kept on screaming into my hand. The next thing I know we’re on the floor. I’m crouched over her, my hands around her neck. She’s not moving. It felt like a second had passed, but she was already cold.”
It was what he’d waited for, the drop over the cliff.
“Adam Finley, I am arresting you for the murder of Elizabeth Walton. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand?”
The building manager nodded, his face frozen and distant.
“Mr. Finley, I need you to confirm that you understand your rights.”
“I understand.”
The tension on Finley’s face was ebbing away. It was over. There was peace there, and Coombes hated him for it. He’d brutally murdered Walton, he deserved no peace.
“I’m curious why you didn’t tell us about the kidnapping plot before Amy was taken. Let the LAPD take care of everything.”
“Because she had to know it was me, that I was the one that saved the day.”
“How does murdering Walton save the day?”
Finley screwed up his face.
“I didn’t mean to; she just wouldn’t stop screaming.”
He’d got Finley to admit to killing Walton post-Miranda warning on a recording, but he didn’t want the DA to go for an easy involuntary manslaughter charge, when it was obvious to him that it was a premeditated killing with malice aforethought. A first-degree murder. The former carried a sentence of four years, the latter, twenty-five to life.
