The Scapegoat, page 30
“You had her cell phone number in your records too, but you didn’t call her to pass on what you’d heard in the parking garage. You drove across town three times. First to Marks’ address, then back to Hill Street, then out to Brentwood where you broke into Tremaine’s home. How do you explain that?”
“It was late, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“I don’t think so. When you saw Marks dancing with his younger girlfriend you got angry. You got angry at them, then angry with Walton. She just kept walking past you. You were right in front of her for years and you were nothing to her. Pocket lint. A servant. But when you saw her boyfriend with this other woman you realized what it all meant.”
Finley looked up at him, a sick smile forming.
“And what was that, Detective?”
“That you could kill her and not one person in the world would ever think it was you, not after Amy was taken. You knew that nothing would change with her if you saved the day, you said it yourself, Elizabeth didn’t see you that way. She liked younger men.”
“It worked, didn’t it? I heard that poor sap killed himself. He died thinking he would be blamed for her death. I got my revenge. I took everything from him, with your help. I should’ve just left that Tremaine bitch to her fate.”
Now he showed them his true form.
“All right, Finley, on your feet. Hands behind your back.”
“There’s nothing you can do to me, Detective. Don’t you see? I’m already paying the price. I wish I could take it back, every second of every day. She was beautiful and she’s gone because of me. I’m in hell.”
Coombes pulled out his handcuffs and physically turned Finley to face the other direction, pulling his arms back and cinching the cuffs tight. A lot of cops liked to do an extra couple of clicks on the handcuffs to cause the wearer pain, but he wasn’t one of them. Besides, his cell phone was still recording audio and he didn’t want any yelps of pain to get Finley’s confession kicked on grounds of torture or coercion.
He directed Finley out the door toward the awaiting patrol car.
46
It was after 7:30 p.m. when they finished with Adam Finley. They had re-interviewed Finley two more times, once in a Santa Monica PD interview room, then again at an LAPD interview room in Pacific Division, which happened to be the closest. Each time, Finley told as good as the same story he’d told them in his home. His responses becoming increasingly robotic as his initial relief at confessing gave way to fatigue.
After formally charging Finley, they returned to headquarters to finish up their paperwork. He had no intention of coming in the following day, so it was worth the extra effort. As they approached the Dodge to leave, Coombes paused.
“You know what? It’s my turn to drive.”
Sato frowned, thinking about it.
“Okay.”
“I thought that was going to be more difficult.”
“What you did with that guy today blew my mind. It was like you were dancing. Whenever I thought you were going too heavy, you pulled it back at the last second and seemed to be holding out your hand to help him. There’s nothing wrong with your brain, Coombes, you’re just a bit dog-eared.”
“Dog-eared, huh?”
He adjusted the seat, then the mirrors.
It was good getting back behind the wheel. For all he hated driving in Los Angeles, he had missed the focus of being the driver. Choosing lanes, speed, the distance from the car in front. Sato drove about a foot from the car in front and it made him tense.
He drove the Charger around the parking structure toward the exit. They were just about to pull out onto the street when a figure stepped out in front of the car and stood with his feet planted wide apart. Coombes hit the brakes and skidded to a halt.
Henderson.
The man came around the side of the car and knocked on the glass. Coombes glanced in his mirrors to check that there wasn’t a team of armed agents coming out the walls.
He fizzed down the window and looked up.
“You’re not allowed in here, Henderson. This place is for real cops.”
“I came to give you a message, Coombes. We work the same town, there’s a good chance we’re going to meet again. Next time, won’t go like this time, you can bet on that.”
“After the way you bungled your investigation, I’ll be surprised if you’re not transferred to a Nebraska field office within the week. You’re an utter disgrace to the badge.”
The other man’s face turned crimson with rage, his eyes ready to pop right out of his face. Nobody talked to him like that, consequently, he had no way to handle it when they did. Coombes smiled at him, closed the window, and pulled away out the exit into the night.
“Why didn’t you tell him what you really thought, Coombes?”
“I considered it.”
Sato seemed to notice their direction for the first time and turned to look at him.
“We’re not going to Bestia?”
“Just need to clear the Walton apartment first.”
She groaned. “I thought we did that?”
“Couple more boxes to check off. I promised Gantz we’d get it done.”
Sato shrugged her shoulders, apparently unfazed, but her face showed irritation.
The distance between the PAB and Walton’s apartment building was only nine city blocks and the Saturday evening traffic moved without too much trouble until they were once again looking up through the windshield at the building ahead.
This time the barrier lifted automatically, triggered by the black box that was now clipped to his visor. He drove under the still moving shutter, into the parking structure. He parked in the same space as before and climbed out the vehicle.
The doors to and from the stairwell were both locked but Walton’s security dongle still worked, just as he’d been told. He walked to the concierge desk, Sato trailing behind, her head somewhere else.
The concierge nodded his head as he saw who stood in front of him. He handed Coombes the replacement keys for apartment 1224. Two mortice, two deadbolt, two dongles for the parking structure. Elizabeth Walton was dead and cold, but the world kept on turning. A diamond-shaped plate was attached to the keyring with the number of the apartment on it, like a motel in years gone by.
“You want me to come up with you?”
“That’s all right.”
The man nodded and turned back to his computer and whatever thrills it offered. Doom-scrolling news about the virus probably. It was wall-to-wall now, like a good carpet.
Sato looked bored as they walked to the elevator. She was hungry, and he’d pulled this on her at the last moment. Coombes regarded the building’s lobby area. It was clean and expensive-looking.
It should be, he thought.
He pressed the call button and the elevator opened without delay. They got in and he selected the top floor. His partner’s shoulders slumped and she stared vacantly at the changing floor numbers. She was pissed off.
Never get between a woman and food.
His father had said that once, but what did he know?
He’d been married to the same woman for the last fifty-six years.
The elevator opened, and they walked along the corridor until they came to the apartment. New brass locks shone in the deep gray metal. Coombes took out a knife and cut through the police tape sealing the apartment and unlocked the door. He gave the door a push and indicated for Sato to walk on ahead of him.
The place had been cleaned and freshened up. No personal effects of Walton’s remained, although the apartment was fully furnished. Sato did quick 360, taking it all in. There was nothing for them to do here, no official boxes for them to check off.
Resealing the door had been the concierge’s idea.
“It’s been totally cleaned,” she said.
He waited for her gaze to return to him.
“That’s right.”
He smiled a little and tilted his head.
“What’s going on, Johnny? You’ve been acting weird all day.”
“When we were here before it seemed like you liked it. Maybe not as much as Schofield’s, but well enough. You seemed happy and at peace.”
She got it then, her mouth dropping open a fraction.
“You’re crazy, you can’t afford a place like this.”
“It belongs to Amy Tremaine. Her father got it for nothing for greasing the wheels that helped get this place built. The former mayor has an apartment on the other side. Anyway, her father gave it to her when she turned twenty-one, but she never liked it. She thought it was corrupt, so she let Walton stay here in exchange for paying the mortgage of Amy’s apartment in MacArthur Park. She’s offered me the same deal. Seems she’s gone off high-rise buildings.”
“How much does the mortgage come to?”
“About four times as much as my bungalow.”
“Jesus!”
Coombes nodded. “It’s going to be tight, but we’ll be fine.”
Her cheeks turned pink.
“You’re asking me to move in with you?”
“To start with.”
Grace looked at him with an expression he couldn’t read, her eyes moving slowly over his face. At his mouth, the stubble on his chin, then his eyes. It looked like anger, he thought, maybe disbelief. It was a fine line to walk, getting a romantic gesture right. At a certain point, you were overstepping, making decisions without the other person’s consent.
The doubt in her face vanished and she screamed.
She ran the short distance between them and jumped onto him. He caught her as their bodies slammed together, her arms and legs wrapping tightly around him, her mouth pressed against his. Grace was small but highly muscled and he had to take a step back to balance himself. Her arms tightened around him as he moved.
God, she was strong.
She was crushing him, taking the air out his lungs.
Coombes reached his hand back until it connected with the edge of the door and swung it shut behind them. He carried her through the living room to the bedroom. The teddy bear, the fairy lights, it was all gone. At his insistence, even the bed and nightstands had been changed. He wanted nothing in the apartment that emotionally connected to a dead woman.
He felt Grace’s breath landing on his neck, fast and excited.
She’d called the apartment a love nest. It was true, Elizabeth Walton had never really lived here, it was only used to meet up with young men. You could take that information anywhere you liked, but Grace found love there, and maybe they could find more, together.
She looked him in the eyes.
“This better not be a rebound-thing.”
“It’s not,” he said.
Coombes lowered her onto the bed and she clung on for dear life.
About the Author
I live on the outskirts of Edinburgh with my fiancée and young son. I would like to thank my family for their support and encouragement, it means the world to me. I am the author of Night Passenger, The Dark Halo, and The Scapegoat.
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David Stanley, The Scapegoat
