The Dark Halo, page 31
The video of Sutton’s confession and death?
The minutes ticked by and he resisted looking at his watch. The more time that passed, the safer he figured he was. If the video had landed there would be no delay, Jackson would have him in front of him as soon as possible. Almost twenty minutes passed before he was told to go into Jackson’s office.
The Chief was standing in front of the plate glass window that made up one wall of his office. He had his jacket off, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. As he turned to face Coombes, he took a hands-free cell phone headset off his ear.
“That was some fine work, Coombes.”
“Very much a team effort, sir.”
“That’s too bad, there’s only Scotch for you and Sato.”
He indicated wrapped packages on one of the chairs.
“It was all us, Chief. Everyone else just got in our way.”
Jackson smiled and walked back to his desk.
“Adapts quickly. Funny. I have a good feeling about you.”
Coombes nodded and smiled back.
Even the least expensive Scotch was worth a moment’s courtesy. More than the gift itself, was the implied closer relationship between them which could prove useful in the shark-infested waters of RHD. Of course, someone like Jackson would have a whole collection of gifts for any situation. There’d be a closet somewhere full of them, perhaps a whole room. Paid for by the city, chosen by someone else.
He knew this, and didn’t care.
What did bother him, was that Sato had been excluded from their conversation. It indicated to him that Jackson wanted something and that maybe the gift was to soften him up.
“Was there something in my report that you wanted to ask me about?”
“In fact, it was something that was not in the report.”
“Shoot.”
“Olivia Sutton. The two of you are close?”
He felt himself relax. Jackson hadn’t seen a video of Nicolas Sutton’s confession, and if he hadn’t seen it, no one had. If that clip had landed anywhere online it wouldn’t take long for it to find its way to the 10th floor.
“We dated as teenagers. I’ve seen her maybe five times since.”
“How well did you know her brother?”
“I met Olivia through him, he and I were at school together. We were friends until I dated his sister. He didn’t like that.”
Jackson nodded. “You crossed the line.”
“It was worth it.”
A smile flickered at the corners of Jackson’s mouth.
“Let me put my question simply, Detective. Your report states that despite earlier reservations, you finally believed Theodore Sutton’s suicide was genuine. Given your relationship with the family, I wanted to know if there was something else there.”
Coombes made a face before he could stop it.
“The report is accurate, but not complete. Nicky was at the scene. His father hanged himself in front of him on purpose. It was a brutal thing to witness and it traumatized him. He froze up. He could’ve saved his father, but he didn’t. I left it out of my report because it added nothing. They are both dead now and I thought Olivia had been through enough.”
Jackson said nothing for a moment.
“I guess I can live with that. You showed discretion and respect for the dead. In future, I expect you to keep me in the loop regardless as to what appears in your report. Don’t leave it to me to read between the lines to get the full picture. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have a good New Year, Coombes. You’ve earned it.”
Jackson turned to his computer, their business apparently at an end. Coombes picked up the two packages of Scotch from the seat in front of him then walked to the door. As he reached for the handle he paused and withdrew his hand. It was no use; it wasn’t in his nature to turn the other cheek. He had to try.
He walked back to where he’d been standing before.
“Was there something else, Detective?”
“I was hoping you could do something for Billy Lass. We wouldn’t have gotten to the end of this one without him, Chief.”
Jackson sat back in his chair, a sour look on his face.
“Lass is damaged goods, Coombes. You’d do well to avoid getting some of his shit on your shoes right when your career is taking off. Do you follow?”
“He’s certainly damaged now. Six broken fingers, two broken ribs, a broken nose, and a concussion. That has to offset his beef with Hurst.”
“He shouldn’t have been there, he was suspended. It wasn’t his case.”
He felt his chest fill with anger. Lass was no angel, but to throw him under the bus to save a useless piece of skin like Hurst was too much. For a moment he said nothing and dipped his head so he was looking at Jackson’s desk. It looked unused, like a prop in a movie.
“I can appreciate your loyalty to your former partner, Coombes, but striking a superior officer is a big deal and is clearly grounds for dismissal.”
“I understand Hurst isn’t pressing charges.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
“He isn’t pressing charges because he knows if he did the whole truth would come out and it would be him eating the grenade, not Lass.”
Jackson took a deep breath and looked out the window.
“I know all about the captain and his…views on race. The problem is that almost a hundred people, myself included, saw Lass kick Hurst while he was already on the ground. That’s assault with a deadly weapon, Detective. It’s only because of me that he isn’t currently in lockup awaiting trial. Any person that could’ve helped him fight this was probably at that charity function. No one is going to get involved. I couldn’t get him a job anywhere in Los Angeles, not even in animal control. He’s done.”
Coombes straightened.
“What about outside Los Angeles?”
Jackson tilted his head over. “A transfer?”
The idea seemed to amuse him, like he was washing his hands of a problem and passing it down the line.
Coombes had a good feeling.
“San Francisco. He loves that city, he’d accept that. Get the IA boys to clean his slate. There’s no departmental blowback if he’s leaving anyway, right? Consider the optics. He was defending his pregnant wife from a known racist. That’s not a story you want coming out.”
“His wife was pregnant?”
“She gave birth two weeks later.”
Jackson sighed. “Leave it with me.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
Coombes left the room and closed the door softly behind him. He’d pushed his luck with Jackson and knew well enough to get gone while the going was good.
48
Coombes parked his personal vehicle across the street from Sato’s apartment and glanced up at her windows. Grace had reacted badly to Sullivan’s joking around and had taken off without saying goodbye. The journalist was an outrageous flirt, it was how she got her information. It meant nothing, she probably barely realized she was doing it. He knew it like the sun was shining, yet when he was on the receiving end, he’d enjoyed it just the same.
Sullivan had made Sato feel foolish and he couldn’t let that stand. They were off rotation now for three weeks. He couldn’t leave the situation until they returned to work, he had to fix it before it became unfixable.
What was needed here was a light touch.
He fanned the fingers of his right hand and moved them back and forth over the vent of his air conditioning. Light touches were not part of his skillset. If he said the wrong thing, he stood only to make the situation worse. She needed to be reassured; to know that nothing between them had changed. Sato’s windows were black, with no reflection or light inside.
His cell phone rang. A restricted number. He sighed, half his calls were from restricted numbers.
“Coombes.”
“This is Detective Harrison, West Bureau. We were given your name by someone we just arrested. Said he’d only speak to you.”
“Oh yeah? What’s this character’s name?”
“Walter Ford. He walked into Hollywood station two hours ago wearing a quart of blood and a big happy smile. If it’s human blood, we’re looking for at least one homicide.”
He pictured the lumbering giant the day he’d confessed. Ford wanted to be famous, to be seen in a world full of celebrities and reality stars. Fakes with Photoshopped faces and perfect lives. It was the new American Dream; he saw it everywhere he went. Ford had admired the Ferryman and wanted to be part of it, why else involve him? But the answer was obvious.
Ford hadn’t seen the press conference.
He didn’t know it was all over.
Either he would again claim to be the Ferryman, using a real kill to sell it; or he had taken his advice to help other people in a new direction, by doing what the task force couldn’t.
“Did you notice if Ford had any dog bites?”
Harrison paused. “Yeah. On his hands, arms, and face. How did you know?”
“I think your victim is Jake Curtis, 2041 Desford Drive, off North Beverly.”
He heard Harrison’s cheap ballpoint scratch the name and address down.
“Are you Sherlock Holmes or something?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
But he didn’t need to see, he already knew. In the pit of his stomach, where he always knew something was true before it was confirmed. He thought about how he’d left things with Curtis and sighed. As much as he disliked the writer, he didn’t want him dead.
“Are you going to come speak with Ford?”
He looked again at Sato’s window and saw she was watching him through the glass. Their eyes connected and she waved. Friendly. Happy. She wasn’t mad with him, far from it. He acknowledged her wave with his left hand. She was smiling so hard her face shone.
“It looks like I’m going to be tied up here for a couple of hours.”
“Understood. This guy’s going nowhere anyway.”
Coombes disconnected.
He killed the engine, then picked up one of the packages sitting on his passenger seat. Her gift from the Chief. He crossed over the street, a cool breeze pushing through his hair. His mind was blank and at peace as it always was at the end of a case.
Her apartment was on the second floor of the building, and he took the stairs three at a time. In his hand, he felt the Scotch move inside the bottle. When he got to her door, she was standing waiting for him with one hand propped up on her hip, like he’d kept her waiting. They stood on the threshold for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. I could still leave, he thought. It’s not too late. His gaze dipped to her mouth and he knew that wasn’t remotely true.
Grace opened the door wide and he walked inside.
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 one previous novel called Night Passenger.
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David Stanley, The Dark Halo
