The Scapegoat, page 5
Coombes pointed at him.
“This guy at the back watches Amy like he’s locked on target. I’m sure he’s not the first guy to turn his head as she’s walked past, but he looks like a stone-cold psycho, so I’m thinking he’s involved. We have his whole face, more than enough to ID him. If we get this guy then maybe he gives us that guy and hopefully that leads us to Amy Tremaine. Not to mention one of these two assholes probably killed Elizabeth Walton.”
“I like it,” she said. “Just out of interest, how badly did you piss off Henderson when you were at the federal building?”
“He threw me out on my ass, why?”
Grace didn’t look surprised.
“Facial recognition is an FBI system, right? So your new buddy probably set all their databases to notify him of whatever we submit. Facial, fingerprint, DNA, whatever. Bureau gets results a lot faster than we do, so they will beat us to the punch every time.”
He ran his hand back and forth through his hair.
She was right.
It was even possible that Henderson had suckered him into working the case using reverse-psychology and that Barnes was in on it by providing enough information to get him started. If they got a juicy hit, the feds would swoop in and steal it out from under them and present it as their own.
Coombes smiled.
He’d been working on a solution without realizing it.
“We get Becker to submit everything, they won’t be tracking him.”
“Becker’s on this too?”
“Gantz had him running down his clock sitting at his desk, so he’s going to be helping out with computer stuff, phone calls, warrants, whatever we need.”
“Perfect. They’ll never see us coming.”
Five minutes later, the video landed.
7
Coombes had read a science fiction book once where bad news travelled faster than the speed of light. It had been a satire, and he didn’t read too many of those anymore. The real world was now all the satire he needed.
Amy Tremaine’s ransom video was posted onto a Chinese video-sharing website at 13:31 L.A. Time, and it took Coombes only eight minutes and forty-seven seconds to hear about it. In that short period of time, the equivalent of one tenth the population of the United States had watched the clip.
He assumed many lived elsewhere and some had watched more than once.
The picture was fuzzy at first as the lens attempted to focus. Black, with something suspended like dust in front of it. A light snapped on and a greenish-blue line appeared at the top of the picture.
A water tank.
A flash of movement and suddenly Amy Tremaine appeared in the middle of the frame surrounded by bubbles. She was wearing a cobalt blue shirt and white briefs. She fought her way to the surface but a muscular arm at the top grabbed her head and pushed her back under the water. Amy’s arms and legs pumped furiously in the water, then she reached up and fought the hand that held her in place.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty-five.
The seconds ticked away at the corner of the video. Time seemed to slow down, but they were still only a third of the way through the footage.
Coombes was holding his breath along with her.
At seventy-two seconds in Amy twisted her head sharply to the side, freeing herself from the hand holding her, and swam to the surface. She managed to get a breath down before she was pushed under again. The hand now gripped her by a fistful of her hair.
There was no way to escape from a hair-hold.
Amy’s eyes grew wild with panic. She looked straight at the camera, pleading for help. An understanding seemed to pass over her face and with it a level of focus.
No one was coming to save her.
She’d have to save herself.
Her hand shot out and hit the glass. Hard enough to make a dull thud. She did it again, then again. Water slowed her hand’s movement, robbing it of momentum. On the fifth try, using her right foot braced against the glass behind her, and her left hand in front, she hit the glass hard enough to cause a star fracture on the surface of the glass. She was able to repeat this again, causing another star fracture next to the other one.
The effort drained her of all her strength.
Amy pointed at the person holding the cell phone, then her body went slack and her arms fell limp down at her sides. The kidnapper caught her and pulled her effortlessly out of the water. The clip ended the way it had started in darkness.
For a proof of life video, it looked a lot like she died at the end.
“Goddamn,” Coombes said.
He turned to Sato and saw that her cheeks were scarlet and her jaws were clamped together. She was staring fixedly at the screen, at the black rectangle where the video had played.
After a moment, a tear ran down her cheek.
“I never thought I’d say this, Johnny, but I feel sorry for Harlan Tremaine. That poor woman, it’s disgusting. Men are sick.”
“We’re going to have to watch this a bunch more times.”
“Watch it if you want, I’ve seen enough.”
He understood her position. Sato could be emotional at times, but in a lot of ways that was a good thing. The job had taken most of his emotion and he was the poorer for losing it.
“All right. Based on her height, see if you can work out likely tank sizes. I figure a tank this big didn’t have someone’s pet goldfish in it. We find the tank, maybe we find a lead.”
She turned to him with the high beams on.
“I know the drill; you don’t need to spell it out like I’m a child.”
“She’s still alive, Grace. Take a breath.”
Sato said nothing and rolled her chair back around the divider to her desk. He was still looking at the top of the divider when he saw her put on a large pair of headphones she kept on her desk.
For the first time, it dawned on him that she used the headphones to control when he was able to talk to her.
They were for blocking him out.
Coombes sighed and turned back to his screen.
He opened his notebook to take notes and played the clip again. The first take away, was that the cell phone shooting the video moved. It wasn’t attached to a tripod or anything else, someone was holding it. This wasn’t a huge surprise, since they already knew there was more than one kidnapper, but he made a note of it anyway.
Based on what he could see of the kidnapper’s arm, he figured he was looking at the same man he’d seen following her in the drone footage. Because of the gender split that he usually saw on cases, Sato associated herself with the victims, while he associated himself with the perpetrator.
The arm looked like his own arm.
If anything, the kidnapper’s arm was stronger, more muscled.
Using his own build as a benchmark, he estimated that the kidnapper weighed in the region of 190 pounds.
On screen, Amy began hitting the glass again.
It impressed him the way she’d sufficiently overcome her panic to take action. A tank like that would be strong, designed to hold back the weight of a lot of water. She’d caused two cracks. If her kidnapper had pulled her to the surface to let her breathe, then shoved her back down, it was highly possible that next time she could’ve broken the glass.
She’d run out of air, pure and simple.
The clip ended and he’d learned nothing he didn’t already know.
Coombes started it again with no real hope that situation would change. The brutality of what he saw didn’t become easier to look at, instead it seemed to build with each viewing. Anger was suffocating him. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like for Tremaine to see his daughter treated like this. The man had already agreed to pay her ransom.
This was what seller’s remorse looked like with a kidnapping.
There was nothing to identify the man in the clip. A lot of guys in the service had tattoos. Not having them didn’t mean much, except that he probably wasn’t ex-special forces. He didn’t think he’d ever encountered a special forces veteran without ink, it was like a tribal tradition. Coombes made a couple of notes then scrubbed forward to just before the end of the clip, when Amy appeared to point at the lens and paused the clip again.
The pointing made no sense to him, what did it mean? Was she pointing at the kidnapper, or was it aimed at her father?
He stopped playback and saw that the view count had increased by fifty-eight thousand. It had to be trending around the world.
Coombes minimized the browser so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. The kidnappers weren’t messing around, that was for sure. They’d kill Amy if they didn’t get what they wanted, which was now 5 million dollars.
Hopefully, five million reasons to keep her alive.
8
Sato stood in front of a water tank, staring at fish on the other side. The glass rose up above her head by around six inches. Amy Tremaine was six inches taller than Sato. Even if the tank had been identically damaged, it was too small to have been the one in the video. Amy’s feet had been suspended in the water above the base. None of the tanks they’d seen were damaged, coming here was a waste of time, just like the last four venues they’d checked.
The tanks were either too small or too big.
He had committed too much time to this quest to find the tank and now that he knew it, all he wanted to do was abandon the whole investigative string and begin again somewhere else.
“I’m sorry, but we just don’t have a tank of the size shown in the video.”
The aquarium manager, Manuel Garcia, wrung his hands in front of him, his face contorted into what Coombes could only assume was meant to be a smile.
“What about behind the scenes?”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“The other aquariums we visited had tanks that the public don’t see. Where they put new fish before they are put out for the public.”
“Ah, yes. The nursery tanks. I can show you them if you like, but they are not like the one you’re after either. Nursery tanks are long and low to the ground for easy access.”
Behind Garcia, a man in his 20s was mopping the same section of floor over and over. Shooting glances at them, then turning away. The man was skinny and had wild red hair. Coombes had seen this behavior before. Sometimes it meant the person had something going on and was nervous about the arrival of the police. Other times, it was boredom.
“All right, never mind that. Can you at least identify the tank that was in the video. Give us a likely manufacturer, model number, something like that.”
Garcia shook his head.
“No, I can’t. That’s just it. I never saw one that shape before and I’ve been in this business for 30 years. The dimensions…the glass. It’s all wrong.”
“The glass is wrong?”
“There is no way she should’ve been able to crack the glass like that. The bigger the tank, the stronger the glass. It should’ve been half an inch thick. A thousand-pound mako might get through that, but not a hundred twenty-pound woman. No offense to her.”
“What does it mean that she cracked it?”
The manager shrugged.
“My guess? It’s not a tank at all, it’s a display case.”
“Like in a museum?”
“Exactly. They’re not rated to hold water, just display items to the public in a way they can’t get at them. Stuffed animals, waxworks, whatever.”
Coombes sighed.
They were going to have to start over and draw up a list of new locations to search. It hadn’t occurred to either of them to check for display cases.
The man with the mop had disappeared.
Perhaps he realized that there was no threat, that his supervisor hadn’t turned and pointed him out. That’s him there, the man you’re after. Coombes found he was disappointed. Chasing down the red-haired man and tackling him to the ground would’ve provided welcome stress relief.
“Thanks for your thoughts, Mr. Garcia, they’ve been helpful.”
Coombes put his notebook away and they walked toward the exit. Sato had spoken to each aquarium beforehand and none had mentioned tank damage or a break-in. Coming here had always been the longest of long shots. Yet if they’d stopped there this new angle about display cases would never have come to light. People always gave him more in person, it was a mistake to think you could do the job from a desk.
“Amy Tremaine was kidnapped this morning, right?”
He glanced across at Garcia. “Right.”
“It’s just, the video is dark. It looks like it was shot at night. We open here at 9 a.m. and our staff are here from about 8. That’s going to be the same wherever you go, aquarium or museum. The place where they shot this, it looks closed. Abandoned even.”
“We figured it was in a storage area, somewhere not open to the public.”
Garcia nodded in understanding. “That’s why you were asking about our nursery tanks. Well, I wish you luck, Detectives. I hope you find that poor girl soon.”
“So do I,” Coombes said.
The manager split off from them and walked back toward his office.
There was always another reason not to rely on telephone interviews. People lied to the police all the time and it was a lot easier to lie when you weren’t face-to-face with a seasoned cop. Coombes detected no subterfuge from Garcia, only a genuine wish to help. If he’d been hiding something it would’ve been right there on his face.
The doors rolled open and he saw the skinny man was leaning against the wall. Coombes turned toward him and put his hands on his hips. It was a power stance designed to amplify the size of his body while displaying both his badge and gun. The man was vaping from an e-cigarette and his hand shook as he held it to his mouth.
Coombes said nothing and let the silence build.
“You’re here about that video of the girl in the tank?”
“That’s right. You know something?”
Sato formed up on his right, her hand resting on the grip of her pistol. She was a lot smaller physically and was happy to let her sidearm do the talking.
“Whatever I tell you stays between us, right?”
“Depends what you tell me, doesn’t it?”
The man’s face twisted; it wasn’t the answer he wanted.
“Look, I know where they shot that video. It’s not an aquarium or a park, it’s a…private club. If it got out that I was a member, I’d lose this job. We deal with children here; management take a hard line with family values.”
The man cared more for his job with a mop than he did for Amy Tremaine. Coombes moved closer and dropped his voice into a low growl.
“The address. Now.”
The skinny man gave him the number of a building on La Brea Avenue in Mid-Wilshire. They were in Long Beach, opposite the Queen Mary. The whole of L.A. was between them and their destination.
He looked at his watch. Sixteen thirty. At this time of day, it would take them close to two hours to get there.
“Name?”
“The Hard Limit.”
“Your name.”
“Joachim Nelson.”
“What kind of club is it?”
Nelson’s face colored. “It’s a sex club. S & M. Anything goes.”
“What’s usually in the tank?”
“Performers. Couples. Strangers. Doing everything you can imagine.”
“Have you been in the tank?”
Nelson nodded. “Everyone’s been in at least once.”
“How many members does the club have?”
“It could be 80, it could be 500.”
Coombes could just imagine the DNA pool he was headed toward.
“You’re not going to call and warn these people, are you Nelson?”
“If they knew I told you I’ll be kicked out. I like it there.”
“That much, I believe.”
Coombes turned and headed back to the car.
People could be disgusting. Every day his job rubbed his face in it and he was no longer surprised by anything. Strangers screwing inside a water-filled tank for everyone to watch.
“How did I do?”
“You did great, kid.”
“So you’ll call and let me know?”
“Sure will.”
Just another day in L.A.
He’d heard of clubs like The Hard Limit. Places that used private memberships to operate outside the law. Coombes got into the car and watched Grace’s perfect face as she put on her seatbelt. She’d been against coming here and was quiet now it had paid off.
He started the engine and moved slowly out of the lot. They had a long way to go and every minute they spent not moving was a minute that evidence could be getting destroyed.
The obvious solution was to send Becker to babysit the scene until they got there but Gantz had been clear, Becker wasn’t to leave the building.
That left him with hoping for the best; getting backup from Mid-Wilshire station; or bringing the FBI up to speed.
He mulled over the best option.
Calling in the FBI would show them he was a team player and might facilitate more movement of information on their shared case.
Coombes started laughing as he pulled out the parking lot.
“What’s funny, Johnny?”
Sato’s eyes seemed to sparkle when he laughed.
The FBI would never give him more information. If he told them about The Hard Limit, they’d pretend they knew about it already then go over there and black hole any evidence. He’d never see a clipped fingernail of it.
Telling the FBI about the club would be the same as arranging to have someone burn the place to the ground, everything would be lost.
He glanced at Grace.
“Just thinking about our friends at the Bureau.”
“You think they’ll come here looking for the tank?”
“Doubt it. They’ll have computers that can work out dimensions from the video. They will look at manufacturers, then whoever they shipped them to. Right now, they will still be sitting on their asses waiting for a match. We got two leads coming here, coming to the wrong place. We got lucky, sure, but you have to put yourself out there to get the luck or it will never come. Feds don’t think that way.”
