Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2) Page 7

  “Give me a week with this case. You snatched a case away from me two years ago and gave it to Colby and you know what happened – ”

  “Those were different circumstances – ”

  “Give me a week or I’ll lodge a complaint with the department’s women’s coordinator. Then I’ll start spouting off to the press. I’ll convince everyone this this case was taken away from me because I’m a woman.” Fey held up her hand to stop Cahill’s interruption, “Even if it’s not true, I’ll make your life miserable. You’ve got a year left till retirement. Do you really want that kind of grief?”

  Cahill gave Fey a hard stare. “You are one tough bitch.”

  “And you’re one tough bastard. Can we be we done with the school-yard posturing? I’m asking for a week. If we don’t cut a break by then, Robbery-Homicide can run with it.”

  “This is going to cost you, Croaker.”

  Fey knew Cahill’s use of her surname indicated she had to be careful.

  “You’ve got one week,” Cahill said. “If you mess up, I’ll have your head on a platter so fast the butcher won’t have time to stuff an apple in your mouth.”

  “I love a man who can sweet talk,” Fey said, trying out a small smile.

  “Get out of here before I put you out of my misery.”

  Fey stood up. “I love you too, Mike.”

  “Your time is ticking, Croaker.”

  Chapter 12

  “How are we supposed to solve this in a week?” Brindle punctuated the question with a cynical snort. “Why don’t we let Robbery-Homicide take over right now.”

  “Don’t start,” Fey said. “I had to sell my soul to buy a week. If you don’t like working homicide, I can get you spun over to Auto Theft or Burglary today.”

  Brindle shook her head. “No deal.” Brindle had her eyes on a couple of plum positions within the department. Having homicide experience in her package was going to get her a lot closer than any assignment investigating crimes against property. “If you say we can solve this murder in a week, I say we can solve it in seven days.” She might not like Fey, but she respected her. She wasn’t about to get left at the gate.

  The way Brindle figured, Fey was good enough and lucky enough she stood a good chance of solving the case. Brindle had seen her do it before. If Brindle stayed on this, she knew she couldn’t lose. If the case busted open, she would hog more than her share of the glory. If the case blew up, she could cut and run, and the responsibility would be on Fey.

  Fey looked at Alphabet and Monk. “Either of you have any problems?”

  Monk flashed his ready smile. For him, Fey’s concentration and excitement were catching. He loved this stuff.

  Alphabet gave Fey a conspiratorial wink and ran pudgy fingers across his bald head. He could sense his blood rising to the battle. “Okay with me, boss,” he said.

  Ash was also in the tiny room where Fey and Monk had earlier interrogated Darcy Wyatt. His lanky frame was leaned back into a corner, cowboy boots crossed below, arms crossed above, as if trying to disappear. He caught Fey’s eye, but only gave a slight shrug of his shoulders without saying anything. Now wasn’t the time.

  Fey seemed to relax a little. She took her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose. After leaving the Lieutenant’s office, she had called her people in for a council of war. First, she’d had to make sure they would support her. She couldn’t afford anyone dragging their feet. Brindle was a question mark, but Fey was relying on the young detective’s ambition to keep her plunging forward.

  She looked at her watch. It one o’clock in the afternoon. It seemed like she had been at work forever, first dealing with Darcy Wyatt, and then the crime scene. But they needed every second they could steal.

  She quickly organized things in her mind. “Alphabet, you call the Coroner’s Office. I want the body on a slab and filleted today. If they give you trouble, talk directly to Harry Carter. Tell him it’s me asking, and see if he’ll do the case personally. Stroke his ego. He’s the best there is, but he likes people to tell him so. I want you down there taking notes when the scalpels and saws come out.”

  “On my way” Alphabet said, finishing scribbling in a small notebook.

  “Monk, I want you and Brindle to identify the victim. Lily gave me a set of prints she rolled at the scene, along with a half-dozen Polaroid close-ups of the victim’s face. Fax the prints, a full description, and a copy of the Polaroids to DOJ.”

  The Department of Justice in Sacramento was a clearing house for information of missing persons.

  “The body looked young enough to be a runaway, so see if he’s in the system. Check with Missing Persons at Detective Headquarters Division. Show the pictures to our Vice Unit and to someone from Ad-Vice downtown.”

  “I’ve got court this afternoon on the Sanders case,” Brindle said.

  “The spousal abuse we filed as a felony?” Fey checked her memory.

  “Broken jaw and cheek bone. Third reported complaint.”

  “Who were the arresting officers on the case?”

  “Hamilton and Hamilburg.”

  Fey shook her head. “Patrol’s answer to Tweedledum and Tweedledee.” The two officers were known for their stand-up comedy routines at divisional Christmas parties. “You only filed the case, right?”

  “I won’t be needed to testify, but I’ll need to coordinate the victim and wits.”

  “Get the DA to kick you free and keep Hamilton as the investigating officer.”

  Brindle nodded.

  “What about today’s MAC cases?” Monk asked. The homicide would take priority, but other crimes also demanded attention.

  “Anything pressing?”

  “Nothing screaming for immediate response.”

  “Give it all to Hammer and Nails. It won’t faze them to carry the brunt of the other MAC cases while we run with the homicide.”

  Police culture loved nicknames. Arch Hammersmith and Rhonda Lawless, otherwise known as Hammer and Nails, were a couple of hard cases who had recently transferred into the division from Internal Affairs. Their eighteen month tour of duty with IA had twice been extended, and they were considered legendary when it came to burning bad cops – a reputation that bought them respect but few friends.

  Nobody knew quite what to make of the situation when they were transferred to West LA, but it was clear that the pair had a rabbi high enough in the department echelon that they could write their own ticket. The point had been driven home when they had first been assigned to different investigative units in the squad room. The department frowned on long-term partnerships, and Mike Cahill thought it best to split the pair up. In less than twenty-four hours, however, Cahill had doubled-back on himself, and Hammer and Nails were a partnership again assigned to Fey’s MAC Unit. No explanation was given.

  Fey didn’t know if they had asked to be assigned to the MAC Unit, or if Cahill didn’t know what else to do with them. Whatever the reason, Fey was actually glad to have them. They might be inseparable, but they came to work early, stayed late, turned in quality investigations, seemed to anticipate the unit’s needs, kept out of trouble, and never complained if they were given the donkey’s load of the work. As far as Fey was concerned, they were just what the doctor ordered. If they wanted to stay together, she’d give them a long leash.

  Rumor control in the division, however, said the pair were still assigned to Internal Affairs, working undercover to investigate allegations of sexual harassment and racism within the division. As a result, most of the other detectives and officers, gave the pair a wide berth. This attitude, though, didn’t seem to disturb Hammer and Nails to any degree. They kept to themselves and did their job. If they were still working for IA, they had a tough row to hoe.

  Fey wouldn’t have minded getting Hammer and Nails involved in the homicide investigation. They had more investigative experience than almost anyone else in the unit, but that was also the reason she needed them clear to run everything else while the rest of the tea
m worked with her.

  “What if the victim was hooking?” Brindle asked suddenly. Her brain had obviously been churning. “Can we talk with the West Hollywood Sheriffs’ station’s Vice Unit?” West Hollywood had the highest population of homosexual prostitutes in the area.

  “That’s a good thought.” Fey told her. “They’re probably the best source, but let’s not do it until we’ve run everything else to earth. We don’t want to owe them anything. Got it?”

  “You bet.”

  Fey finally pointed at Ash. “While everyone else gets cracking, you and I are going to have a long talk about the body that McCoy and Blades are trying to dump on us, as well as what the Feeble Brained Investigators interest is in this whole stinking set-up.”

  Ash smiled slightly and nodded, but didn’t rise to the bait.

  There was suddenly a silent pause in the room when everyone seemed to take a deep breath at the same time.

  “This one is going to get ugly, people,” Fey said. “I can feel it in my water. We’re all going to have to give a hundred-and-ten percent to clear this before the killer racks up a whole string of bodies.” Fey took a second to let what she was about to say sink in. “As far as the press is concerned, we give them nothing. You are all deaf and dumb. If I catch any of you leaking information, your ass is grass and I’m going to be the lawnmower. Are we straight about this?”

  Everyone in the room nodded.

  “Right now we’ve got two bodies that may be connected,” Fey continued. “If we don’t move fast, there will be more.” Again she took a dramatic pause. “Somewhere out there, walking around, is a victim whose life is resting in our hands. If we don’t do our job fast enough, that victim will die and the clock will start ticking on the next victim. Think about that when you start getting tired and your butts begin to drag. Don’t just think about solving this case. Think about saving a life.”

  The faces in the room were solemn as Fey’s words hit home. Finally, there was a shuffling of feet and scraping of chairs as everyone started to stand up and move out.

  “I just hope I’ll have time to eat lunch before going to the autopsy,” Alphabet said with a straight face.

  “Oh, gross,” Brindle said wrinkling her nose. Everyone else laughed, breaking the tension.

  “Gross is as gross does,” Alphabet retorted, in his best Forrest Gump impression.

  “Yeah,” Fey said, glad that Alphabet’s natural humor was putting everyone back on an even keel. “Just remember, life is like a box of chocolates. It’s overpriced and most things in it suck.”

  Chapter 13

  As Fey reentered the squad room with Ash trailing behind her, she heard herself being paged over the station’s intercom system.

  “Detective Croaker, you have a visitor at the desk, Detective Croaker.” The voice was a tinny whine, as if the human responsible for it was on life support.

  “Give me a break,” said Fey. “I’ve got too much going on to be messing with somebody’s petty-ass problem at the desk.” She sat down and picked up her phone. Quickly she punched in the extension that would connected her to the volunteer who worked the squad room front desk.

  “West Los Angeles Community Police Station.” The same voice that had paged Fey over the intercom answered the phone.

  “Ruth, this is Fey Croaker. Do you know who’s at the front desk for me?”

  “Just a moment, I’ll ask.”

  “Wait! Ruth – “Fey was too late. The volunteer had put her on hold. Bless their souls, Fey thought, but sometimes the crew of older women who volunteered to answer the squad room phones drove her crazy. Didn’t the woman realize Fey wanted her to be a bit more discreet?

  “Detective Croaker?” Ruth asked, coming back on the line as if she had expected Fey to have hung up.

  “Yes.”

  “The man said his name is Devon Wyatt. He seems very nice.”

  Fey felt the walls closing in around her. Very nice. The volunteer was obviously not a good judge of character. “Okay. Thanks, Ruth,” Fey said. “Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Fey hung up and slumped in her chair.

  “Not a petty-ass problem?” Ash asked with a smile.

  “Hardly petty, but still an ass. Do you know Devon Wyatt?”

  “It’s hard not to know Mr. Civil Rights in our business.”

  “His kid was arrested for rape last night. I did the interrogation, got the cop-out, and authorized the booking before getting called to the homicide scene this morning.”

  Ash laughed gently. “Sounds as if you’re moving up to play with the big boys.”

  “I certainly know how to pick ‘em, don’t I?” Fey sighed and stood up. “ I’m sorry about this, but if I don’t deal with this right now, it will only make things worse.”

  “I’ll be here when you get done, Ash said. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Feel free,” Fey said expansively, waving her arm across her cluttered desk. “Coffee room is over there,” she said, pointing.

  She gave Ash a direct stare when she thought he winked at her. She looked away quickly, realizing he had a slight tick under his right eye that occasionally spasmed.

  There was still something about the man that was touching her on a personal level. His eyes were an unremarkable slate grey color, but there was a depth to them that was disconcerting. It was as if he was constantly fighting to stop himself from exploding, an outward calm belying a deep inner turmoil. She didn’t know exactly what vibes she was picking up, but she knew that she had better be careful with her emotions.

  The man made her feel very conscious of her body. During the last six months she’d lost twenty pounds through cleaning up her eating habits and three vigorous work-outs a week with a friend who was a personal trainer. She’d been feeling pretty good about herself – not afraid to look at herself naked in the mirror – but Ash made her suddenly aware that there were areas that still needed improvement.

  “I’ll be back,” she said in a bad Austrian accent, as she tried to shake of the feeling.

  “You and Schwarzenegger. What a team.”

  “Yeah, but he’s kind of like the cops. You can never find a good Terminator when you need one.”

  Devon Wyatt sat in the same small interrogation room Fey and her team had recently used for a council of war. The same room where Fey had earlier taken Darcy Wyatt’s confession. This place is getting a lot of use today, Fey thought, reflecting briefly on the hundreds of interrogations and interviews she’d done between the urine yellow walls. If I had a penny for every lie told in this room, I’d make Howard Hughes look poor.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Detective Croaker,” Devon Wyatt said. He didn’t take the chair on the far side of the scarred table that Fey was gesturing toward. Instead, he slid expertly into the chair closest to the door, giving him the position of command that Fey would normally take for herself.

  Fey had to smile. The man was smooth. Fey estimated him at under 5’7, but the man was clearly athletic and carried himself tall.

  Dressed in a double-breasted wool suit no cop would ever be able to afford unless they were on the take, Wyatt was both dapper and confident. The cufflinks holding the French cuffs of his creamy white silk shirt were gold nuggets the size of a swollen knuckle. The subdued Countess Mara tie was secured by a two-carat diamond that flashed in the room’s harsh lighting. Thick, jet black hair grayed slightly at the temples, but Fey had a sneaking suspicion the gray was touched on for effect.

  “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you,” Wyatt continued. “Jake Travers speaks very highly.”

  What a crock, Fey thought. Did this guy truly think she was going to buy off on this? Jake’s name, however, had hit home, and Fey wondered just how much Devon Wyatt knew about her relationship with the high-ranking District Attorney. It wasn’t common knowledge that Jake and Fey were an item, but Wyatt might have access to that information. He probably didn’t know they were on the outs, however, or he wouldn’t have dropped th
e name in an effort to curry favor.

  “I also hear you’re very tough,” Wyatt continued. “They say you put your own brother in jail.”

  Fey felt her blood getting hot. Tommy Croaker was Fey’s younger brother. He was a low-life drug addict who had caused her problems for years. She’d protected him from their abusive father when they were kids, and she’d done everything she could to help him when they were older. Tommy, however, didn’t want to be helped. When he broke into Fey’s house, to get money for drugs, it was the last straw. Fey arrested him, pressed charges against him, and made sure he served the maximum jail time possible. Tommy was now back on the street, and supposedly straight, but he’d had no contact with Fey.

  “It’s good to know people are saying nice things about you behind your back for a change,” Fey said as calmly as she could. “Although, you probably wouldn’t know the feeling.”

  Wyatt’s smile reminded Fey of a carnival ride attendant watching some poor kid puke his guts up on the Scramble Wheel. “And here I thought we were going to be friends,” Wyatt said.

  “Let’s be clear and up front,” Fey said in a reasonable voice. “The only thing I’m likely to get from you is grief. The only reason you’re here is because your kid got booked this morning, and you want something from me that you’re not going to get. We may be able to remain civil to each other, but we aren’t ever going to be friends.”

  Devon made to interrupt, but Fey overrode him. She had taken the offensive in the interview and was not about to let Wyatt take it away from her. He was too slick. If she backed down in any way, he’d lawyer her into a corner.

  “The case against your son is part of an ongoing investigation, and I’m not going to discuss it with you. After Darcy is arraigned, his lawyer can apply for discovery through proper channels. Until that time, I don’t think there is anything I can do for you.”

  Wyatt sat back in his chair. His eyes were locked with Fey’s as he crossed his legs and adjusted the sharp crease in his trouser leg. “Very impressive, Detective Croaker.” His voice was filled with the mellifluous resonance that made him a killer with juries during final arguments. “I see I am going to have to reassess my estimate of you.”