Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

  “Watch me,” Brewbeck said.

  Fey scowled, but picked up the pill cup and tossed its contents into her mouth. She swallowed and then downed the water chaser. “Ick,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I hate taking pills.” She set the empty Dixie Cup down and glared at Brewbeck. “I used to think you were okay.”

  Brewbeck’s gentle laugh sounded a deep resonance. “Given time, you will again.”

  “What about Tommy?” Fey asked.

  Brewbeck twitched his head at the nurse. She picked up the signal and left the mismatched pair alone.

  “I told you he’s going to be okay, but how about you give me a little information first?” Brewbeck translated Fey’s silence as acceptance. “I saw the tracks on his arms. He used to be a junkie.”

  “Once a junkie, always a junkie. Isn’t that what they say?”

  Brewbeck’s massive shoulders rose and fell. “Perhaps, but he didn’t fall off the wagon this time. From what I can tell he hasn’t been voluntarily pinging himself for maybe a year or more.”

  “He just finished a county lid a couple of months back, so that’s not saying much.”

  Brewbeck raised his eyebrows. It was unusual for somebody to do an entire year in county jail.

  “I made sure he did the time,” Fey responded to Brewbeck’s surprise. “To cut a long story short,” she said, “I spent the better part of my life protecting Tommy from both the big bad world and from himself. I know now that it may not have been the best course of action. He never learned to stand on his own two feet. I finally had to draw the line somewhere. When I did, he responded by breaking into my house and ripping me blind. I pressed charges. He went to jail. I made sure he stayed there. Life is hard.”

  An image of her father flashed into Fey’s mind. She remembered his threats vividly. If she didn’t do what Daddy wanted, Daddy would cut off little Tommy’s wanker. That’s when the protecting had started – and like the abuse, it had never stopped.

  “You had any contact with him since he got out?”

  “None that he knows about.”

  Brewbeck’s lips twitched at that statement. “You’ve been keeping tabs?”

  “He’s still my brother.”

  “What about your parents.”

  “Dead.”

  “No other siblings?”

  Fey shook her head.

  “You know about the underground raves?”

  “Yeah. I also know Tommy was fronting them.”

  Raves were huge floating parties attended by the detritus of the Generation X set. An abandoned warehouse, or some similar deserted location was chosen as a party point. Word was put out on the street and a buzz began to cultivate. A bar was established – usually nothing more than a plank across two oil drums. A portable sound system was brought in and set up. Sometimes a band or two was procured for the gig. Around one or two in the morning the first revelers would begin to show up at the location, and the music, the dancing, the booze, the drugs, and the blood would flow through till dawn. The location was then broken down to be moved and set up somewhere else. The profits from the booze and the entrance fees fell tax-free into the promoter’s pocket. Fey was aware that Tommy had been part of a group managing and producing the raves.

  “You knew your brother was involved?” Brewbeck asked.

  “I told you, I had to stop being his keeper. I knew, but I wasn’t – couldn’t – do anything about it. As far as I knew Tommy was making the scene, but staying clean. It wasn’t much, but it was something. An improvement ... a promise of better things to come, maybe ... I don’t know.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve been going through the ringer with this guy for a while now.”

  “It’s a long and typically sordid story.”

  “I can sympathize,” Brewbeck said. “There’s was a black sheep in my family as well.”

  “No pun intended?”

  Brewbeck shrugged and gave a smile. “Maybe just a little.” His face took on a grimmer expression. “The problem is, the black sheep in my family is dead now and I never had the chance to make my peace with him. It bothers me.”

  “I don’t think peace is an arrangement that Tommy and I will ever reach. The wounds run too deep.”

  “You have to keep trying.”

  Fey returned Brewbeck’s shrug. “If you say so,” she said. “What happened this time?”

  “The good news is that Tommy’s overdose wasn’t self-administered. The bad news is that there were about thirty others in the same condition that were brought it along with him.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. Best we can tell is that Tommy and the others were at a rave in an abandoned building behind the deserted Henshy’s store. Witnesses say everybody was shooting squirt guns – apparently that’s the in thing right now – only somebody thought it would be funny to shoot people with PCP.”

  “Yikes.” Fey said.

  “Exactly,” Brewbeck replied. “People were getting shot in the mouth, in the face, the eyes. The PCP went straight into their system, and the next thing you know the rave turned into a freak-out.”

  “How’s Tommy?”

  “He was one of the first to come through the ordeal. He’s resting right now, and can probably be discharged in the next couple of hours.”

  “Did he ask for me?” Fey couldn’t keep the hope out of her voice.

  “No,” Brewbeck said quietly. “One of the cops who brought them in recognized him and knew he was related to you.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Rensler.”

  Fey knew who Brewbeck was talking about. He was a veteran Santa Monica street cop whom she’d had some interaction with in the past. “He tell you to call me?”

  “Did it himself. I think he got hold of your boss.”

  Fey nodded. “Can I see Tommy?”

  “Sure. You feeling up to it?”

  “After those two Valium, I think I could handle meeting the devil himself. You could make a fortune dealing those on the side.”

  “Nah,” said Brewbeck. “I’d hate to go into competition with the national health plan.” He opened the door and ushered Fey through.

  Together they walked through the ER room, down a long corridor, and into recovery. Fey saw Tommy lying propped up in a portable hospital bed. He had his eyes closed and appeared to be asleep.

  She’d had no contact with her brother since he’d finished his county time, but she had seen him once. She’d been there to meet him at the release gate, but Tommy had walked right past her as if she didn’t exist. She’d wanted to chase after him, to tell him she was sorry for what he’d been through – what she’d forced him to go through. She knew, however, that if she tried to start protecting and helping him again it would defeat the purpose of the most difficult decision she’d ever had to make.

  She’d let him walk away. It tore her up inside, but if she had to lose their relationship in order for him to change, then it might be worth it.

  Watching him lying in the bed, his gaunt, pock-marked face a slack visage of neglect, she felt her stomach roll. Brewbeck was behind her. When he sensed her faltering, he placed both hands on her shoulders and squeezed.

  “Don’t ever stop trying,” he said. His voice was soft and gentle.

  Fey walked forward and took one of Tommy’s hands from the top of the bed sheets. The arm it was attached to was stick thin and corded with veins.

  “Tommy ...” she started quietly.

  Her brother opened his eyes, and for the briefest of moments when their eyes collided it was as if they were young kids again and had all the love in the world for each other. But the moment passed in a flicker and the hate of the intervening years stepped through.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice was high pitched, but thick with drowsiness.

  “I heard what happened. I came to see if you were okay.”

  “All of a sudden you’re the concerned sister? Why don’t you just back off? The role doesn’t su
it you.”

  Fey tried to ignore the bluster. “Who did this, Tommy? Do you know?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I don’t need you to fight my battles anymore.”

  Fey fought to keep her calm. “I don’t want to fight them for you anymore, Tommy. I want to fight them with you.”

  For a moment Tommy looked as if he was going to cry. “I’ll fight for myself,” he said, his voice now slightly choked. “Isn’t that what you wanted? I don’t need you anymore. You don’t have to worry about me. I learned real good how to take care of myself.”

  “Then what are you doing lying in this hospital bed?” Fey snapped and immediately regretted the statement.

  Tommy opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. He pulled his hand out of Fey’s grasp and rolled away from her onto his side.

  “Tommy, I’m sorry.”

  “Go away, Fey. I don’t want to talk to you.”

  Fey knew it was no good pressing it further. Tommy had always been good at finding ways to punish her when he was angry. That much appeared not to have changed. Not knowing what else to do, she turned and walked away. She felt Brewbeck watching her, and turned to face him.

  “Take good care of him, will you?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Do you need anything?”

  “Nah.” She gave the doctor a world-weary grin. “I’m a tough old broad. I’ll live through this.” She shook Brewbeck’s hand and walked away.

  In the lobby of the ER room, Fey picked up the receiver of a pay phone and dialed the squad room. When it was answered, she asked for Monk.

  “This is Fey,” she said, when he came on the line. “Anything cooking?”

  “Jackpot time, boss. We just got a make on the victim.”

  Chapter 19

  It was getting on for four in the afternoon, but the squad room was still humming with activity. Detectives from the Robbery Unit had just returned from serving a pair of arrest and search warrants. They were busily taking off bulletproof vests and examining an array of confiscated weapons. Two Jamaican posse members with flowing dreadlocks sat handcuffed to a bench in front of the squad room lockers.

  Fey looked around for her own people and spotted Alphabet sitting at the squad room’s only computer. He appeared to be tediously punching out a preliminary report from his notes on the autopsy. The affable detective’s typing skills still hadn’t progressed past the hunt-and-peck stage. Alphabet, however, preferred to refer to himself as a Biblical typist – as in “seek and ye shall find.” In actuality, he was proof that you may be able to propel police equipment into the twentieth century, but getting the detectives there was another story.

  As usual, Hammersmith and Rhonda Lawless had their heads together at their end of the MAC table. They were surrounded by stacks of paperwork, buff-colored suspect folders, and the blue notebooks that were used to log cases. Fey had no idea what the duo was doing, but trusted them enough to leave them to it.

  Monk was sitting at Fey’s desk peering at a teletype. Brindle was standing behind him with her hand on his shoulder. She was bending over, looking at the teletype in Monk’s hand and managing to stick one of her breasts in his ear at the same time. To his credit, Monk appeared not to notice.

  “Leave the poor man alone,” Fey said sotto voce as she came up behind Brindle. “He’s married.”

  Brindle stood straight up as if she’d been electrified. “Excuse me?” she said, turning to Fey.

  “Oh, nothing,” Fey said. She dumped her purse down on her desk top. “What do we have?”

  Monk held the teletype out to Fey. “DOJ return,” he told her. “They sent us twenty possibles from the description, but we were able to eliminate over half of those by using the photos DOJ faxed down. Some of the faxed photos weren’t too clear, so we made some calls on the others and eliminated a couple more. By that time, Alphabet was back from the autopsy. The doctor had noted a small, port-wine birthmark on the victim’s back.”

  “That should have narrowed things down considerably,” Fey said.

  “It did. However, the strange thing was that two of the missing persons descriptions that came down from DOJ mentioned port-wine birthmarks on the back. The photos were also similar.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  Monk raised his eyebrows. “You know how these things go,” he said. “It’s never too easy.”

  “Dental records?” Fey asked.

  “Yeah,” Monk said. “That was the clincher. “Alphabet brought back a preliminary dental chart on the victim. I called DOJ and they faxed down the dental charts of our two possibles from their files. Our victim had three fillings and a missing bicuspid. One of the charts from DOJ matched.”

  “Outstanding. So, we have an ID. Who’s the victim?”

  Monk pointed at the teletype now in Fey’s hand. Fey held it up to read and had to push it out to arm’s length. “Help me out here,” she said. “It’s obvious I don’t have my glasses.”

  “Ricky Long,” Brindle said. “A fourteen-year-old runaway from San Francisco.”

  “Fourteen,” Fey sighed heavily. “He looked a little older. What a crying shame.” She felt deflated, depressed.

  “That’s not the end of the bad news,” Monk said.

  Fey waited in silence. Brindle filled in the blank. “The victim’s mother is a San Francisco cop.”

  Fey rolled her eyes. “That’s all we need. Has anybody talked to her yet?”

  “She’s on duty,” Monk told his boss. “I talked with her watch commander. He’s put a call out for her to return to the station. He’ll have her contact us.”

  “That’s going to be a fun notification.” Resignation outweighed the sarcasm in Fey’s voice.

  “I’ll do it,” Brindle said.

  Fey was surprised. It was unlike Brindle to volunteer for anything. “Are you sure?” Fey asked. “It’s not a pleasant job. I won’t stick you with it if you don’t want to handle it.”

  “No, I can handle it,” Brindle said. There was something in her voice that made both Fey and Monk give her their attention.

  Brindle looked a bit uncertain under their gaze, but then seemed to gather her courage. “My father was killed in an on-the-job accident at a construction site. The way the news was broken to my mother almost killed her.” The cocoa-colored skin across her model-sharp features swallowed with the memory. “I won’t let that happen to somebody else if I can help it.” This was a side of Brindle that hadn’t been seen before.

  “I don’t like delivering the bad news,” Fey said. “But I’m not completely insensitive.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you were,” Brindle said. “It’s just something I feel I can do well because I’ve been there. Do you mind?”

  Fey put up her hands. “Not in the least. I’ll even appoint you the unit’s official bomb dropper, if you like.”

  Brindle nodded, suddenly looking close to tears. She walked away in the direction of the bathroom without saying anything further.

  Fey tried reading the teletype again. She had about as much success as the first time. “Give me the run down on what else we know about this kid. What’s his name again?”

  “Ricky Long,” Monk told her. “He’s been a chronic runaway since he was twelve.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Not at this point. Last time he was home was three weeks ago. He’d been picked up for prostitution by West Hollywood Sheriffs and returned home. I called the West Hollywood juvenile unit. They remembered the case. Evidently, the kid’s mother came down and picked him up. Full of concern, but frustrated as hell. She’s divorced and has three other kids.” Monk took the teletype back from Fey and checked it. “Two boys and a girl. All older than Ricky and apparently not a problem among them.”

  “All of them have the same father?”

  “No idea,” said Monk.

  “Where is the father?”

  Monk shrugged. “Haven’t gotten to that information yet. Are you thinking possible suspect?”

&n
bsp; “I doubt it,” Fey said. “Unless we can prove some kind of a tie-in to the Sheriffs’ victim. But who knows?”

  Monk pulled out the murder book he’d started on the case and made a note. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Talking about the Sheriff’s victim, did DOJ come up with anything there?”

  “McCoy and Blades had already done a run through, but I did it again. Nothing so far.”

  “Any possibles?”

  “The Sheriffs’ victim was a male black. DOJ sent us down six files to look at, but Blades and McCoy had already eliminated them. There was nothing new.”

  “Okay,” Fey said. “I want them eliminated again. Do we have a copy of the Sheriffs’ file yet?”

  “Yeah. That FBI guy – Ash. He left us a copy.”

  “Good. Go through it with a fine tooth comb. Whatever Blades and McCoy did, I want redone.”

  “Wow. That’s going to be a lot of work, boss.”

  “Do you trust them to have done it right?”

  Monk blew air heavily out through his lips. “Point taken. I’ll get on it.”

  “Don’t do it all yourself,” Fey told him. “Delegate some of it to Brindle and Alphabet. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but you’ll kill yourself otherwise.”

  “I think that sometimes you forget to take your own advice.”

  “That’s twice today you’ve pulled me up about my professional conduct. Don’t push your luck too far.”

  Monk looked stricken. “I ... I didn’t –”

  “Relax,” Fey told him. “I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said, but just because you’re right doesn’t mean I have to like it. It’s a tough time for me right now. I’m learning there are a number of areas I should be doing better in. It’s discouraging. I thought I was all grown up.”

  “Don’t be discouraged. Be encouraged…you’re still growing. It means you’re alive.”

  “When did you going into private practice, Dr. Lawson?”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “You can help by identifying the Sheriffs’ victim.”

  Saying nothing more, Monk relinquished Fey’s chair and walked away with the first teletype in his hand.

  Feeling weary, Fey sat down and fumbled in her purse for her makeup bag. She took out two Midol and swallowed them dry.