Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

  “So, trouble came looking for us. There we are standing at the counter of the doughnut shop, in full uniform, when this stupid hop-head strolls through the door with his head down. My partner and I clocked him, but didn’t read it right. We thought he was just another transient looking to cadge some carbohydrates and a cup of Joe, but he suddenly pulls out some cowboy six shooter – probably ripped it off during his last burglary – and starts capping off rounds.”

  “Man, I bet you about crapped,” Bassett said with a laugh.

  “To say the least.”

  “Did you blow him up?”

  “Yeah, but not before he’d shot the owner and me. If I hadn’t been running on fumes from the previous night’s drinking, I would have seen the whole situation developing. I could have taken action earlier, maybe the poor hop-head wouldn’t have had to die because he was stupid.”

  “Sounds to me like he got what he deserved.”

  “He didn’t deserve to die in a squalid little crumb shop trying to get money to feed a monkey that was so deep into him that he had no real idea what he was doing.”

  “Yeah, but he shot you.”

  “And it was my fault. If I’d have been sharp, the junkie would never have had the chance to clear leather. I’d have seen the situation developing and shut it down before it went too far.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Morrison didn’t turn his head from the window, but his voice suddenly filled with ice and steel. “I do know that. And every day when I come to work, I live with the fact that some poor bastard died because I had too much party inside me.”

  Bassett snorted. “Are you telling me not to drink?”

  Morrison did turn his head now to look at his young partner. “No. I’m not telling you not to drink. I’m telling you to know your limits. I’m telling you to go home tonight and get some sleep. You’ve been dragging your ass all shift. You’re not sharp.”

  “That’s because we worked so long yesterday.” Bassett was defensive.

  “And did you go straight home after you got off yesterday?”

  Bassett was silent for a moment. “No,” he said eventually, quietly. “I grabbed a few beers with the morning watch guys.”

  Morrison was back staring out to sea. “That spell it out enough for you?”

  Bassett felt put out. Who did Morrison think he was to be telling him how to act? He already had one mother; he didn’t need another.

  “I’m not your mother, kid,” Morrison said, as if on cue. “I’m your partner and your friend. Now, do me a favor and turn this heap around and head back the other way.”

  “What?” Bassett was caught off guard by the change in subject. “What do you got?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

  “Come on, man. Let’s go back to the barn.”

  Morrison’s voice filled with ice and steel again. “Turn this car around. Now. We go back to the barn when I’m ready. You got that? When you’ve got twenty-five years on this job and I’m molding in my grave, you can be car commander. Until then we play things my way.”

  Bassett was seething mad. He didn’t need this crap. He made a wide U-turn in front of oncoming traffic.

  “Don’t get your shorts in a wedgie, kid. Hate me if you want, but if you’re going to be a good cop then learn to develop your instincts. While you’re still wet behind the ears, learn to put your money on mine.”

  “Where we going?” Bassett asked.

  “Cut the lights and pull in over there,” Morrison said, pointing to a parking lot on the beach side of the highway. “Don’t pull all the way in. Park blocking the entrance.”

  Bassett did as his partner asked. He could feel butterflies taking off in his stomach. There was something happening. He couldn’t see anything, but Morrison’s second-sight seemed to be rubbing off. Bassett felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

  “What do you see?” he asked Morrison.

  “Well, the first thing I see is that brand new Jeep Cherokee over there.” Morrison gestured with his chin toward the vehicle in question. It was the only vehicle in the otherwise deserted parking lot. With quick fingers he typed the vehicle license plate number into the MDT unit attached to the patrol car dash. The license was a personalized plate: SLMDUNK.

  “Okay. So I see the Jeep. So, what?” Beyond the Jeep a ribbon of sidewalk separated the parking lot from the edge of the sand. The sand stretched out in a dark mass past a lifeguard station with the number three on the side. The luminescence of the whitecaps tumbled gently down to mark the line between shore and water.

  “Use your eyes,” Morrison told his partner.

  Bassett stared out into the darkness. “You must be eating a lot of carrots, partner, ‘cause I can’t even see the license plate on the Jeep.

  “Don’t just look straight ahead. Use all of your sight. The best way to see movement is by using your peripheral vision.” Morrison checked the MDT screen for a DMV return on the Jeep. He read the information and then swiveled the screen toward Bassett.

  “JoJo Cullen?” Bassett asked in surprise. “JoJo ‘Jammer’ Cullen?”

  “How many other JoJo Cullens have you ever heard about?”

  “None, but you never know.”

  “If there are other JoJo Cullens,” Morrison said, “what are the odds they’d have SLAM DUNK as a personalized license plate?”

  JoJo Cullen had made a lot of headlines in Los Angeles over the past seven years. First in leading the UCLA Bruins back to the top of the national rankings, and then by signing a huge contract as a first-round draft choice with the San Diego Sails – a first year NBA expansion team. His endorsement deals had become the stuff of legend.

  In three years, with Cullen playing at center, the Sails had exploded from expansion team pushovers to an NBA powerhouse. Cullen was the San Diego franchise. Without Cullen, the San Diego Sails were just another expansion team. With Cullen, the Sails were putting butts in the bleachers and a major playoff force. Every kid playing street ball now wanted to be the next JoJo ‘Jammer’ Cullen. Way cool, man.

  “I still don’t understand what you’re getting so excited about,” Bassett said. “You’ve never struck me a celebrity hound.”

  Morrison reached over and hit the cut-off switch that deactivated all of the patrol car’s interior and exterior lighting. “I don’t understand what’s going on yet either, but I can feel it in my bones. Something’s not right. Get out of the car, and don’t close the door.”

  Both officers slipped out of the car and made their way to the Jeep. Bassett brought his flashlight up to light the interior of the Jeep. Morrison put a hand out to restrain him.

  “No lights,” he said. “Don’t ruin your night vision.” Morrison was not looking into the Jeep. Instead he was staring out toward the lifeguard station.

  The station was a wooden, roofed box supported on thick stilts about eight feet off the sand. On the water side of the station, a wooden stairway led from the sand to the platform.

  Bassett squinted his eyes and stared out in the same direction as Morrison. He tried not focusing on looking straight ahead, but on using his peripheral vision as Morrison had told him. After a second or two, he finally saw the same slight movement in the shadows under the lifeguard station that had drawn Morrison’s attention.

  “You must be half eagle,” he said to Morrison.

  “Maybe,” Morrison told him, watching. “But it probably has more to do with years of learning what to look for and how to look for it.”

  “But just because it’s JoJo’s Jeep doesn’t mean he was driving it. Maybe he lent it to somebody.”

  “I don’t care who was in the Jeep. I just have a feeling something isn’t right.”

  “How can you tell?” Bassett was sounding exasperated, as if Morrison was expounding on a concept that Bassett just couldn’t grasp. “I mean it’s probably just some guy who brought his girl to the beach to play park the dolphin.”

  “I don’t know how I
know. It’s a gut feeling, instinct, experience,” Morrison said, patiently. “It’s midnight. The beach is officially closed at ten o’clock. There’s only one car in the parking lot. There’s no young couple snogging down near the water’s edge trying to reenact From Here to Eternity. Instead, whatever activity is going on is taking place in the shadows under the lifeguard station. It just doesn’t set right.” He turned to face his young partner. “Are you willing to walk away, or do you want to find out for sure?”

  Bassett raised his eyebrows up and down in the dark. He heard the challenge in Morrison’s voice. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to get off on time. But he knew that if he did, he’d lose Morrison’s respect.

  “Okay, let’s find out,” he said. “If it is somebody getting their rocks off, maybe the girl will have big tits.”

  “Ah, to be young and still able to get a chubby over such things,” Morrison said, a happy anticipation in his voice. He moved forward, running his hand over the hood of the Jeep and feeling its heat. “Jeep’s been here ten minutes. Fifteen tops,” he judged.

  Moving onto the sand, the two officers fell silent. Using hand signals, Morrison shooed Bassett off to the left, both of them now circling and approaching the lifeguard station from different sides.

  Morrison had his powerful, six cell Kel-Lite in his left hand. Silently, he eased his Monadnock baton out of its ring with his right hand. He gripped the Yawara handle and felt the long end of the aluminum nightstick nestle comfortable along his forearm, the short end extended out beyond his grip ready to jab.

  Gradually, making little noise in the sand, Morrison moved into position near one of the lifeguard station’s supporting stilts. He could clearly hear grunting and heavy breathing coming from the dark shape in the shadows under the platform. Maybe his younger partner was right. Perhaps all they had was a pair of lovers rutting in the sand for all they were worth.

  Judging that Bassett should be in position, Morrison brought up his flashlight and turned on the powerful beam.

  The tall black man kneeling on the sand yelled out in surprise and instantly brought up a hand to cover his eyes.

  Beside him was a shallow hump of sand with a human arm sticking out of it.

  Chapter 24

  The black man on the sand was the first to recover. Coming out of his crouch like a surface-to-air missile, he launched himself at Morrison.

  Still stunned by the scene before him, Morrison took the full brunt of the black man’s shoulders at belt level. The remains of an undigested chili cheeseburger and fries made an instant return trip from his gullet, sprayed out of his mouth by the blast of air driven from the depths of his lungs. The Kel-Lite spun free from his hand, dropping into the sand and leaving the scene in darkness.

  From the other side of the lifeguard station, Bassett turned on his own flashlight. Being careful not to get sand in his shoes, he’d been slower moving into position than Morrison had anticipated. When Morrison had illuminated the scene, Bassett had only been able to see the blur of a body tackling Morrison and then the scene had gone dark again.

  Hearing his partner’s animalistic grunt, Bassett’s adrenaline kicked into high gear. The beam from his flashlight bounced like a demented firefly as he sprinted to where he had seen Morrison’s body fall. Concentrating on nothing more than reaching his partner’s side, the young officer didn’t see the shallow grave in the sand and stumbled over it as he passed under the middle of the lifeguard stand.

  Down on his knees, having lost his own flashlight in his fall, he crawled forward. Morrison was face down in the sand.

  “Dick! Dick!” Bassett yelled, as he rolled his partner over.

  Morrison groaned, spitting bile and sand. He croaked, more a choking sound than anything else.

  “Are you okay? Did he stab you?”

  “Just get after him!” Morrison gasped, his voice barely audible. “Get after him!”

  “But –”

  Morrison shoved Bassett away from him. “Now! Go!”

  Bassett had fallen back onto his butt. Disoriented, almost more in shock than Morrison was, he rolled slowly onto his knees and pushed himself to his feet. His night vision, destroyed by the beams of the flashlights, was returning and he could see a tall form running across the beach toward the parking lot.

  Morrison had pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Get after him,” he croaked louder, air returning to his lungs. He threw sand at Bassett to get him started.

  When he saw his younger partner begin to slowly run after the fleeing form, Morrison pulled his rover from his utility belt. He brought the hand-held radio to his mouth and pressed the send button. “Eight Adam Fifty-Six. Officers need help. Sunset and PCH. Beach-side parking lot.” He released the button, but nothing happened. There was no instant verbal response from the RTO.

  “Crap” Morrison said, loudly, and hit the rover to knock sand out of it. He tried his broadcast again. Still no response. With fingers that felt like fat sausages, he pushed the emergency switch on the top of the rover.

  In the communications command center, a light came on indicating a rover emergency switch had been activated. The RTO immediately checked to see to which unit the rover number was assigned.

  The RTO hit her broadcast switch. “All units. Rover 5480 has been activated. Eight Adam Fifty-Six come in.” The husky, feminine voice was alert, but calm as she attempted to get a response.

  “Stupid bitch,” Morrison said. “If I could come in,” he yelled at the radio’s voice box, “I wouldn’t have hit the emergency switch!” Morrison knew his frustration was unfounded. The RTO was only trying to establish if the emergency switch had been activated by accident.

  When there was no response from Morrison, the RTO broadcast again. “All units. Rover 5480 has been activated. Unknown location at this time.” It was the best the RTO could do; advise all the other patrol units that one of their buddies was in deep somewhere and there was nothing they could do about it but wait. “Eight Adam Fifty-Six come in.” The RTO again tried to raise Morrison, frustration tingeing the edges of her calm voice.

  “Hell!” Morrison said, and jammed the rover back into its belt holder. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered after his partner. Inwardly he cursed himself. He’d made a rookie mistake. He knew he should have given communications their Code 6 location before getting out of the car to investigate the movement under the lifeguard station. He was getting sloppy in his old age.

  Even if Morrison had been able to give his location now, he knew it would take forever before any units were able to reach them. Sunset and PCH was at the farthest, most inaccessible corner of the division. It was also time for change of watch, and almost everybody would be circling the station waiting to turn over their cars and equipment. If their suspect was not going to escape, it was strictly down to Morrison and Bassett to stop him.

  John Bassett put on a burst of speed as he cleared the last patch of sand and began running along the concrete sidewalk. He had regained most of his composure, realizing that this was the type of action he’d joined the department to engage in.

  Ahead of him, Bassett saw the fleeing shape stop at the door to the Jeep and begin fumbling with keys. “Freeze!” Bassett yelled, and then realized he was wasting his breath. The figure got the Jeep door open and slid inside.

  Bassett shot a look over his shoulder, confirming that the patrol car was effectively blocking the exit to the parking lot – another clever gimmick out of Morrison’s bag of tricks. Escape by jumping the curb was nixed by the inch-and-a-half cable that ran parallel to the curb at a height of three feet. The cable was supported every six feet by an iron pole.

  The Jeep’s engine caught and the rear wheels spun as the driver backed up. Bassett cut for the middle of the parking lot. Drawing his nine millimeter, he brought the pistol up in a two hand grip and settle into a stance. The Jeep accelerated toward him.

  Standing his ground, Bassett took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The Jeep’s
windshield shattered, and Bassett fired a second and third time. The Jeep kept coming straight for him.

  Bassett felt as if he was trapped in a nightmare, unable to move, his feet rooted to the ground. The Jeep became a snarling, hideous monster raging toward him with intent to devour.

  A heavy weight hit him from the side and drove him out of the path of the mechanical monster. Bassett hit the ground hard with Morrison on top of him. Pain brought back reality.

  “What do you think you are? A deer caught in the headlights? Get up!” Morrison was already on his feet again, dragging Bassett up by one shoulder.

  There was a loud crash as the Jeep smashed into the rear quarter panel of the patrol car. The trunk of the car swung away but jammed against one of the iron posts supporting the restraining cable. There wasn’t enough room for the Jeep to squeeze through. The driver backed the Jeep up and then rammed forward again. The patrol car buckled, but didn’t budge.

  “Call for help,” Morrison said, shaking his partner. He literally took Bassett’s hand and wrapped it around the rover on Bassett’s belt. “Call for help,” he said again. “Remember to tell them we’re at Sunset and PCH in the beach parking lot.” So far Morrison hadn’t been too impressed by Bassett’s reactions. If he had to treat him like a five year old – tell him everything – then he would. He left Bassett fumbling with the rover and started for the Jeep.

  As Morrison approached, the Jeep’s door opened and the driver spilled out onto the asphalt of the parking lot. When the driver climbed to his feet, Morrison had no doubt he was dealing with JoJo ‘Jammer’ Cullen in the flesh. He recognized the broad features of the game face that had made JoJo the terror of the professional basketball courts. At six foot ten inches, with two hundred and fifty pounds plus of professional muscle set on a pair of size seventeens, JoJo had personalized the smash-mouth, in-your-face brand of basketball in the NBA. Others players of the same style had preceded him, but JoJo was the current spearhead of the movement.

  “Give it up, JoJo,” Morrison said. He had his gun extended in the standard two handed grip. “Put your hands in the air. Do it!”