Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

  Sister Ruth sat quietly, then turned and refilled her coffee mug. The fact that she did not offer a refill to Fey and Ash was an indication of her inner turmoil. “The unvarnished truth can often do more damage than good,” she said eventually.

  Fey tried again. “Have you been saying your prayers for JoJo, Sister?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, God has sent two boats and a helicopter,” Fey said.

  Both Ash and Sister Ruth gave her a strange look.

  Fey caught their expressions and explained. “A preacher said his prayers and refused to leave his church when the local river overflowed its banks during a heavy rain storm. Pretty soon the water had flooded through the first level of the church. “The preacher again said his prayers and moved up to the second story. A passing boat spotted him through a window and asked him if he wanted a ride. The preacher said no because God would provide for him. The rains continued and the preacher was forced to move up to the roof of his church. Again he said his prayers.

  “A second boat came by and offered him a ride to safety. The preacher again refused, saying God would provide for him. The rains continued and the preacher was forced to climb the church steeple where he continued to pray.

  “A helicopter came and hovered over the preacher. They extended a rope ladder down. The preacher refused to climb the ladder, again saying that God would provide for him. The rains continued and eventually the preacher was swept away and drowned.” Fey paused.

  “And your point?” Sister Ruth asked.

  Fey drained her coffee cup. “When the preacher got to heaven he angrily confronted St. Peter. After all my prayers, why did God abandon me?’ he asked. ‘God didn’t abandon you,’ St. Peter told him. ‘He sent two boats and a helicopter.’” Fey paused again for effect. “Well, sister. we’re your helicopter.”

  Chapter 48

  “It’s not a particularly long story,” Sister Ruth had said after coffee cups had been refilled and homemade sweet rolls had been provided as a peace offering. “And I’m sure you already know most of it from everything that the press has dug up.” The lines in the mother superior’s face seemed to have deepened since she first greeted the detectives. It was as if she only had so much reserve energy to draw on to deal with JoJo’s situation, and that reserve was running dangerously low.

  “The press has a way of giving a distorted spin to most stories,” Fey said. “It’s one of the first things you learn when you become a police officer.”

  Sister Ruth set her cup down on the desk in front of her. “I have to agree,” she said. “I’ve never read a story I’ve been connected with that had all the facts right.”

  “That’s exactly the point, sister. We want you to tell us what you know, not just what the press and the instant biography books have churned out.”

  “And this will help JoJo? Not just make things worse?”

  “We can’t give you any guarantees one way or the other,” Fey said. “But I believe we’re on the same side here. And if we’re going to help JoJo, then we need help from the people who knew him best.”

  “Sister Ruth,” Ash crossed his legs and spoke up. “I don’t understand your reluctance to talk to us. We’re the police. We’re supposed to be the good guys. We want to help, but we can’t if you won’t help us first.”

  Sister Ruth picked up a pencil and began to fidget with it. “Mr. Wyatt, JoJo’s defense lawyer, came to see Father Peter and I when all this started. He told us not to speak to the police. He told us if we did we would be jeopardizing the case that was being built to defend JoJo.”

  Fey felt herself start to lose her temper. “Sister, we’re not Romans out to crucify Christ.” She didn’t make any effort to hide the exasperation in her voice. “It doesn’t matter to Devon Wyatt whether JoJo is innocent or as guilty as original sin – his only interest is in getting JoJo off. As far as I’m concerned, if JoJo is guilty, then he deserves to rot in hell. If he isn’t guilty, then it’s our job to find out who is. You’re going to have to decide what side of the fence you’re on. If you’re not going to help then say so, and we’ll get out of your hair and find somebody who will.”

  Sister Ruth put the pencil in her hand back down on the desk. “You’re not shy about speaking your mind are you, Detective Croaker?”

  “I haven’t been accused of being shy since my first high school dance, Sister. And that’s more than a few years ago.”

  Touching her crucifix again, Sister Ruth sat back in her chair and seemed to come to a decision. “JoJo’s mother died in the hospital while giving birth,” she said. “She was a prostitute and a drug addict – an illiterate, indigent woman with no family and no idea who the father of the child might be.”

  Ash caught Fey’s eyes and winked. He knew she’d taken a chance on Sister Ruth clamming up, but it was clear Fey had judged the situation right.

  “Sacred Heart has always been a nursing order,” Sister Ruth continued, unaware of the byplay between the two detectives. “We have a number of orphanages all over the world. This one in San Diego is one of three in America. We are one of the few facilities able to provide extended care for orphan infants born addicted to drugs. JoJo was born addicted to heroin.” She paused for a second. “Have you ever seen a drug baby, detective?”

  “It’s not a pretty sight,” Fey replied.

  “But one that is seen all too often,” Sister Ruth said. “Especially since the explosion of crack cocaine.”

  Sister Ruth found herself on the receiving end of inquiring looks from both Fey and Ash.

  The nun’s lips parted in a sardonic smile. “I told you I am not naive to the ills of the world. Everyone has the idea that nuns live a cloistered, untouched life – and some do – but the majority of us toil in the realms of the world where there can be no illusions.”

  “I take it that JoJo came to Sacred Heart from the hospital,” Fey said, bringing the conversation back onto point.

  “Yes,” Sister Ruth said, nodding her head. “He had an especially difficult time, but he made it through. The problems, of course, came when we tried to find an adoptive home for him. Most people are not prepared to give the extra care that a drug baby needs. They have visions in their head of perfect children and there is no room for a child that already has challenges.

  It is no different now. We still have many drug babies that come to Sacred Heart. We try to find homes for as many of them as we can, but it is difficult. Most of those we don’t find adoptive homes for move on to other institutions, but a few – like JoJo – continue to grow up here.”

  “How many children do you have at Sacred Heart?” Fey asked.

  “Currently we provide care for seventeen infants, four toddlers, eight intermediates, and seven teens.”

  “Quite a responsibility,” Ash said.

  “We do more than just provide a home and raise children here,” Sister Ruth said, looking as if she’d been insulted. “We do a lot of work within the community and –”

  “I’m sorry, sister,” Fey interrupted. “I’m sure you do far more than your share of good works, but it’s JoJo we’re interested in here.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sister Ruth said.

  “We understand that JoJo was placed in homes on several occasions,” Fey prompted.

  “Yes. When he was four and six – and of course his final placement when he was fourteen with the Kingston family.”

  “Why the early returns?” Fey asked.

  “There are often many reasons for the failure of a child to assimilate into a foster or adoptive family.”

  “Don’t be coy, sister. I thought we’d gone beyond that point.”

  Sister Ruth reached up and slightly adjusted her coronet. “The first choice turned out badly. There were other natural siblings in the family, one of which took a dislike to JoJo. The dislike resulted in two broken bones. The police took a hard look at the parents, but JoJo was old enough to explain what happened. The parents refused to believe JoJo and he was se
nt back to us. A blessing in the long run, I’m sure.”

  “And the second time?” Fey asked.

  Sister Ruth shifted from shrugging to sighing. “I’m afraid that even at a young age, JoJo showed a predilection for what you now know is his homosexual nature. Later he learned to hide that part of himself from the world, but at the time he was far too young to know better. The family he was with were not at all accepting of the situation. It was very much a mess.”

  “So, JoJo stayed and grew up at Sacred Heart?”

  “Yes. He was an extremely sweet child. To most people he was a withdrawn loner, but to those of us who knew him well he was a quiet delight.” This last was said with a certain amount of satisfaction. “He was a slow learner in school, but he discovered his physical skills with a basketball and spent hour after hour watching games and practicing by himself with an old backboard and hoop that Father Peter installed for him.”

  “It must have been quite a shock to you then when the Kingston family offered to take him in when he was fourteen.”

  “Yes, but a wonderful shock. Richard Kingston was renowned as a championship high school basketball coach. Many of his players went on to star in college and have professional careers.”

  “You sound like a fan yourself, sister,” Ash said.

  “But, of course,” Sister Ruth said with a laugh. “Wouldn’t you be if one of your children became a star like JoJo?” The motherly pride in her voice was obvious. “And JoJo has long been a part of our Sacred Heart family.”

  “Didn’t Richard Kingston have children of his own?” Fey asked.

  “Yes. He had two boys. Both of them were excellent basketball players, but they didn’t have the drive or the skills that JoJo possessed. They were only slightly older than JoJo, and at one point all three played together for their father on their high school championship team. A tremendous accomplishment.”

  “I’ll just bet you were in the bleachers for the finals,” Ash said.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the Pope’s blessing,” Sister Ruth said, and then put a hand over her mouth in guilt.

  “When did JoJo come back to the orphanage to live?” Fey asked.

  Sister Ruth’s mood suddenly turned somber. “After his graduation from UCLA and he was drafted by the San Diego Sails.”

  “I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Fey said, “but what was his motivation for returning to Sacred Heart. I mean if he wanted to move home why didn’t he move back with the Kingston family?”

  “He couldn’t,” Sister Ruth said bluntly.

  “I don’t understand,” Fey said.

  “You said you wanted something that the papers haven’t got hold of yet.”

  Ash and Fey both sat forward on their chairs. “Go on,” Fey said.

  Sister Ruth looked squarely at both detectives. “It was covered up at the time, but Richard Kingston committed suicide in JoJo’s senior year on the night when UCLA was eliminated in the quarter finals of the Final Four competition.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He hung himself.”

  Chapter 49

  Devon Wyatt eased himself back in the red leather chair behind his desk and allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile. He reached out with the manicured fingers of one hand and opened the humidor that sat along one edge of the huge Empire table that acted as his desk. He removed a La Gaza from the stock inside and then closed the lid.

  Taking a cigar guillotine from the pocket of his gold brocade waistcoat, he clipped the end of the cigar into a brass waste paper basket. He rolled the expensive tobacco back and forth between his finger and then ran it under his nose. He never knew what that accomplished, but he recognized it was as much of a ritual as inhaling the odor from a glass of wine before taking the first sip. Only a few rare individuals could truly judge anything from such actions, but everyone wanted to be recognized for their class even if the only person they were impressing was themselves.

  Wyatt’s Beverly Hills offices occupied the top floor of the Esterman Building – a square domed edifice that ran twenty-six stories high. From a distance, the phallic symbolism of the building was obvious, and Wyatt like to think of himself as a steroid injected sperm whenever he pressed the penthouse button and ejaculated up the internal elevator.

  His corner office overlooked Sunset Boulevard where the famous street literally turned from the class of 90210 to the crassness of Hollywood. Wyatt enjoyed looking out of both picture windows and seeing the change in the street. He saw the transition as representing the both sides of his own personality – the smooth dandy covering the remorseless shark.

  Once Wyatt had lighted his cigar evenly and blown a long stream of smoke into the air, he picked up the remote control perched on his desk top. He pointed it at the elaborate entertainment system across the room and pressed one of the soft buttons. There was a click as the tape player activated.

  “Because I don’t think JoJo did it.” Fey Croaker’s voice abruptly spat from strategically placed Bose speakers.

  Devon Wyatt smiled and turned up the volume.

  “Wow,” the voice Wyatt knew belonged to Dr. Emma Winter stated. “I thought the whole case was almost a foregone conclusion.”

  “Not according to the defense.” Fey again.

  “Nonsense,” from Dr. Winter, “Anyone with any common sense can see that this Devon Wyatt person is strictly using smoke and mirrors to put together a defense. But now you come along and say he might be right.”

  Wyatt puffed at his cigar and then grinned so wide his gold capped molars showed. Smoke and mirrors maybe, but good smoke and mirrors, he thought.

  The tape continued to whirl.

  “I’m not saying that Devon Wyatt is right.” Fey’s disembodied voice filled the room.

  Of course you wouldn’t, Wyatt thought, almost getting aroused.

  “I just think there’s more to this case than meets the eye.”

  Fey’s voice continued, explaining to her psychiatrist the theories she and Ash had developed regarding JoJo’s innocence. Devon Wyatt drank it all in. He listened to the tape all the way through, hearing for the fourth time Fey speaking about her brother and her innermost feelings regarding him. When it was over, he rewound the cassette and turned off the tape player.

  He had been skeptical when one of his toadies had been approached by Sharon Barnes – Dr. Winter’s receptionist – but he quickly came to see that Sharon’s motives were pure and simple greed. Now that was something Wyatt could understand.

  He’d bartered for the tape, paying a third of what Sharon had started out asking, but it had turned out to be worth a hundred times the price and then some.

  The tape put not only Fey Croaker in the palm of his hand, it put the whole LAPD there. And Devon Wyatt could make a fist and crush them all any time he wanted.

  He reached out and plucked a portable phone from his desk. He pressed an automatic number. Waiting for the number to dial, he adjusted his brocade vest that stood out in vivid contrast to the piercing white of his starched, French cuffed dress shirt.

  A voice answered the phone on the third ring. “Empowerment to all people.”

  “This is Devon Wyatt. Put me through to Reverend Brown.”

  There was a click on the line.

  Ten seconds later another voice came on.

  “This is Reverend Brown.”

  “Aloysius, how are you?”

  “A pleasure to hear from you Brother Wyatt.” Aloysius Brown, political and racial shaker and mover, knew Wyatt hated to be called brother. However, it was one of the few liberties Brown allowed himself to perpetrate against a man he knew was a powerful ally. Mutual manipulation had often paid off for both of them. “Is your call business or pleasure, brother?”

  “It’s always a pleasure to do business with you Aloysius.” Wyatt paused to puff on the stub of his cigar. “How would you like to whip up a little demonstration for me?”

  “
Racial, political, or environmental? Women’s rights, anti-abortion, or pro-abortion? Animal activists, gay rights, or –”

  “Slow down, Aloysius, you’re beginning to sound like a Chinese menu.” Wyatt chuckled. “You truly don’t care, do you?”

  “I never tried to hide the truth from one of my own kind.”

  Wyatt wasn’t sure if he like that, but perhaps objectively it might be true. “You’re going to make a great governor one day,” he said, knowing Brown’s political aspirations went far beyond. “But how do you know I’m not taping this conversation?”

  “Because I have the latest in anti-phone taping equipment placed on this line and I’m not getting the slightest reading on the dial.”

  Wyatt allowed himself a full chuckle. “You have a style, Aloysius. You surely do.”

  “So what’s it going to be, and can you pay my fee?”

  “Have I ever not been able to cover your fee?” The question was rhetorical and Wyatt didn’t wait for an answer. “I need a little mix of racial attitude and cop baiting.”

  “The specialty of the house,” Brown said. “When and where?”

  “Why don’t we decide together? I have a tape, I’d like you to listen to first.”

  “Send a limo for me,” Brown said.

  “Like I said, you have a style, Aloysius.” Wyatt hung up.

  Placing the remains of his cigar in a chunky glass ash tray, Wyatt intercommed his secretary to send a car for Brown. He then stood up and began to pace the office as he listened to the tape of Fey’s psychiatric session yet again.

  The problem he had was that Croaker might be right. Her thought process made a warped sense.

  And if Croaker was right, then Wyatt was wrong.

  He’d thought JoJo was guilty as hell.

  Chapter 50

  “You should have seen your face,” Ash said to Fey as they drove away from the Sacred Heart Orphanage.

  “My face?” Fey questioned. “What about your face? I thought we were going to have to peel your chin off the floor.”