Croaker: Kill Me Again (Fey Croaker Book 1)

by Paul Bishop

  Croaker: Kill Me Again

  A Detective Fey Croaker LAPD Novel

  Paul Bishop

  Croaker: Kill Me Again

  A Detective Fey Croaker LAPD Novel

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2018 (as revised) Paul Bishop

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-64119-431-0

  Contents

  Get your FREE copy of The Chicago Punch: A Short Story

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  A Look at Croaker: Grave Sins

  Books By Paul Bishop

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  About the Author

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  Author’s Note

  Kill Me Again and the other original Fey Croaker novels are set in the late ‘90s. As such, the storylines represent the attitudes and technology relevant to the time period…

  Croaker: Kill Me Again

  Chapter 1

  LOS ANGELES, 1995

  Fey Croaker looked up from the arrest report occupying her attention and saw Lieutenant Michael Cahill crossing the squad room toward her. As she watched his approach, she felt a familiar chill of anticipation wash over her. Goose bumps thrilled up her neck. Her Irish mother always told her the feeling came from someone walking over your grave. If it was true, Fey hoped they were walking softly.

  “The first stiff of the new year?” she asked when Cahill was close enough.

  The detective lieutenant shook his head in genuine amazement. “How do you always know when I'm coming to tell you we've got a cold one? It's spooky, Fey.”

  “It's instinct.”

  “I don't care if it's ESP. It's still spooky.”

  Fey took off her reading glasses and set them on her desk. “Where's the body?”

  “Two-zero-zero-eight Mirrorwood.” Cahill held out a pink phone memo with the scribbled information.

  Fey took the note, glancing at it. Without her glasses on, she had to hold it at arm's length. “The new townhome complex above San Vincente and Barrington? What's it called? Oak Vista Estates? The one only dope dealers and Ferrari salesmen can afford.”

  “Yeah. It's a sure bet the homeowners' association isn't going to be real pleased about the situation. The people who live in the complex are paying through the nose for private security and all the other amenities.”

  Fey looked at Cahill. “Come off it, Mike. Those people put more money up their nose in a day than they pay in homeowners' fees. It’s pin money to them.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you're a cynic?”

  “Yeah. It's why I'm good at my job.” Fey stood up and checked her watch. Eight-thirty. A hell of a way to start a day. “Who found the body?” she asked.

  “The maid. She thinks it's the owner...” Cahill grappled with his memory and then pointed to the memo he'd given Fey. “I wrote the name down.”

  Fey gave the pink slip of paper another long-distance glance. “Miranda Goodwinter?” she read with a question in her voice.

  “Sounds right,” Cahill said. “Anyway, the body is female, white, fortysomething. Naked. The maid didn't take too close a look. Too much blood.”

  “So, no positive ID?”

  “Nothing beyond the maid's guess, which is probably going to turn out to be good.”

  “I don't recognize the possible victim’s name. Any political or big-time money overtones yet?”

  Cahill snorted. “This is West L.A. Unless the stiff is homeless, there's always political or big-time money overtones. Do you think the Oak Vista Estates homeowners' board are going to stand by quietly while we go about our business? They're going to be screaming bloody murder to both the chief's and the mayor's office. If we don't solve this one in a hurry, our butts are going to be in the middle of the skillet.”

  The West Los Angeles Division was the jewel in the crown of the Los Angeles Police Department, the gem of all twenty-one geographic divisions. Many of L.A.'s richest areas, including Brentwood, Bel-Air, Cheviot Hills, and Pacific Palisades, fell within its jurisdiction.

  Beverly Hills had their own technology worshiping police department bordering the West L.A. Division to the east. The city of Santa Monica had a similar setup on the division's west side, although they favored a more liberal mode. And the northern border along Mulholland Drive possessed some of the most expensive and isolated estates in the city, if not the world.

  West L.A. was the rich filling in a money sandwich.

  When Fey had first promoted in to West L.A. as a Detective II with sixteen years on the job, Mike Cahill had taken her aside to explain the divisional facts of life. Things were handled differently in West L.A., Cahill told her, because the rich never went up the chain of command. Instead, they started at the top and let the crap roll downhill. The rich were different and expected to be treated differently.

  This different treatment didn't mean the rich never went to jail. But it did mean officers better be sure of what they had before slapping the cuffs on some movie star's brat. It also made things very tough for an officer who stopped someone for drunk driving only to find out the lawbreaker was on his way home from a thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser for the mayor.

  Neither did the difference mean the rich automatically had all their crimes solved or all their property recovered. But it did mean a detective better be prepared to jump a little higher when a councilman's wife said there was a trespasser on her grounds while her husband was out of town on a junket. This was true even if there was no trespasser, and the only reason the wife had called was because she was lonely and horny and wanted some attention from the stud of a uniformed officer who she knew would respond to her 911 call.

  Fey played the game with the rich very well. She was known for her bedside manner and for her ability to soothe even the most ruffled of feathers. She was also known to so
lve a lot of crimes and put a lot of suspects behind bars. In an enclosed world where reputation counts for almost everything, Fey was a rising star. The respect, however, was still grudging because she was still undeniably a woman in a man's world. A bitch in the locker room. Different generation, but the same prejudice.

  After four years in West L.A., her abilities led to her promotion to Detective III. Two years later, she was given the homicide unit to supervise. It was the top detective spot in the division, and Fey was the first woman to ever head the unit. She was pleased at first to have overcome the barrier. Then she found out orders had come down from on high to put a woman in the spot, not because a woman, or specifically Fey, deserved the spot, but because a token had to be presented for public relations purposes.

  Fey's initial reaction to this news had been anger. She almost stalked into Cahill's office to throw her badge and gun on the desk and resign, like in the movies. Cooler thoughts prevailed, though, and on reflection she decided it didn't matter what the motivation was for placing her in the position. She – Fey Croaker – was still in the position, and it was up to her to prove she could do the job, not because she was a woman, but because she was a hell of a good detective.

  Fey had worked homicide earlier in her career as a Detective I, and later as a Detective II. She had quickly learned the supposed differences between the rich and poor were only superficial. When you worked homicide, dead was dead. Murder had no respect for wealth.

  Fey sighed and massaged the bridge of her nose with the thumb and index finger of her left hand. Her nails were long, but the blood-red polish on them was chipped.

  She felt a deep sigh dissipate in her chest. You always wanted the first body in January to be easy, a self-solver. It set the tone for the rest of the year. This one felt rough.

  She shoved together the paperwork she had been shuffling and stood up. “Have the coroner and the SID lab boys been notified?”

  Cahill nodded his head. “The uniforms radioed for them as soon as they saw the stiff.”

  “How about an ambulance crew?”

  “On the scene now.”

  “Good. Okay. Who are the blue-suiters on the scene?”

  “Eight-A-Sixty-Four. Reeves and Watts.”

  Fey cringed. “Reeves? He wouldn't know a suspect if one came up and jumped in the backseat of his police car. He probably hasn't gotten any further in the investigation than trying to put the make on the maid. Watts is okay, but still very wet behind the ears.”

  Cahill gave a weary smile. “If working homicide was easy, we'd let someone from the mayor's staff investigate.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Fey said, rolling her eyes before becoming serious again. “Do me a favor?” she requested. “Send the uniforms a message over the MDT to make sure they have the crime scene taped off and are staying outside the residence. The last thing we need is the crime scene contaminated by Reeves doing his kleptomaniac act or Watts flicking cigarette ash over all the evidence.”

  “Anything else?”

  Fey took a breath before continuing. “Make sure they've got an incident log started and they're keeping the maid isolated from other witnesses.”

  “Will do,” said Cahill.

  “Oh, make sure they keep the ambulance crew there until we arrive. I'm going to want to interview them and find out what they touched or moved.”

  Cahill said, “Check.” He had a lot of faith in Fey. She was very methodical in her investigations and didn't miss a trick.

  Fey picked up the unit's sign-in sheet and stared at it. “I'll take Hatcher with me,” she said, making a notation on the sheet.

  “Why don't you take Colby?”

  Fey gave Cahill a sharp look. It was very unlike the lieutenant to question who she assigned to a case.

  Cahill caught Fey's glance and held up a hand in mock defense before she could retort verbally. “Colby asked specifically to be assigned to this one,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “He knows the lay of the land up there.”

  “What does that mean?” She didn't like Colby. Supervising him was bad enough, but she loathed the thought of actually partnering him on a case.

  “Because he dresses like a wannabe movie star with the taste of a two-dollar whore doesn't mean he knows the rich any better than the rest of us.”

  “Come on, Fey,” Cahill said. “Give the guy a break. He's a good detective. He needs a little experience.”

  “Not to hear him tell it,” she said.

  As if on cue, Alan Colby came up the back stairs and cut a swath across the squad room. Tall and athletic, he walked past the random clumps of desks scattered around the room, and flashed a grin at Cahill and Fey.

  “Was somebody talking about me?” he asked, picking up leftover vibrations of conversation. “My ears are burning.”

  “Grab your stuff,” Fey told him as she reached down to take a shoulder-holstered Smith & Wesson .38 out of her desk drawer. “We've got a stiff waiting for us up in Brentwood.”

  “Hotdog!” Colby said.

  “I'm glad you find death something to be happy about.”

  “Chill out, Frog Lady. I'm turned on by a challenge.”

  Fey halted in the process of slipping on her shoulder rig. “I won't tell you again, Colby. Don't call me Frog Lady.”

  “You’ve got to love her pose, don't you, Lieutenant?” Colby said, referring to the fact Fey's position, half in and half out of the shoulder rig, pushed her arms back and thrust her bosom forward as if it were an item offered for display.

  “It's impressive,” Cahill said.

  Fey shook her head and shrugged the shoulder holster the rest of the way into place. “Why is it men never grow out of adolescence? If women were fixated on nothing but various parts of the male anatomy, then both sexes would be useless.”

  The lieutenant's secretary giggled when she overheard the comeback. Fey grinned at her. “It's like trying to keep a room full of five-year-olds busy,” she said. The secretary laughed again.

  “Come on, Colby,” Fey told him. “You're slowing me down.”

  Chapter 2

  Despite Fey's disparaging words, Alan Colby would have looked good on the big screen. He had high cheekbones, full lips, and a shaggy mane of crow black hair he was constantly being told to cut. His eyes were clear with an unusual bright green tint to the irises and a slight Oriental cast to the lids.

  His lean build testified to long hours of workouts. He was ranked as one of the top thirty triathletes in the state. On two occasions, he had won gold medals in the Police Games, and on another, he had placed fourth in the Ironman competition in Hawaii. Working out was something of an obsession with him.

  His clothes were straight from the pages of GQ—Italian suits and shoes, Oriental silk ties, and French cuffed shirts with expensive cuff links. He wore them all well on his tall whipcord body. He could easily have made a living as a male model. Fey had more than her share of battles with weight, and Colby's flaunting of his slimness only added to her dislike of the man.

  Colby's smile was right off the silver screen as well. He could melt them in the aisles when he let loose with his trademark grin. Right now he was flashing his ivories at the maid who had discovered the body. It was making the interview difficult, and driving Fey mad.

  “Knock it off, Colby,” Fey told him quietly. “Her bank balance isn't big enough to interest you.”

  “Meow,” said Colby. He turned his grin in Fey's direction. “I love it when you show your jealous side.”

  “Why don't you go play in traffic?”

  In all her years on the job, Fey had seen a lot of detectives come and go. Colby might be the current flavor of the month, but Fey kept telling herself he, too, would pass. He'd recently been assigned to homicide as a reward for breaking a huge car theft ring while assigned to the divisional Auto Theft Unit. Apparently he was still riding high on the notoriety.

  As the homicide supervisor, Fey had objected to being forced to take on a detective she wasn't comfo
rtable around. In her mind, Colby's flashy clothes, flashy jewelry, flashy car, and flashy style smacked of corruption. She couldn't prove it, but her instincts were rarely wrong.

  There had been a problem, however. The homicide unit was on a cold streak. They were suffering from four unsolveds in a row, and Cahill had insisted on an injection of new blood. As a result, Colby had simply flashed his Cheshire Cat grin and picked canary feathers out from between his teeth.

  Nobody came out and said the cold streak happened because a woman was in charge of the unit, but the sentiment was clearly apparent. Fey was convinced, however, Colby had something on someone. She didn't want to admit to her own working-class snobbery by putting Colby's success down to talent and hard work.

  There was another thing Fey didn't want to admit to herself. Down where her primal sexual instincts lived, Colby's good looks tripped her switches. She disliked him, but physically he turned her on. She couldn't help her response, and it pissed her off to no end.

  For his part, Colby did things specifically to irritate Fey. He hadn't been interested in the maid, but he knew it would upset Fey if it appeared as if he were. There was something about Fey that brought out the worst in him. If he looked at it objectively, she was a good detective, but he didn't think she deserved to be running the Homicide Unit.