by Paul Bishop
“Did you get Cordell booked without problems?” Fey asked, turning toward Monk.
“Colby booked him, and I did the reports.”
Fey nodded. “Colby interrogate him?” The thought frustrated Fey. She had wanted the first shot at Cordell.
“Tried, but Cordell immediately yelled lawyer. Refused to waive his rights before they were read to him.”
“Did he ask why he was being arrested?”
Monk thought for a moment. “I don't think so.”
“Interesting,” Fey said. She firmly believed things suspects didn't say were as important as what they did.
“However, we don’t need Cordell’s statement,” Monk said.
Fey raised her eyebrows. “Why not?'
Stretched out the suspense, Monk looked at Hatch with a huge smile.
“Give,” Fey demanded. “I'm not up to playing games.”
“We recovered the murder weapon in Cordell's room,” Monk told her.
“Serious?” Fey said.
“Serious. We went back to his pad with Kline, the parole agent. We did a search under her authority. Colby was poking around in the closet and found a flat-head screwdriver caked with blood and skin.”
“You're yanking my chain,” said Fey in disbelief.
“I'm not,” said Monk with a laugh.
“How could anybody be so stupid?”
“You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to commit murder,” Hatch said. “He obviously didn't kill the woman the first time. Maybe finding her again was coincidence and he killed her in a fit of rage.”
“I don't like coincidence,” Fey replied thoughtfully. “It could have happened, but I don't like the feel of it.”
“If criminals didn't mess up, we wouldn't catch them.”
“I know. But keeping the murder weapon in your room…”
Hatch and Monk both shrugged.
“Did the lab find anything positive on the screwdriver?”
“You’re kidding,” Hatch said. “Even with a rush request, the earliest we'll hear is this afternoon.”
“Let's hope its good news when it comes.”
There was a clattering on the back stairwell preceding Colby breezing into the squad room.
“Hey, Frog Lady,” he said when he spotted Fey. “You made parole.”
“Not quite,” Fey said. “They took my clothes away, but I stole a nurse’s uniform and discharged myself.”
Colby laughed. “How you feeling?”
“Like a dog trying to poop in the rain—miserable. How about you?”
“About the same,” he said. “The landlady sure could punch. My clothing bill will be astronomical.”
“My heart bleeds,” Fey said.
“Nice to see things back to normal,” Monk said to Hatch.
Lieutenant Cahill stuck his head into the squad room from the outer lobby. “If you’re done comparing war wounds, you have a customer at the front counter.”
She stood up slowly, trying not to wince. She knew it wouldn't be good news this early in the morning.
Standing at the lobby counter was a petite blonde—all legs and California good looks. Her fine golden hair was pulled back from her face, secured in a ponytail dropping to her waist. Her high cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, and her perfect nose was complemented by piercing blue eyes.
The entire package was poured into a hand-tailored skirt and jacket ensemble, completed by a scoop-necked silk blouse and a glitter of diamonds at ears, neck, and wrist.
Fey took one look and wanted to bury herself under a rock. The woman hadn't said a word, but Fey felt she was entering a battle of wits unarmed.
Men would die for this one.
Colby's hormones would do themselves an injury when he saw her. The woman was big trouble.
“Detective Croaker?” the woman asked, before Fey had a chance to introduce herself. “I'm Janice Ryder…Isaac Cordell's lawyer.”
Oh crap, Fey thought, here we go!
Chapter 16
Fey poured herself a cup of coffee, trying to gather her thoughts.
Colby sauntered into the coffee room and refilled his own cup. “Who's the good-looking spinner?” he asked. He’s seen Fey walk Janice Ryder down the hall to a private interview room.
“Cordell's lawyer.”
“Wow,” said Colby. “If I could get her to handle my case, it might be worth getting arrested.”
“She would chew you up and spit out the pit before you got to first base.”
Colby laughed. “Glad Cordell didn't damage your sarcastic streak.”
“It's the only thing he didn't damage.”
Needing time to think, Fey had abandoned Janice Ryder in the interview room. She was determined to get the upper hand, knowing first blood had already gone to Ryder.
“You booked Cordell on the open murder charge?” she asked Colby.
“Along with charges for resisting arrest and battery on a police officer. We took the package to Judge Taylor. He gave us a no bail deviation. Kline also slapped on a parole hold. He's not going anywhere.”
“I'm not so sure,” Fey said. “I think his lawyer has something up her sleeve.”
“It's what's up her leg I'm interested in.”
Fey shook her head in disgust. “Don't you ever give it a rest?”
When Colby and the others arrived on the scene of Cordell's arrest, Fey didn’t say anything about the sexual attack. She justified the omission in her mind by convincing herself they had enough charges without further complicating the case.
However, the truth was, she couldn't face the inevitable comments. Colby would have a field day. Experience had proven the other males she worked with would have gone along.
Nobody would mean to be malicious – except maybe Colby – but she would have felt tainted. She had hidden the abuses by her father for years. Even though she had been victorious over Cordell, she was not going to let the acceptance she had achieved be destroyed.
When she choked Cordell into unconsciousness, his penis shrunk and slipped back into his pants. If anyone noticed his trousers were unbuttoned and unzipped, they didn't say anything. They probably figuring it was a result of his hurried exit from the boardinghouse, or they'd come undone in the altercation.
In some ways, the situation created a strange bond between Cordell and Fey. If he kept his mouth shut, so would she. Her silence now made it impossible to throw around charges later.
Anyway, what charges could she bring? Forced oral copulation? The intention had been there, but the act was never completed. Assault with intent to commit forced oral copulation? Maybe, but it was still her word against his. It would be hard to prove without any corroborating evidence. Attempted rape? The facts wouldn't support the charge. Lewd conduct or indecent exposure? Again maybe, but who cared about misdemeanors? All in all, Fey felt she was better off keeping her mouth shut. A conspiracy of silence plaguing women since Adam chased Eve around the garden.
Fey drank her full-strength brew slowly, leaning against the wall of the small coffee room. She didn't feel up to confronting the ice queen who was waiting for her in the interview room, but it had to be done.
“Do me a favor,” she said to Colby. “Set a tape running for the big interview room. I want a record of the conversation.”
Colby went without argument. Fey wondered why, then realized she'd given him the perfect opportunity to sit in the recording room listening. She'd not only have to be careful about letting Janice Ryder gain the upper hand, but also be sure not to give Colby something to use to his own advantage. She was tired of having to constantly protect herself.
She poured a cup of coffee into a Styrofoam container, threw in a dash of powdered creamer and a package of Sweet & Low. She knew Cordell's lawyer would never let real sugar cross her lips.
When Fey entered the interview room with her peace offering, Janice Ryder was pacing around in a snit.
“Have my heels cooled enough for you, Officer Croaker?”
Fey looked at Ryder and smiled. She set Ryder’s coffee on the table. “My demotion from detective to officer is duly noted,” Fey said calmly. “It's a good tactic, but like keeping you waiting, it's basically a waste of time. Can we cut to the nitty gritty? What do you want?”
Janice Ryder sat down in a hard, straight-backed chair across from Fey. The stark interview room had urine yellow walls. Gang graffiti was scratched into the back of the door, the top of the table, and the two chairs.
For a moment, Janice Ryder didn't answer. She looked around, focusing on the room's only decoration – a cross-stitched sampler jury-rigged to one of the acoustic metal walls. The homily read: No man has a good enough memory to be a successful liar.
Fey followed Janice's gaze. She thought the saying was appropriate for the setting, but her favorite was a carved wooden sign over the interrogation room in an Air Force MP station: You came in here with information and a pretty face. You can't leave with both.
“Well?” Fey said.
Janice Ryder looked at her. It was as if she had been having an out-of-body experience and returned to reclaim her physical form. Fey wondered where the other woman's mind had been and felt a shiver run down her spine.
“Is this conversation being recorded?” Ryder asked.
“Absolutely,” Fey told her.
“Why?”
“For my protection. This is a high-profile case. I want a record in the event there are questions later.”
“Are you always this careful?”
“Always,” Fey said. “Thanks to your client, I feel like hell. What can I do for you?”
Ryder picked up her coffee and sipped. She made an unladylike face, setting the cup down.
“You develop a taste for it,” Fey said, watching the reaction. She knew Ryder was using delaying tactics, but decided not to be drawn.
“What I want,” Ryder said eventually, “is my client's immediate release from police custody with all charges dropped.”
Fey couldn't help a laugh escaping. “And I want to be the queen of Sheba,” she said. “You must think I'm a few fries short of a Happy Meal.”
“I'm serious.”
“Then you earned your law degree on another planet. Now way is your client walking away. The case is open, closed, and wrapped in Christmas ribbon. Dead bang.”
“The problem with dead-bang cases is they're often dead in the water.”
“What's your point?”
“A man can't be tried for the same crime twice. You are accusing my client of murdering a woman who was once his wife. A woman whose murder he was convicted for ten years ago. My client's years in prison have paid his debt for the crime. You can't convict him again for murdering the same woman. It's double jeopardy. On this planet, detective, double jeopardy is against the law.”
Chapter 17
Fey looked shocked. “Ridiculous.”
“Consider the facts.” Janice Ryder confidently overrode Fey's protest. “Isaac Cordell has been tried, convicted, and served time for the murder of Miranda Goodwinter, aka Miriam Cordell. Even if he did murder her this time – and I'm not indicating he did – it would be double jeopardy. You can't murder someone twice.”
“How do you know about the connection between Miranda Goodwinter and Miriam Cordell? The information hasn't been made public.”
“Guess again, detective.” Janice Ryder slid her slim calfskin briefcase onto the tabletop and flipped open the catches. From inside, she removed a copy of the front page of the Los Angeles Tribune. She dropped the newsprint on the table and swiveled it toward Fey.
Fey held Janice's eyes for a second then dropped her gaze to the newspaper. She scanned the headlines. She sighed, picking up the pages.
The banner headline dealt with another Middle East crisis, but a secondary headline carried the message, murder done twice! Woman Believed Murdered Ten Years Ago Found Dead Again.
There was a grainy black-and-white photo of Miriam Cordell, obviously taken years earlier. Next to it was a photo of Miranda Goodwinter being taken out of her home in a body bag. The caption read simply, Miranda Goodwinter or Miriam Cordell?
The accompanying article contained little factual information, but ghoulishly rehashed the details from the San Francisco case, Cordell’s conviction, and speculation concerning his current arrest.
Fey felt deflated. How had the paper latched on to the story so quickly? She realized there must be a leak in the division. She also knew the most likely suspect. It would explain where Colby got the money for his flashy life-style.
Fey sighed again. “Counselor, you assume you throw me off by dropping this bomb. However, your client will stay under arrest for murder until the court decides differently.”
Ryder jumped into the middle of Fey's narrative. “I'd think twice before you take this case to court. Not only is my client innocent, but it's clear Miriam Cordell was alive until two days ago. My client should never have been convicted. The state's liability over Isaac Cordell's false imprisonment is outrageous. Further blunders will only result in the civil suit increasing in magnitude.”
“Isaac Cordell is guilty. We have an eyewitness placing him at the scene.”
“Eyewitnesses are as reliable as a toilet tissue in a rainstorm.”
Fey held up her hand. “The murder weapon was recovered at your client's residence.”
“Frame-up,” Janice Ryder interrupted again. “Same as ten years ago. You want to wrap this murder up fast and cover past mistakes. Isaac Cordell makes a perfect patsy. It's not going to happen. Cordell was framed once for the murder of his wife. You're not doing it again.” Janice Ryder's voice rose passionately.
Fey leaned back in her chair, waiting for Ryder to wind down. “A pretty speech, counselor, but it's not going to wash,” she said, eventually. “I’m in no position to release your client. The district attorney or the court will decide.”
“Neither serve my client’s best interests.” Ryder was still heated.
“Quit busting my chops,” Fey said. She leaned into Ryder's personal space. “Tougher nuts than you have tried and failed. As civil liability is such a big deal, I'm doing everything by the book.”
“I want my client released.”
“Grow up, counselor.”
Janice Ryder snapped her briefcase closed. “When will my client be arraigned?”
“The sooner I get back to doing my job, the sooner Cordell gets arraigned.” Fey stepped over and opened the door to the interrogation room. “Counselor,” she said, with an ushering gesture toward the opening.
Janice Ryder stood and walked out of the room.
“This is far from over,” she said as she passed Fey. “Before this is done, I'll have your ass on a platter.”
“Take your best shot.” Silently, Fey finished the sentence with bitch.
“She’s a piranha, Jake,” Fey said, sitting in the deputy district attorney's small office.
Jake Travers was a tall, slim man . He looked more like a hard-bitten saddle tramp than the DA's head filing deputy. His thick black hair came to a widow's peak low on his forehead before sweeping straight back to tickle his collar. His tanned face had enough wrinkles and crow's-feet to give him character. On a woman they would have been considered ugly.
At thirty-eight, he was still considered a rising star, and possibly a strong candidate for DA during the next election year. He had divorced four years earlier, his world revolving around his job, golf, and fishing.
Having been friends for years, and intermittent lovers for five, Jake and Fey were happy with their relationship. It suited their needs, asking no commitments beyond friendship and bed. They knew they couldn't remain static forever. Sooner or later, the relationship would have to evolve or die.
“You let her get to you,” Jake said. His deep voice held a note of amusement. It wasn't often someone got the better of Fey Croaker.
“Stuff it,” Fey said with resignation. “What about this double jeopardy stuff?”
&n
bsp; Jake shrugged and stroked his chin. “I don't know.”
“You don’t know?”
“She may have a point. I can see a definite constitutional argument. Whether it will hold up is another question.”
“Are you considering dropping this case? The bastard slit a woman’s throat. What difference does it make if he did it ten years ago or two days ago?”
“All I said is she may have a point. We're going to have to find a way to blunt it.”
After getting rid of Janice Ryder, Fey had gone back to the squad room with her head spinning. She wanted to believe Ryder's argument was all bluster, but there was a gnawing grain of doubt.
She needed this case wrapped up tight to secure her position as the Homicide Unit supervisor. If it got screwed up, she could find herself handling a Juvenile Unit – the traditional home for female detective supervisors.
It wouldn't be a demotion, but it would be a large drop in prestige, and there was nothing she would be able to do about it. She could hear the divisional sharks feeding, “Put her in charge of juvenile. If she messes up there, nobody will care.”
The attitude wasn't right. There were good people who dedicated their careers to working Juvenile. Officers and detectives who made a difference in young people's lives. However, the assignment didn't carry the promise of glory cases.
On her desk were a stack of phone messages from reporters following up the Tribune scoop. Fey chose to ignore her suspicions about Colby and the leak. She also chose to ignore the messages and the insistent ringing of the homicide unit's direct phone line.
“What are you telling reporters?” she asked Hatcher and Monk, who were processing paperwork.
“We're referring them to you,” Monk said. “They are not happy.”
“Tough,” Fey said. She dropped the messages in a trashcan. “Keep taking messages, then file them with these,” she said. “When we know more, we'll do a press conference. Till then, screw 'em.”