by Paul Bishop
“Arrrrrrrg,” she screamed inarticulately, knocking the glass flying with a sweep of her hand. Brentwood screeched and flew out of the room almost without touching the ground. Still standing, Fey folded her arms on the bar, dropped her head, and began to sob.
Twenty-two years on this thankless job, she thought, and it goes to hell in one afternoon. She knew she was being maudlin, but she believed she'd earned the right.
The rest of the interview with Internal Affairs had been a nightmare. Once the photograph was revealed, the kid gloves came off and the bloodbath started.
“How long did you know Miranda Goodwinter before she was murdered?”
“I didn't know her. I never met the woman when she was alive.”
“What was your relationship with Goodwinter?” Hilton barked. “Were you lovers?”
“No!”
“Are you a lesbian, Detective Croaker?”
“Not pertinent.” Fey felt fire burning in her cheeks.
“Then you admit you are a lesbian?”
“I'm admitting nothing.”
Hilton kept up his barrage. “If you and Miranda Goodwinter weren't lovers, what were you? Good friends?”
“We weren't anything,” Fey said wearily. “I've told you repeatedly, I didn't know the woman existed until I was assigned to investigate her murder.”
“A murder you committed because she left you for another woman.”
“Unbelievable,” Fey retorted angrily.
“Okay,” Hilton said congenially. “She left you for a man instead. Someone who had the equipment to take care of her needs.”
Fey shook her head. “You're insane. What about all the history on Goodwinter dug up by the IRS?”
“What about it?” Hilton asked. “Maybe you're in on the scheme as well. There's still the matter of two million dollars in bearer bonds taking a walk. There’s a good motive. Perhaps we'll find them when the search of your house is completed.”
“My house—” Fey felt the shock reach to her core.
“As we speak, a search warrant is being served on your residence. Don't worry, it's all nice and legal. A copy of the warrant will be left for you.”
Fey closed her eyes and sighed.
“When did you first meet the victim?” Baxter asked quietly as he took over the questioning.
Fey's voice was tired and defeated. “I never had contact with Miranda Goodwinter while she was alive.”
Baxter slapped the photograph down on the desk in front of her. “Wrong answer! Here's the proof. Photographs don't lie.”
“This one does.”
“Is there's a jury anywhere who are going to believe you?”
“The photograph is a fake! And why should a jury care? Are you seriously suggesting I murdered Miranda Goodwinter knowing I would be the detective assigned to investigate the case?”
“Fits facts.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Is it? This photograph proves you knew the victim while she was alive.”
“Your photograph proves diddly. It's a fake.”
“SID has examined the photo and pronounced it an original with no signs of tampering.”
“Half the time our vaunted Scientific Investigation Division can't find its ass with both hands, a flashlight, and a map. It's why we send our hot cases to the Sheriff's Department's lab. Our people have dropped too many clangers.”
On and on the questioning went in the same circle. Hilton and Baxter continued to badger and accuse. Fey continued to deny.
Finally, Nate Collins called a halt. “Gentlemen, this has gone on long enough.”
“Butt out of this, Collins,” Hilton told him.
Collins stood up. “Don't try to intimidate me. This interview is over. If you're going to charge Detective Croaker with something, then let's get to it. If not, back off.”
Baxter put a restraining hand on Hilton, and everyone sat back in their chairs.
Baxter picked a pencil up from the table and began to fiddle with it. “All right,” he said. “This interview is terminated, but the investigation is far from over.” He put the pencil down and looked directly at Fey. “Detective Croaker, you are relieved of your investigative duties and assigned to your residence until further notice. You will be on full pay, but you will remain at home during your work hours unless directed otherwise.”
“Mike—” Fey appealed to her immediate supervisor.
Cahill shrugged. “I'm sorry, Fey. I have no control over this situation.”
“Right,” said Fey. “I suppose Colby is going to be put in charge of the Goodwinter murder inquiry?”
“He's been on it since the start,” Cahill tried to justify.
“The hell with you, Mike.” Fey stood up. “If you need me, I'll be at home, like a good little detective.” She reached to turn off both tape recorders. “Come on, Nate,” she said to Collins. “I can't stand the stench of hypocrisy in this office any longer.”
“There's more.” This came from Mike Cahill.
“More,” Fey said. “How can there be more?”
“It's about Cordell.”
Fey felt her stomach flip-flop as she fought for control of her emotions. “What about him?”
“The District Attorney's Office have pulled the arrest warrant and dropped all charges.”
Fey was speechless.
“I'm sorry,” Cahill said. He sounded and looked sincere. “This is coming directly from upstairs.”
Nate put a firm hand on Fey's shoulder and eased her out of the room. There didn't seem to be anything left to say.
Now, standing amongst the shards of glass from the broken tumbler, Fey still didn't know what to say or how to proceed. Her house had not been overly disturbed by the searchers from Internal Affairs, but it was clear everything had been moved. Fey felt violated. Her inner sanctum had been invaded—her privacy ripped from her and spread out for strangers to see—it was a form of rape.
She tried telling herself everything would work out, but she didn't believe it. The photograph showing her with her arm around Miranda Goodwinter was something out of the Twilight Zone. It was enough to make her doubt her sanity. Had she'd been leading a double life she didn't know about.
Fey had an advantage over Internal Affairs. She knew she wasn't lying about the photograph. She had never come into contact with Miranda Goodwinter before the murder investigation. She had never gone out with her to a nightclub. No matter what SID said, the photo had to be a fake. She also only had Internal Affairs' word the photo had been cleared by SID. She knew neither Baxter nor Hilton were above lying.
Lying was a favorite investigative technique. Tell a suspect his partners were putting all the blame on him, and separately tell each one of his partners the same thing. Tell a suspect his fingerprints had been found on the murder weapon even though you hadn't even found the murder weapon. Promising a suspect you'd file a lesser charge or get his sentence reduced were the only lies you couldn't tell—anything else was fair game.
The photo bothered Fey for other reasons as well. There was a sense of déjà vu about her own image. She had seen it before, but she couldn't remember when or where. As for the part of the photo showing Miranda Goodwinter—where had it come from? There had been no pictures of any sort at the murder scene.
She had to get her own copy of the photo. Internal Affairs would be forced to give her a copy if charges were filed, but they would delay as long as possible. There had to be some other way.
Getting a grip, Fey began to clean up the mess she had made with the vodka. She felt better realizing she was thinking about fighting back. She was angry charges against Cordell had been dropped.
Twice since she'd been home the phone rang, but she'd let the machine pick up. On both occasions, she'd vaguely heard Jake's voice imploring her to call him. She knew she should, but right now she didn't need explanations, sympathy, or a man who wanted to cry on her shoulders. What she needed was time and space to think things through—to find an objective
viewpoint and make clearheaded decisions.
Charges against Cordell being dropped didn't change anything as far as Fey was concerned. He was out there, and Fey knew he was demented enough to follow through on his threats. He might not even realize charges had been withdrawn.
After throwing the glass shards away, Fey walked through the house checking weapons were easily accessible in every room. She was vulnerable, but she wasn't going down without a fight.
She picked up a shotgun, checked the load, and walked into her backyard. The horse sheds needed to be cleaned. It was the automatic, menial work needed to free her subconscious to work on more academic problems.
The dusk of evening had given way to the deeper darkness of early night. Fey switched on the corral pole lights and found her neighbor, Peter Dent, had already placed the horses in their boxes for the night. She tried to remember if she had seen or heard him at work, but realized she'd been too deep in her own troubles to notice.
She checked her horses and found them comfortable. The straw in their boxes was fairly fresh, appearing to have been there since early afternoon. Wanting physical activity, Fey decided to muck them out again. She could have let the horses into the corral as she worked, but there was something reassuring about their closeness.
Keeping the bottom half of the Dutch doors on Constable's box closed, Fey leaned the shotgun against the back wall and patted the horse on his rump. She picked up a pitchfork and began to muck the straw as Constable nudged her playfully with his nuzzle. “Stop it, silly beast,” she said softly, the unconditional affection from her horse easing her frame of mind.
When she finished, she spread fresh straw, filled food tubs, put in fresh water, and retrieved her shotgun. She patted Constable affectionately before moving on to Thieftaker's stall.
In the second horse's stall, Fey began the same routine—closing the bottom half of the Dutch doors and leaning her shotgun against the stall wall. She turned to look at the horse, but was amazed to see a flaming bottle flying through the air to smash at her feet. Thieftaker reared back as gasoline exploded, flames flaring to roaring life.
Fey ducked away from the horses' flashing hooves, lunging toward the stall entrance. She almost reached it when the top half of the Dutch doors slammed closed with a decisive thud.
Chapter 34
Fey threw herself at the door, her body jarring hard when it refused to budge. Behind her, Thieftaker's eyes rolled wildly as he thrashed around in fear. A thin line of gasoline had flown across the horse's back. Fey watched in horror as flames erupted along its length.
Moving with the speed of desperation, Fey grabbed Thieftaker's blanket from a peg, throwing it across the terrified horse's back to smother the flames. The horse twisted and kicked out, catching Fey a glancing blow on her left arm. She grunted and spun away into a wall.
Regaining her balance, she tore off her blouse and, dodging another wild kick, dunked it in the horse's water bucket. Trying in vain to calm the horse, Fey danced around in the confined space and threw the soaking wet blouse over the horse's head to cover its eyes and muzzle.
The flames in the tiny stall were gaining the upper hand. Fey had to do something fast or she and her horses would perish. Blinded by smoke, reacting strictly on instinct, she grabbed Thieftaker's mane and swung herself with reckless abandon onto the horse's back. She knew it would hurt the horse across the burned area, but better hurt than dead.
Retaining her seat by squeezing her legs tightly into Thieftaker's sides, she drove her heels into the horse's flanks. With the damp blouse still covering his head, Thieftaker bucked wildly, but Fey clung on with fierce determination. Yelling encouragement, she settled the horse slightly and urged him forward.
The big animal reacted to Fey's commands, but there was precious little space available before he smashed blindly into one of the stall walls. As the horse backed away in shock, Fey hung on then spurred Thieftaker forward again.
Fey had helped build the horse boxes. She knew they were not sturdy enough to withstand the pounding of a ton of terrified horseflesh.
Three times Thieftaker smashed into the burning wooden walls, shaking the structure, but seeming to make no headway. The horse was maddened with fear as it rammed its powerful chest into the wall for the fourth time. There was a loud cracking sound as boards separated from posts and the night air rushed in to feed the flames.
Seeing her last chance, Fey dug her heels into Thieftaker’s side. The horse twirled, out of control, then ran forward to hit the same wall for a fifth time. There was more splitting of boards and horse and rider sprang into the open.
Thieftaker, sensing freedom, bolted forward until he ran into the iron railing enclosing the corral. Fey was thrown off by the impact, hitting the dirt hard. Instinctively, she rolled away from the pounding hooves above her, scrambling to her knees and then her feet.
With no time to hesitate, she part ran part stumbled her way toward the burning horse boxes. There, she unbolted the bottom Dutch door keeping Constable confined. The second horse box was filled with smoke, but had not yet been invaded by flames. Constable blasted out into the corral to join Thieftaker.
Another part of the structure collapsed, flames and sparks leaping into the night sky. Fey staggered into the corral. She stumbled to her knees twice before reaching the railing. The horses were running wildly around, but were mostly out of danger.
Gasping for breath, Fey pulled herself through the gaps in the railing and ran for the house. She only noticed there were sirens blaring when five firemen charged through her back gate dragging a hose. Peter Dent was with them. He ran to Fey, catching her as she almost sagged to the ground in relief.
“You hurt?” Peter asked urgently.
“I don't know.”
Peter eased her to a sitting position. “I saw the flames from my back window,” he said. “I didn't even know you were home yet—”
“Ever have one of those days, Pete?” Fey said calmly, causing Peter to look at her strangely. She caught his glance and gave a soot-blackened grin. “I'm fine,” she reassured him, before breaking into a fit of coughing. She flapped her hands. “Make sure the horses are okay, please.”
Peter looked unsure, but Fey pushed him away. Two paramedics moved in to take his place.
Fey coughed again. Her head felt like a spike had been driven through it. All the various aches and pains shed recently accumulated had intensified tenfold. She turned her head to the side and vomited.
From the farthest corner of Fey's property, hidden by the night and the depths of an overgrown bougainvillea, Isaac Cordell watched the activity with interest.
He smiled.
Things had not gone as expected, but he'd gathered information for another time.
Croaker was proving to be extremely resilient. It was remarkable she was still alive. Beaten and battered, but still alive.
Cordell pulled a blanket tightly around his shoulders, burrowed down into the root of the huge bougainvillea, and closed his eyes. He was happy for now with the way things were.
There would always be another time.
The house was quiet in the early hours of the morning. Alone and exhausted, Fey sat again in her favorite armchair. Peter Dent had moved Thieftaker and Constable to his own corral for safekeeping. The firemen had rolled up their hoses and disappeared back into the night.
Having showered and slipped into her white terrycloth robe, fey had wrapped her wet hair in a towel. Physically, she felt scrubbed and clean. Emotionally, she felt a hundred years old.
She reviewed her situation for the millionth time. Someone was trying to kill her. Her job was at risk. Internal Affairs involvement put even her freedom at risk. Her case against Isaac Cordell was in shambles. Her love life had jeopardized a man she cared for deeply. And she was sure Colby would find a way to blame everything on her because she was a woman.
On another level, she had a brother who hated her; a dead father whose abuses haunted her personal reality; and a self-
esteem as fragile as fine crystal threatened by a diva's high notes.
Anything, even death, was preferable to how she felt in the moment. She briefly considered the service revolver in her purse. It wouldn't make as much mess as the shotgun on the floor by her feet. She thought of other cops who had sucked bullets—the irrational guilt felt when learning of their suicides.
Suck starting your gun was a pathetic, self-absorbed, useless gesture. A waste of ammunition. It said the bad guys had won. It said there was no justice—no God.
Fey refused to believe it.
She mocked herself with a wry smile. She'd never commit suicide. She wouldn't give the bastards the pleasure. She was at the bottom of her personal barrel where life's detritus languished—the slimy, unattractive things nobody wants in the light. It was not a pleasant place, but it forced you to consider options.
Fey was surprised to find something there. A dirty, slimy, unattractive idea. One nobody would want in the light. It needed work. It needed shaping and research. It needed luck. However, if she hadn't been at the bottom of the barrel, she never would have found it, let alone considered it.
To see if her dirty, slimy, little idea would work, she needed to drag it kicking and screaming with her as she swam back to the top.
A line from the Bible flitted through Fey’s mind…Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.
No problem.
Fey would give it back to him when she was finished with it.
Chapter 35
“Eddie? It's Fey Croaker.”
“Fey! What's going on?”
“What have you heard?”
“Somebody is messing you around with a photo given to Internal Affairs.” Eddie Mack, the department's top crime scene photographer was starting his day at work when Fey called. She'd been lucky to catch him as he already had a full card of photo assignments for the day.
“Did you see the photo?”
There was silence.
“Eddie?”
“I saw it.”