by Paul Bishop
MacGregor was bending over Cordell, ready to slap a cuff over a wrist, when the big man exploded. Nobody was prepared. Everyone had let down, thinking the situation was defused.
Everyone except for Cordell.
Before anyone realized what was happening, Cordell slammed Card MacGregor backward into Kyle Craven. The short and burly retired detective hit the tall, rapier-thin IRS agent like a bowling ball taking out a single spare. Both men ended up on the floor in a heap of confused arms and legs.
Fey cried out, seeing Cordell scrambling for the open back door. She reached to grab him, but Craven and MacGregor were in her way. By the time she maneuvered around them, Cordell was out the door and moving.
How he’d found his breath so quickly after MacGregor hit him with the baton, Fey didn't know. But the jaws of Fey's trap had snapped open as quickly as they had snapped shut.
Fey pursued Cordell. Seeing him running for the open gate into Peter Dent's yard.
“Cordell!” Fey screamed. “I'm coming for you!”
Adrenaline coursed through every capillary in her body. Her blood was up, and she felt hot and loose. For the first time in years she felt invincible, capable of anything. She felt as she had as a young officer with five or six years on the job, when nothing could hurt you—there was no ass you couldn't kick. On the job it was known as the Wyatt Earp syndrome.
Minutes before, Fey had been running from Cordell. But she hadn't been fleeing. She'd been the bait to lure him to his capture. Now, so close to having it all, she wasn't going to let him get away.
In Peter Dent's yard, Fey saw Cordell duck between the rails of the corral, making a beeline across the yard to escape up the side of Peter's house.
A hundred yards behind, Fey ducked through the rails herself, calling out to her horses. Constable galloped straight past her, spooked by Cordell’s passing, but Thieftaker trotted straight to Fey. She grabbed his long mane. In a smooth movement, she swung onto his back.
Clamping her thighs to Thieftaker's sides, she kicked her heels into his flanks, urging him forward. For the second time in as many days, the big horse fed on the urgency in his master's demeanor and moved with a surge of power.
Cordell was already through the other side of the corral, but Thieftaker easily cleared the top railing at Fey's direction and galloped toward the fleeing man.
In desperation Cordell fled up the side of Peter's house, knocking garbage cans over in his wake. Running full tilt at a flimsy side gate, he crashed into it, blasting it off its hinges as if he were a middle linebacker blitzing a third-string quarterback.
Out on the street, he turned toward Fey's residence, but saw Craven and MacGregor running out the front door. He changed directions instantly.
MacGregor had his gun out and leveled in a regulation two-handed stance.
“Don't! He's mine!” Fey yelled as she clung to Thieftaker's back in pursuit.
Several cars screeched to odd-angle stops as Cordell ran between them. Fey followed without hesitation—in her element on the back of a horse.
Cordell had nowhere to go. Fey ran him down like a cheetah after a lame gazelle. Thieftaker's broad chest, moving at four times the speed of Cordell, slammed into the big man and sent him sailing into the air. Cordell crash-landed face-first, sliding along the pavement as Thieftaker trampled over him.
Pulling hard on the horse's mane, Fey slid off his back. As she gained her feet, she ran to where Cordell lay, but her haste was wasted. Cordell wasn't going anywhere.
Fey looked down at her quarry, her chest heaving with exertion. Cordell stared back at her, tears welling up in his eyes, his right leg and his left arm at unnatural angles, blood seeping from the road rash down one side of his face.
“You bitch.” Cordell's voice was a low rasp. He spat out a tooth as an exclamation point.
“Yeah. I'm a bitch,” Fey replied, as MacGregor and Craven ran up beside her. “And proud of it.”
Chapter 39
Fey should feel tired, but she’d never felt more alive. The instincts and experience honed to a fine edge by her years as a detective were fizzing with adrenaline.
Fey believed great athletes must feel the same overwhelming euphoria before a championship game. The power coming from within—the positive knowledge you can’t be stopped.
Fey was entering the interrogation room—final play of the game; ten seconds left on the clock; fourth down and forever. Fey was going throwing the investigative equivalent of a Hail Mary.
Since Cordell’s capture, she’d been busy. Two uniform officers had taken Cordell for medical treatment. Craven and MacGregor went along to ensure, Cordell didn’t escape. The men were unquestionably on Fey’s side—protecting her from all interference.
Fey used her contacts with the ER staff to expedite Cordell's treatment. His left arm was broken in his fall and needed setting in plaster. His right knee required a Velcro walking cast to stabilize the damage.
Cordell was then transported to West Los Angeles Area station and booked into the jail. Because of his injuries, he would eventually be transferred to the jail ward at County Hospital, but right now Fey wanted easy access. She had other plans for him.
At the hospital, Cordell had screamed for his lawyer and demanded his phone call. When MacGregor complied, appearing to dial the number Cordell requested. In actuality, he dialed Fey's second home phone, which simply rang and rang.
“No answer,” MacGregor told Cordell, holding the phone so Cordell could hear the endless ringing.
When Fey gave MacGregor the all clear, he would dial the right number and Janice Ryder would be added to the mix of converging suspects.
While Cordell was being processed, Fey contacted Mike Cahill at home, telling—not asking—him to meet her at the station at six a.m. She also told him to get Baxter and Hilton there.
“What’s this about, Fey?” Cahill asked.
“Just do it, Mike.” Fey didn't tell him about Cordell's arrest or other evidence she had uncovered. “You had faith in me once. Have a little more. I won't let you down. Not like you did me.”
“Unfair.”
“Life's unfair, Mike.”
Cahill could have been a world-class sailor, always prepared to blow with the wind. “I'll be there,” he said after a pause. “I can't guarantee Baxter and Hilton.”
Fey sent a derisive laugh down the line. “Maybe you can't, but I can. Tell them I'm ready to confess.”
Next, Fey called Vance Hatcher and Monk Lawson using the conference call feature of her telephone.
“Feel like some unpaid, unauthorized overtime?” she asked them.
“What do you need?” Monk asked.
“I need search warrants and arrest warrants written and served,” Fey said. “We're going to find a murder weapon and put a suspect on ice for the murder of Miranda Goodwinter, aka Monica Blake, aka Miriam Cordell, aka ad infinitum.”
“We’re in,” Hatch said.
“Meet me at the station in an hour,” Fey told them.
“Is Colby part of this?” Monk asked.
“Soon,” Fey said.
The next call was tough, but Jake Travers's feelings for Fey ran deep. Having time to get over the shock of Simon Vanderwald's accusations, Jake decided he was standing against Vanderwald over Cordell’s prosecution.
When Fey called and explained circumstances, Jake was immediately on board. Fey's plan would allow Jake to strike his political opponent, but Fey knew Jake would have helped anyway.
At the station, Monk and Hatch pushed the paperwork hard. They were skeptical at first, but when Fey explained, there was no argument.
Jake roused a judge from a warm bed to sign the warrants with a minimum of scrutiny. The documents were solid, but there wasn't time to go into every small detail some judges demanded—especially cranky judges awakened after midnight.
“Find the weapon—get the confession,” Fey told Hatch and Monk, relying on the two detectives to serve the warrants while she took on Cordell.
“We’ve got this,” Hatch said. “Don't worry.”
Fey mentally released everything except her focus on the next step. Cordell was downstairs in the jail. In a back cell. All by himself.
Fey went to see him.
Alone.
Baxter and Hilton had sleep in their eyes when they rolled into WLA station at six o'clock. They were surprised to find Fey waiting for them with coffee and doughnuts. Mike Cahill had arrived a minute earlier. He knew Fey better than the IA investigators did. He knew the coffee and doughnuts were not a bribe. They were a setup.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Fey said. “Nice to see you again.”
Hilton grunted in his obnoxious fashion. “You ready to give yourself up?”
“Have a doughnut,” Fey said, shoving the box across the conference table in Cahill’s office. “Maybe your personality problem is a permanent sugar low.”
Baxter was quicker to sense the atmosphere change. He could tell something was going on. He reached over Hilton, took a doughnut, and then poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot in the middle of the table.
“Thanks,” he said to Fey. “It's not often someone offers us breakfast.”
“Not unless they're trying to kiss up,” Hilton said.
“Shut up,” Baxter said to his partner. “You're out of your league, kid.”
“What?” Hilton looked like an injured puppy.
“Eat your doughnut and drink your coffee, Sergeant,” Baxter said, subtly pulling rank on his partner. “Use your mouth for something other than a place to put your foot.”
Hilton looked mortified. Fey turned away to keep from laughing.
“Is there a point to this meeting?” Baxter asked, after an appreciative sip from his cup. His inquiry was polite, not aggressive. He was almost as good a sailor as Mike Cahill. He could tell Fey was experiencing favorable winds.
Fey explained the events surrounding Cordell's arrest. She kept strictly to what happened the night before at her residence. She didn’t mention the frantic activity since.
When she was done, Baxter knew there was more, so he prodded gently “I don't see how this changes the situation regarding your relationship with Miranda Goodwinter.”
“Yeah,” Hilton said. “Your lieutenant said something about you wanting to confess this morning, so why don't we get to it.” He began to open up his briefcase-recorder.
Baxter slapped his palm down on the top of the briefcase, slamming it closed. He didn't look at Hilton. “I'm not going to tell you again, Sergeant. Sit down and shut up, or go play with yourself in the bathroom.”
Fey smiled at Baxter. She was enjoying Hilton's discomfort, but realized she wasn't going to get the same kind of rise out of Baxter.
Mike Cahill was doing what he did best—keeping quiet until he saw which way was going to be safe to jump.
Fey spoke directly to Baxter. “The situation regarding my suspension came about because of this picture.” She tossed the photo, showing her with her arm around Miranda Goodwinter, on the table.
Baxter glanced at it. He didn't bother asking how she got a copy. “It was the main issue” he said.
“You told me SID said it hadn’t been altered.”
“Well…” Baxter started to hedge.
“Exactly,” Fey said.
Baxter was backpedaling. He knew Fey was aware SID said they couldn’t guarantee the photo hadn't been altered.
“You wanted to get me to crack, so you bolstered your story,” Fey said. “Every good detective does it. You tell your suspect he's been made on prints, when you haven't even dusted for them. You tell one suspect his partner has squealed on him, when you haven't even interviewed the second suspect yet.”
Baxter shrugged. “You never made those kinds of moves?”
“I telling you it was a low thing to try on a cop with a good record.”
Baxter looked Fey in the eyes. “It's my job,” he said.
“Your job is like your partner's rectum. It stinks.”
“Make your point.”
“Why didn’t you investigate this photo before you pulled me off the case?” Fey tossed one of the photos Rhino had created on the table.
Baxter picked it up, looked at it with a frown, and handed it to Mike Cahill.
Cahill glanced at the photograph casually then with sudden interest. “Wait a minute,” he said.
The new photo showed Cahill in the same position Fey had been, with his arm around Miranda Goodwinter.
“Or how about this one?” Fey threw another photo on the desk. “Or this one?”
The two new photos showed Monk and Hatch with their arms around Miranda Goodwinter.
“Tell us about it,” Baxter said, indicating he was willing to listen.
Fey talked long and hard. She explained the developing process and everything else she learned from Rhino. She explained how she obtained the photo images of the other detectives from the promotion party snaps pinned on the walls of the coffee room. She told Baxter and the others about the photo of herself with two other female detectives originally among the collection in the coffee room.
“Why set you up this way?” Baxter asked.
Fey rapidly explained. Mike Cahill looked shell-shocked when she finished, but Baxter looked thoughtful as he digested the facts.
Hilton simply looked lost. He opened his mouth to speak, but Baxter cut him off with a softly spoken, “shut up,” before Hilton got any words out.
“What is your plan going forward?” Baxter asked, bringing his attention back to Fey.
“You saying I'm back on the case? You're satisfied with my explanation of the photo?”
“The allegations in the IA investigation will be unfounded. Lieutenant Cahill will decide if you're back on the Goodwinter case.”
“Mike?”
Cahill was perturbed by the photo in his hand. “Can you nail your suspect?” he asked.
“Right to the wall,” Fey said.
“Then go for it.”
Chapter 40
Coby felt sick when he saw Fey sitting in her usual position at the head desk of the homicide unit. It was eight o'clock.
Fey motioned him over. “I'm glad you're here,” she said. “I want you to sit in on an interrogation with me.” She rapidly explained about the arrest of Cordell.
“I thought I was in charge of the Goodwinter case now. Aren't you supposed to be assigned on duty at home?” Colby said.
“Not anymore,” Fey said. “Internal Affairs’ evidence imploded. Allegations have been unfounded. I'm back to full duty.” She smiled, and squeezed Colby's arm. “Isn't it great?” She fought not to cringe.
“Yeah. Uh. Great,” Colby managed. He was off balance, didn't know what questions to ask or which way to turn.
“Come on,” Fey said, not giving Colby a chance to think. “Cordell and his lawyer are in the interrogation room.” Fey stood up. Without looking to see if Colby was following, she headed for the interrogation room.
The room she entered was the larger of the squad's two interrogation rooms. There were four chairs in the room, two on either side of a battered metal table. In the two chairs farthest from the door, Isaac Cordell and Janice Ryder waited. On the wall behind them was a window with old-fashioned Venetian blind in the closed position.
Jake Travers was also in the room, sitting in a chair on the door side of the table. The atmosphere buzzed with tension. Fey slid into the only open chair, leaving Colby to lounge against the wall behind her. She opened a notebook and perused its contents, gathering her thoughts.
She knew the hidden interrogation room microphones were hot. Mike Cahill would be in the tape room listening and recording the session. She also knew Hatch and Monk would be busy carrying out their part of her plan. A lot depended on their success, and she silently wished them luck.
Fey played her opening move. A pawn. Nothing fancy or flashy, a simple opening gambit designed to get the game under way. “I understand your client wants to make a s
tatement?”
Janice Ryder nodded her head. “Yes. However, he is speaking against advice of counsel.”
“Noted,” Fey said. “Be aware, the conversation in this room is being taped.”
Janice Ryder looked uncomfortable. Her hair and clothing were immaculate, but Fey noticed Ryder's right index fingernail was chewed to the nub. She also saw the lawyer was sitting with her legs and arms crossed—the definitive body language of apprehension.
“Before I listen to Mr. Cordell,” Fey said, “I would like to ask you a few questions, Ms. Ryder.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to read me my rights first?”
“If you think it's necessary. Are you guilty of something?”
“Of course not.” Janice Ryder's face flushed. She refused to make eye contact with either Fey or Jake Travers.
Despite this, she tried out an offensive move. “I want to lodge an objection to the presence of Mr. Travers. His association with the investigating detective in this case is prejudicial to my client.”
“Save your objections for court, Counselor,” Jake told her. “By then, you may have more to worry about than unsubstantiated rumors.” Jake gave Ryder his patented deadpan face with blazing eyes, which never failed to get a point across to a jury.
“What are you implying?” Janice asked.
“I'm implying…” Jake leaned forward with his elbows on the metal table. Fey's hand on his sleeve stopped him from saying more.
“This is my race,” Fey said gently.
Fey looked at the notebook she had placed on the desk. “Your father was Peter Fletcher,” she said to Janice. “Correct?”
A black look clouded Janice Ryder's face. “What’s the pertinence?”
Isaac Cordell was sitting, quietly watching Fey. His plastered arm rested across his chest, his injured leg thrust out in an immobilizing cast.
“Don't play stupid,” he said to his lawyer. “They know about the tricks you've been pulling with your fancy law degree.”
Fey had spent an hour alone with Cordell in a small jail cell before dawn. They had been two deadly adversaries forced—within the cramped and private confines of the cell—to confront not only each other, but also themselves.