by Paul Bishop
CROAKER 4:
CHALK WHISPERS
PAUL BISHOP
A DETECTIVE
FEY CROAKER
LAPD NOVEL
CROAKER: CHALK WHISPERS
© 2017 Paul Bishop
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any means without permission.
BOOKS BY
PAUL BISHOP
Hot Pursuit
Deep Water
Penalty Shot
Croaker: Kill Me Again
Croaker: Grave Sins
Croaker: Tequila Mockingbird
Croaker: Chalk Whispers
Croaker: Pattern of Behavior
Suspicious Minds
Fight Card: Felony Fists
Fight Card: Swamp Walloper
Fight Card: Three Punch Combo
Lie Catchers
Nothing But The Truth (Almost)
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www.paulbishopbooks.com
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Tequila Mockingbird 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: CHALK WHISPERS
PROLOGUE
Ellis Kavanaugh's grubby raincoat smelled of ripe body odor and cheap wine. Strands of unwashed black hair fell into his eyes as he skittered through Hollywood Park race track in a daze. He weaved awkwardly through the crowd, repeatedly looking over his shoulder. The man with the sunglasses and crewcut was still there, moving toward him.
The crowd of spectators for the running of the $750,000 Breckenridge Handicap cleared a natural path as Ellis stumbled forward. He bumped hard into a man wearing a yellow and black plaid sport coat. Ellis grabbed the man by his jacket
“The train,” Ellis said. “We gotta save the railroad.”
“What are you talking about?” The man pulled his arm free, pushing Ellis away.
Ellis staggered. “The secret is in the Gamewell. The Gamewell can save the railroad.”
“Get away from me,” the man said.
Ellis looked quickly over his shoulder. The man with the sunglasses and crewcut was hovering along with another threat—Frank Bannon, a plainclothes security officer who had noticed the commotion.
Ellis watched Bannon walk past the man in the sunglasses and crewcut, talking into a small radio. Ellis knew Bannon from previous painful encounters.
“The train,” Ellis said loudly. “They know about the train.” With jerky movements, he moved away.
The man in the loud plaid checked his race card. Chattanooga was the number four horse in the Breckenridge. What the heck, he thought. Maybe it's a sign. He turned toward the betting windows.
The voice of the track announcer came to life over the PA system. Bettors, clutching tickets surged toward viewing stands and closed circuit television sets.
Pushing through the crowd, the security man saw the tail of Ellis' overcoat disappear around the corner leading to the men's bathroom. Bannon followed. The man with the sunglasses and crewcut slowed to watch.
Bannon had told the stinking old man to stay away from the track. He was a nuisance. The employees at the entrance gates had a photo of the old man, along with photos of other persona-non-grata citizens who had caused problems in the past. Somehow, though, Ellis always seemed to slip in. Bannon would love to discover how he did it.
The hallway beyond was empty as Bannon entered the bathroom. His sense of anticipation was on high alert. This time, he was going to give the old man a thrashing to remember.
The track announcer's voice boomed out, “Annnnnd they're off!”
The concrete floor under Bannon's leather shoes was covered with wet, powdered soap. There was no sign of Ellis, but Bannon knew he was in there.
Suddenly, the door of the nearest stall flew open. Ellis charged out brandishing a toilet seat.
“The train,” he yelled. “Must save the train!”
Bannon grinned. He loved a fighter. He stepped in toward Ellis. As he did, his shoes slid on the west soapy concrete. Grabbing for a sink, he missed and crashed to the floor.
“Get the Gamewell! Get the Gamewell!” Ellis screamed. He swung the toilet seat as hard as he could. Its edge struck the security man on the top of the head. Bannon grunted and slumped.
Ellis knew he had to escape. Charging through the bathroom door, he saw the man with the sunglasses and crewcut moving down the corridor toward him. Ellis ran in the opposite direction.
The horses were rounding the bend leading into the home stretch when Ellis burst onto the track. The jockeys in their colorful silks had no chance to avoid him. For ten steps, Ellis ran ahead of the horses before the first of the closely bunched leaders slammed into him. As his body lost momentum, he was hit again and driven into the hard-packed dirt of the track.
Riding atop race favorite, Afterburner, Gil de Leon cursed and yanked the horse's head roughly to the left in an effort to dodge Ellis' cartwheeling arms and legs. Afterburner responded, but had nowhere to go, his flank crashing into Frequent Flyer racing next to him.
Unable to avoid the human obstacle, Afterburner's right foreleg came down on the uneven surface of Ellis' back. The leg buckled and the huge horse fell to his knees in a tumbling mass of speeding disaster. Afterburner's hind legs slid between Frequent Flyer's and brought the filly plunging to the ground nose first.
Both jockeys flew from the saddle. Gil de Leon's arm twisted under him with an audible snap as he hit the dirt. He was luckier than Sammy Tinto, who hit the inside railing driving splinters of ribs into a lung.
Behind the falling horses, jockey Alisha Cromwell on Chattanooga, gave her horse the whip and charged straight into the disaster. The blinkered Chattanooga ran over the body of Ellis Kavanaugh, veered to the outside, sprinted past the chaos along the rail, and breezed toward the finish line.
Four other horses running behind Chattanooga were not as fortunate, crashing to the ground in a withering mass of screaming horse flesh and shattered bones.
The horses at the rear of the pack either pulled up or swung wide to avoid the catastrophe, but every jockey still in the saddle knew the freak collision was going to be one of the worst on record. Win, place, and show were insignificant in relation to the tragedy.
Ambulances and track security raced onto the track. Spectators held their breath in fascinated horror—the cries of injured horses piercing the shocked silence.
Ellis Kavanaugh lay trampled in the dirt. He was face down when the first paramedic reached him.
“Don't move,” the paramedic ordered.
Defiantly, Ellis turned his head to the side, spitting out dirt and blood. His lips moved slowly, giving voice to a last semi-coherent thought.
“Train the Gamewell,” he said, loud enough for the paramedic to hear, and then he died.
ONE
Change was coming. Fey could feel it in the mood of the squad room.
Tall and angular, dressed in his traditional black, Arch Hammersmith paused in the process of typing a follow-up report. He swiveled his head to make eye contact with Fey. She shrugged.
The West Los Angeles Area detective squad room was full of the normal late afternoon activity. The CRASH gang u
nit was holding a briefing by the Robbery team's desks. Juvenile had three handcuffed delinquents sitting on a low bench in front of the detective lockers.
Devoid of partitions, the squad room was filled with individual clusters of desks. Each defined an investigative unit—Homicide, Major Assault Crimes, Robbery, Juvenile, Burglary, Autos, and the CRASH. Each appeared to be separate crime fighting antibodies poised to enter into combat with the diseases of the human condition.
Rhonda Lawless also raised her head, responding instinctively to Fey and Hammer. Known affectionately as Hammer and Nails, Hammersmith and Lawless were the Homicide team's point guards. They were partners in marriage as well as on The Job. Rhonda was only slightly shorter than Hammer, her build a twin of his slender, wiry muscularity. Her high cheekbones let her get away with the spiky, punk cut of her hair.
“What's up?” she asked.
Hammer shrugged. “Not sure.”
“Beats me,” Fey said. “But something is going on.”
The team had gone four weeks without a homicides in its jurisdiction. For the moment, West LA was a haven of tranquility.
Brindle Jones and her partner Abraham Benjamin Cohen—called Alphabet by anyone who knew him for more than thirty seconds—were bent over a desk going through a case file from a two year old unsolved murder of a local transient.
Their pairing was a study in contrast. Brindle's skin was a dark, mahogany, her movements spare and panther-like. By comparison, Alphabet was a dump truck on legs. Balding and round, he displayed all the grace of an unmade bed. The scut work the pair was doing was driving them, and everyone else, crazy.
“You think we've got a cold one?” Brindle asked.
Fey had a reputation for psychic instincts when it came to anticipating imminent death.
“It doesn't have that feel,” Fey said.
Before the discussion could go further, the detective division's commanding officer, Captain Mike Cahill, stuck his head out of his office and beckoned Fey.
“Here we go,” Fey said. She grabbed a coffee mug from her desk and gulped the contents.
Inside Cahill's office, the captain waved Fey to one of the chairs around a large circular table. “What have you been doing I don't know about?” he asked.
“Heck of an interrogatory technique, Mike, but you forgot to read me my rights.”
“Quit fooling around, Fey,” Cahill said. “I received a call from the chief's office. The man himself wants to see you.”
“You're kidding?”
“You know I don't kid. What have you done?”
Fey raised her palms. “I've been behaving. There's been nothing new on the books since the new Chief took over a month ago.”
Cahill looked frustrated. “Homicide supervisors don't get called to a private audience with the Chief of Police without cause. I'm trying to make commander here. I can't afford to have any screw ups.”
“It is all about you, isn't it, Mike?”
“Not what I mean, and you know it. I've always backed you.”
“If you say so.”
Cahill knew better than to push the issue. “What about Hammer and Nails? Could they be into anything?”
“Always. But since their baby was born they've been pretty calm.”
Hammersmith and Lawless had been partners for most of their careers, but their off-duty relationship had been kept as private as possible until eighteen months earlier when Nails became pregnant. Since then, they had married in a small civil ceremony and given birth to the Penny Hammersmith—or Sledge as the detectives called her.
Married detectives working the same assignment were not allowed elsewhere in the department. But Hammer and Nails had more friends than enemies in high places. Plus, they had enough evidence on their enemies to keep them quiet.
“If it's not something you or those two Rottweilers have done, what does the Chief want?”
“Who knows—maybe he wants to give me a medal, or kick my butt, or ask me on a date for Saturday night.” Fey shifted in her seat. “When does he want to see me?”
“Now.”
“Then, I better get down to Parker Center.”
Cahill looked concerned “If you take a fall, promise you won't drag me down with you.”
Fey grinned. “Hell is supposed to be a lonely place, Mike. But somehow, I'm sure I'll see you there.”
TWO
Chief of Police Gordon O. Drummond was built like an oversized fireplug. His cynical eyes took in the world from under unruly, rust-colored brows. His smile, however, transformed his hard features into a promise of shared secrets.
His appointment to head the LAPD had been a shock. The choice of a redheaded Irishman was not exactly politically correct in Los Angeles. But the bloodletting at Parker Center following the prior Chief's departure for a presidential appointment had left few candidates unscathed. Drummond's name ended up on top of a short list.
Not wanting to again make the mistake of appointing a Chief from outside the department, the police commission, the mayor, and the city council had been forced to accept Gordon O'Malley Drummond as the best qualified candidate from within the hierarchy. When the other candidates had fought themselves to a draw, Drummond emerged as a compromise. The king was dead. Long live the king.
GOD, as he was called behind his back, had been a popular choice with the department rank-and-file. He had already shown signs of being the leader needed to rejuvenate the LAPD.
Sitting across from Drummond, Fey was impressed with the man's command presence. In a stark white shirt with the tie lowered and the sleeves rolled up, he looked more like central casting's idea of a rural newspaper editor than a big-city Chief Of Police. Fey didn't know if this was a cultivated image, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
The first thing Drummond had done as Chief was to reduce the size of his personal office. The prior chief had expanded his inner sanctum to the point where the civilian secretaries and the chief's adjutant in the outer office had developed acute claustrophobia from the overcrowded conditions.
Giving the worker bees back their space had endeared Drummond to them. He'd immediately earned their trust and loyalty—something his predecessor had demanded, but never received.
Drummond also scored other easy brownie points. When appearing in uniform, he eschewed the fancy trappings of office. Gone was the hat with the brim full of scrambled eggs. A standard uniform cap was more Drummond's style, as was the standard uniform shirt. The pips on his collar were the only concession to his office.
Deputy chiefs, commanders, and captains who coveted the pomp and circumstance of their positions suddenly looked as if they were dressed for a cancelled costume ball. Drummond was amused. He was determined to wipe the smugness out of command level staff and bring back accountability.
“How are you, Fey?” Drummond asked. The two knew each other, but had never worked together.
“Other than wondering what this command performance is about, I'm fine.”
Drummond smiled. “Relax. I haven't asked you here for a wood shedding. Quite the contrary.”
“Why do I think I'm going to end up wishing for the wood shedding.”
Drummond grunted and gave a slight nod of his head. He stood up, stretched, and walked to the corner of his office where two picture windows met to reveal the city beyond. “You've been through an interesting few years in West LA.”
“I could have done without the headlines,” Fey said.
“Maybe so, but you've solved a number of high profile cases. Investigations that might have ended up in another unit's cold file.”
“Solving those cases made waves. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better not to solve them.”
“You don't really believe that, do you?” Drummond turned to face Fey, his eyebrows rising.
Fey shrugged. “The price was high.”
“Are you talking personally or professionally?”
“Both.”
Drummond nodded. “I u
nderstand your concerns, but I don't think you care about the offended sensibilities of upper management.”
Fey was blunt. “Solving crimes and putting villains in jail is my job. I don't have the time or energy to worry about putting noses out of joint.”
Drummond's smile appeared slowly. “You should know something about me. I place nothing above the truth. Not my job, not my position, not my reputation. I expect nothing less from those who work for me. I admire you. I admire your integrity. You're my kind of cop.”
“Are you trying to say I'm a tough broad?”
Drummond laughed. “I was trying to be more subtle, but it's another way of putting it. You're tough, tenacious, and honest.”
“Where is all this leading?”
Drummond leaned back against the window. His face filled with back-lit shadows, which emphasized his crooked nose. “Do know where you placed on the lieutenant's test?”
Fey felt a lump rise in her throat. “The list hasn't been released.”
Fey had taken the written part of the civil service promotion exam without preparation. Passing had surprised her. But it hadn't made her study any harder for the oral interview, which comprised the second half of the testing process. Promotion didn't hold any allure for her.
The last of the promotional orals had been given three months earlier. There were a lot of people waiting anxiously for the official ranking list to be announced. Fey hadn't been among them—until now.
“The list will be released this afternoon,” Drummond said.
“You've had an advance look?” Fey's voice sounded much more casual than she felt.
“Mmmmm,” Drummond made the noise a positive affirmation. He pushed away from the window and sat in the chair next to Fey. “You're in the top band of candidates.”
Fey was glad she was sitting down. She couldn't feel her feet. She hated when she wasn't in control of a situation affecting her life. “I'm surprised,” she said. This time her voice quavered slightly.