Croaker: Chalk Whispers (A Detective Fey Croaker LAPD Novel Book 4)

by Paul Bishop

  “Don't be.”

  Fey wondered where this was heading. Had she given a better interview than she thought—or were political strings being pulled? Civil service procedures were supposed to be sacrosanct, but she was cynical enough to know anything could be manipulated.

  “And why are you personally telling me this?”

  “Because you've more than proven yourself in area homicide teams. It's time for you to move on. I'm expanding Robbery-Homicide Division by a full team. I want you to take charge of it as a lieutenant.”

  Fey was stunned. She'd spent half her career at odds with Robbery-Homicide—the department's elite corps of detectives. They were assigned high profile murder investigations and other long-term cases when geographic homicide units could not provide the necessary manpower. They could also snatch up any other case they deemed fit their jurisdiction.

  “Don't thank me,” Drummond said, holding up a hand when Fey did not respond. “It's my pleasure.” He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “How long before you come howling for my blood?” she said.

  Drummond laughed. “I'm sure we'll have our moments. Until then, let's enjoy the honeymoon.”

  Fey smiled weakly.

  “You don't seem pleased,” Drummond said.

  “I'm shocked. This was the last thing I expected.”

  “I assume you're worried about your people.”

  “We've been through a lot together. Leaving them behind isn't going to be easy.”

  “You're not leaving them behind.”

  “What?”

  “I told you, I'm adding a full team to Robbery-Homicide. Your people are coming with you. You're the only one changing civil service ranks, but the others will all be given pay grade promotions. Monk Lawson will be made a Detective Three. Hammersmith, Lawless, Cohen, and Jones will all be moved up to Detective Two. What do you think?”

  “All the toes I’ve squashed are going more shocked than me.”

  It was Drummond's turn to shrug. “If it doesn't worry me, it shouldn't worry you. However, there is a kicker.”

  “There always is,” Fey said.

  Drummond's smile became predatory. “Your first case is already waiting for you, and it's a real monster.”

  THREE

  Outside the chief's office, Fey felt disoriented. Her life had been drastically altered. She walked toward the elevators, unaware of her surroundings.

  In a way, the news hit her almost like a death. Her comfortable environment where she knew the rules and the players was gone. There was no going back, no changing what was done.

  It didn't matter the change was an affirmation of her worth as a detective. In six months or a year, she might be delighted with her new situation, but right here, right now, Fey was adrift.

  In the elevator, she hesitated before pushing the button for the third floor. She wasn't a coward. At some point she had to walk into Robbery-Homicide Division's lair. If this was going to be her new home, she should get the initial encounter over.

  Several heads turned as she entered RHD's overcrowded squad room, but Fey knew people wouldn't yet know she was the new kid on their block. The heads turned away again, ignoring the incomer.

  A gently mocking voice said, “What are you doing down here? Slumming?”

  Fey turned to see Frank Hale. He was an RHD veteran with whom she'd worked in the past.

  “I was getting bored in West LA. Thought I'd come and see the varsity play.”

  “You must have a PHD in sarcasm by now”

  “You go with what works.”

  Hale chuckled. “What's really up?”

  “I need to talk to Captain Whitman.”

  “Whitman?” Hale was clearly curious. “He should be in his office.” He pointed toward the back of the squad room. Whip Whitman ran RHD. Everyone had a chance to prove themselves under his gentle guidance, but screw up enough and Whitman would grind a detective into dust.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Let’s catch up you later.”

  Moving toward Whitman's office, Fey realized there were no female supervisors in Robbery-Homicide. Never had been. She silently cursed the Chief. The last thing she needed was to be dumped into the middle of another battle of the sexes.

  Whitman saw Fey coming. He was an average-size guy with a full head of crinkly white hair, and a pot belly from too many fast-food dinners. He'd been involved in over eighteen-hundred homicides during his twenty-eight years on the job, but had never lost enthusiasm for the hunt.

  “Hello, Fey,” he said, ushering her into his office and closing the door behind her.

  “How are you, Whip?” Fey asked. They had bumped around each other for years.

  “More to the point—how are you?”

  “Shocked,” Fey said. The Chief said Whitman was aware she was headed his way.

  “I can imagine,” Whitman said.

  “I didn't ask for this,” Fey said. She felt awkward.

  Whitman smiled. “I know.”

  “I have no clue why the Chief made this decision.”

  “I do,” Whitman said. “Robbery-Homicide needs shaking up. We need fresh blood, but change is hard for everyone. The Chief and I think you and your team are the best answer.”

  “You both think?”

  Whitman nodded. “Believe it or not, I was the bright boy who asked for you. Coming into RHD won't be easy. It's a closed world, but you won't be without allies. You do the same type of work for me as you've done in West LA, and I'll see you're okay.”

  “I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I've heard that before.”

  “Not from me. I'm not Mike Cahill. He's got his head so far up his butt, he needs a window in his stomach to see where he's going.”

  Fey laughed. “I may like it here after all.”

  “You aren't going to have much chance to get settled. The official transfer period isn’t for another week, but I want your team here for a nine a.m. briefing tomorrow.”

  “We'll be here. Has anybody told Cahill?”

  “The Chief is breaking the news to him now. I'll tell the people here. Your esteemed boss will have to suck up the personnel loss until the deployment period changes.”

  “You want to give me a hint about this big case?”

  Whitman shook his head. “Another twenty-hours won't matter. Get your team moved in. Tomorrow will be soon enough to ruin your life.”

  FOUR

  The party was spontaneous. Once the shock of the announcement wore off, the West Los Angeles detectives insisted on an immediate going-away party. It was tradition.

  The Blue Cat was the natural venue. A small jazz club in Brentwood, it offered refuge from trendy watering holes and a secure environment for detectives to relax. The regulars knew who the detectives were and left them alone.

  The drinking started at four-thirty in the afternoon when the first shift of detectives finished work. Things started flowing when Fey and the rest of the homicide crew arrived after moving their gear to Parker Center.

  Everyone on the team was happy with the unexpected promotions and pay raises, but not with the thought of working downtown out of the glass house.

  Fey slid into her regular booth next to Monk Lawson. He ran a hand over his bald, shiny black skull, then grabbed a beer glass from Booker, the Blue Cat's bartender and owner.

  “I hear a celebration is in order,” Booker said.

  “You have good ears,” Fey told him.

  Hammer and Nails joined the group. Nails was on her cell phone talking with her mother, who took care of baby Penny while she and Hammer were at work.

  “You gonna be deserting our humble juke joint now you gonna be swinging Robbery-Homicide dicks.”

  “Not a chance,” Fey said. “This is home. And no more cracks from you about Robbery-Homicide.”

  Booker chuckled. He moved off to get more drinks as Alphabet and Brindle joined the group. Other West LA detectives came over to offer congratulations.

  “Robbery-Homicide,” Al
phabet said. He took a long swallow of beer. “I thought we agreed those guys were all butt hairs.”

  “You've always done a pretty good sphincter impression,” Brindle said.

  “I appreciate your input,” Alphabet said.

  During the past year their work product had improved. They seemed to bring out the best in each other. They weren't romantically involved, but there was a certain sexual tension.

  “You had no clue?” Hammer asked Fey.

  Fey shook her head. “I was shocked.”

  “The old boys' club at RHD isn't going to like it,” Nails said. She put her phone back in her purse. “Having us turn up en masse is going to put them all on the rag.”

  “They're not going to know what to do with three women detectives,” Monk said.

  “Especially when one is a lieutenant,” Brindle added.

  “Screw 'em,” Fey said. “We don't have anything to prove. We're not asking permission to join. You report to me. I report to Whitman.”

  “We're going to have to look out for sabotage,” Hammer said. “Professional jealousy can get ugly.”

  “Whitman appears to be on our side,” Fey said. “He's out of South Bureau homicide. He gets it. He only took over RHD after the Vaughn Harrison debacle last year. He’s using us to shake up the old guard. He needs us to succeed if he's going to succeed.”

  “But why the rush to get us down there?” Hammer asked.

  Fey shrugged. “A homicide is a homicide. We've solved our share of high profile cases. Whatever they give us tomorrow we can handle.”

  Booker came over to the booth with fresh drinks. On the small stage, a trio of jazz musicians were setting up.

  Booker and Fey first met through Fey's lover, Ash, an FBI agent who had often sat in on the Blue Cat's piano. His death had been devastating to Booker and Fey, albeit in different ways. But the pain had forged a solid bond between them.

  “Lieutenant...” the bartender said softly to Fey.

  “Cut it out, Booker,” Fey warned.

  Booker grinned. “There's a man asking about you.” Discretion had stopped him from pointing Fey out to a stranger.

  None of the detectives looked around, experience overriding curiosity.

  “What does he want?” Fey asked.

  Booker shrugged. “He's a suit. Don't think he's one of yours though. Lawyer, maybe.”

  “Have we done anything lately to get sued?” Fey asked the table in general.

  “Not so you'd notice,” Monk said.

  As Booker moved away, Fey turned her head to look at the end of the bar near the entrance door.

  An older man stood there looking uncomfortable. He was wearing a well-cut gray suit with a starched white shirt and a bow tie with blue polka dots. Wire-rimmed glasses sat high on his nose. His salt and pepper hair was expensively cut.

  Fey didn't recognize him, but he didn't appear threatening. “I'll see what he wants,” she said.

  Monk slid from the booth to let Fey out, paused, and then glided behind her as backup.

  Fey walked up to the man and introduced herself.

  The man proffered a business card. Fey glanced at the typeface—Martin Freeman, Attorney at Law.

  “It’s rarely good when a lawyer gives you his card.” Fey said.

  Ignoring the jibe, Freeman lifted a battered briefcase and placed it flat on the bar top. “I am here to execute a will codicil for the estate of Ellis Kavanaugh,” he said. “He was unfortunately killed in an accident last week. I have been directed to give you this.”

  “I don't know any Ellis Kavanaugh.”

  “Mr. Kavanaugh lodged this locked briefcase with our firm thirty years ago. Recently, he returned to establish a codicil to his will—which was held by another firm. He named you as the recipient of the briefcase in the event of his death.”

  Fey looked at the briefcase. “What's inside?”

  “Mr. Kavanaugh sis not leave a key.”

  Fey reached over the bar and picked up the knife Booker used for paring limes. She stuck the tip under the right briefcase lock and gave the knife a sharp twist. The lock was cheap and popped open easily. She repeated the performance on the left lock. The briefcase lid sprang upward and hundred dollar bills spilled across the bar.

  FIVE

  Fey lay in bed trying to remember who had said the past is always with you. She pulled a pillow tight around her head and attempted to regulate her breathing, but sleep refused to come.

  The shock of receiving the briefcase full of money — two hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars — had seriously startled her. Not knowing where it came from, or why, only added to her confusion. She had put the money back in the briefcase and secured the case with duct tape provided by Booker. It was now on the recessed top of her bedroom wardrobe.

  The name Ellis Kavanaugh had not immediately meant anything to Fey. Freeman, however, had offered the further information Kavanaugh had been best known by his middle name, Jack.

  Jack Kavanaugh, Jack Kavanaugh. The name echoed through Fey's head bringing with it unwanted memories. Memories of Garth Croaker, her abusive policeman father, the threats, the pain, the sexual depravity of a man who couldn't keep his hands off his daughter, couldn't keep his fists off his wife, and who used menace toward his young son to keep Fey compliant to his whims.

  Jack Kavanaugh had been her father's last partner on the job. Fey remembered him as a slim man who always seemed to be afraid of her larger, hulking father. On duty, the two men were a standard Laurel paired with a muscular, demented Hardy.

  Another fine mess, Fey thought absently. She turned over in bed, disturbing Marvella and Brentwood, the two cats who slept on her feet. Marvella was a disgruntled ball of electrified orange fur. She opened one eye and swatted for no reason at the sleek whiteness of Brentwood before settling down again. Fey's mind continued to turn over the situation. Why would her father's ex-partner leave her two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars in his will?

  The lawyer said Kavanaugh died impoverished, almost a street person, yet this briefcase full of money had reposed in Freeman's law offices for thirty years. Where had the money come from? And why had Kavanaugh not spent it, or at least put it in the bank to earn interest? Why not leave it to his own family, if he had any, instead of the daughter of his former police partner? And why did Kavanaugh recently name Fey as the recipient? Somewhere there had to be answers, but Fey wasn't sure she wanted to find them.

  When Freeman told Fey how Kavanaugh died, she vaguely remembered seeing a photo in the sports pages. An intrepid photographer had immortalized Kavanaugh as he ran ahead of the horses in the seconds before he was trampled. She hadn't recognized the name or the face at the time, and the photo had only been a passing image in her mind.

  The other cops at The Blue Cat controlled their curiosity. Protecting Fey's back while she'd talked to Freeman, Monk had overheard the conversation. He'd scrambled to help pick up the spilled cash and return it to the briefcase before too many eyes could catch what was happening. Fey knew she could rely on his discretion. She’d given an abbreviated explanation to the rest of the crew before using Booker's back room to count the money.

  She questioned Freeman further about his firm's relationship with Kavanaugh, but was unable to pin down anything concrete.

  “I'm sorry,” Freeman told her. “All I know is Mr. Kavanaugh walked into our offices thirty years ago, and asked for assistance in storing this briefcase. Our office contacted him several times over the years to ask for instructions. He updated his fees on those occasions and asked us to continue storing the case. Two months ago, Mr. Kavanaugh came to our offices personally. He had us create the codicil regarding the property in our possession.”

  “How did you find out Kavanaugh was dead?” Fey asked.

  “We were notified by another law firm, Alexander and Kelly, with whom Mr. Kavanaugh had lodged his complete will. In the will, there was reference to our codicil and we were contacted to execute it.”

  Fey knew Al
exander and Kelly as an all-purpose law firm whose advertisements appeared in The Thin Blue Line, the monthly publication of the LAPD's Police Protective League. The firm's primary customer base was law-enforcement personnel and their families.

  Now, in the darkness of her bedroom, Fey sought an explanation for the strange events. She tried to breathe evenly, but failed. Shallow, ragged breaths didn't give her enough air to clear the pressure building in her chest and the tears threatening to erupt.

  She was completely alone. Her mother was dead, her father was dead, her brother was dead, and good riddance to them all. Three ex-husbands could testify her marriages were dead. Ash, a man who had meant more to her than any other, had been dying when she met him, and now he was gone too — physically if not spiritually.

  Over forty-five years on this side of the grass, over twenty-five years on the job, and her personal life was a disaster. She constantly fought to put the past behind her, battled to keep the Pandora's box chained and locked, but something always came along to release her demons.

  Normally, a windfall of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would be cause for celebration. But the course of events in Fey's life had never been normal, and she could feel the metaphoric storm clouds gathering.

  Trying again to force a deep, cleansing breath into her lungs, she worked to blank her mind. The answers to Jack Kavanaugh's legacy would have to wait. There were more pressing issues. In a few hours, she and her crew would be taking on their first assignment for Robbery-Homicide. She needed to be sharp. She was being pushed beyond her comfort zone by forces she couldn't control, and it scared her. Even though she had little in her private life besides her animals, she did have the job — and the job meant everything.

  SIX

  GOD was in his heaven, but all was not right with the world.

  Gordon O'Malley Drummond paced behind the gathered detectives listening to the briefing organized by Whip Whitman. The RHD offices at Parker Center were overcrowded and full of activity. Briefings were therefore often held in a commandeered lunchroom on the mezzanine level.