by Paul Bishop
“How so?”
“Doesn’t your department's left hand know what its right hand is doing?”
“Not an unusual occurrence in any big organization,” Fey said. “Why don't you fill me in?”
“A month ago, family court reconfirmed my rights to joint custody,” Ritter explained. “Bianca refused to comply and hid the children. She was heavily involved in this underground railroad. She supported it and used the people involved for her own means. My children are now adrift in an illegal program, which could be being run by pedophiles and other perverts for all we know.”
Fey took the last statement for what it was worth. “You reported all of this when it happened?”
“Detective Sloan in Wilshire division is handling the child concealment case in which Bianca is named as the suspect. The district attorney's office is, well . . . was, considering bringing charges against her.”
Fey nodded. “I understand your concern for your children. We will make every effort to locate them. To do so, however, I'm going to have to continue investigating your wife's murder. Can you tell me who would want information from your wife badly enough to be willing to torture it out of her?”
“Beside myself?” Ritter asked.
Fey smiled in acceptance of the statement she had left unsaid.
“Am I a suspect?” Ritter asked boldly.
“At this point even I'm a suspect,” Fey said. “Is there anyone who would want information from your wife?”
“Anyone whose children she was helping to hide,” Ritter said, sounding pompous and plumy.
After a few more questions, the interview dwindled to a close. Ritter and his entourage left the station. Fey returned to the squad room. She would need to interview Ritter again, but she needed much more information before doing so. He had provided her with several names of disgruntled parents whose children Bianca had spirited into the underground.
Child custody and non-provable sexual abuse allegations were nightmare ingredients for any detective. Satanic ritual accusations were often not far behind.
Fey found Alphabet and Brindle going through Hollywood's original murder book.
“You ready to book him?” Alphabet asked.
“Can't book a man because you don't like his manners,” Fey said.
“That's the trouble with progress,” Alphabet said
The squad room was busy. Nobody was watching Fey or her team.
“Speaking of fun,” Fey said, noticing Vic Rappaport was standing next to a file cabinet, engrossed in a case package. “Time to strike back before our point is lost.”
“What do you have in mind?” Brindle asked.
“Can you distract Rappaport?”
“You have to ask?” Brindle moved away wiggling her rear and straightening her skirt.
“You need me” Alphabet asked. He'd taken a surreptitious look in Fey's desk drawer.
“This one is strictly girl's night out.” Fey told him. She casually open her desk drawer and removed the offending item. Holding it down beside her leg, she waited for Brindle to go into action.
Passing by Rappaport, Brindle bumped hard into the edge of a desk. “Ouch!” She swore loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in the room. Acting as if she wasn't the center of attention, Brindle slid the hem of her skirt up her thigh to check her nylons.
Rappaport was riveted on the display of skin and wouldn't have noticed Fey moving up behind him if she'd been driving a tank. His colleagues, however, saw what was about to happen and let Fey's revenge run its course.
Fey chose her moment perfectly. She grasped the rear band of Rappaport's polyester slacks and pulled back. “I think this belongs to you,” she said sweetly, and slide the black, ten inch, rubber dildo, dripping with hand cream, down the gap.
TWELVE
While Vic Rappaport was swearing and twisting about trying to grab the gross object tangled up in his shorts, Fey calmly left the RHD squad room and walked down the stairs. Waiting for the elevator might have spoiled her exit.
Over the years, she had become accustomed to sexist jokes. If a woman complained, she was a spoilsport or a whiner. If she became angry, she was a bitch with no sense of humor. If she laughed and played along, she must be easy and lurid attempts to get into her shorts escalated.
The only way to handle the juvenile debasement was to return the harassment. Metaphorically, if you were cut, you shot back. If you were shot, you blasted with a cannon. You let everyone know you never brought a knife to a gun fight. It didn't take long for the lesson to be learned, but it was boring having to teach it over and over.
Exiting on the first floor of Parker Center, Fey turned left and covered the short distance to the Police Commission offices. She pushed through the glass fronted doors where she headed for Cecily Flynn-Rogers' office.
The door was open. Fey stepped inside, rapping lightly with her knuckles. The office was more functional than plush, but the furniture was several steps up from anything found in a squad room.
Flynn-Rogers was sitting behind her desk in a studded leather executive chair the color of eggplant. She was talking to a solidly built, older, black man with a large head sporting close-shaved hair. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache and a deeply dimpled chin. His suit was midnight blue with a red and white polka dot handkerchief spilling out of the breast pocket. The smooth curve of a white scar ran from the left corner of his mouth and disappeared under his chin.
Flynn-Rogers and her companion looked up as Fey entered.
“Detective Croaker,” Flynn-Rogers said. She stood and walked around her desk to offer her hand. “Let me apologize for my inexcusable behavior at the briefing this morning.”
Yeah, right, Fey thought. However, she said, “It was understandable. This situation must have you under a lot of stress.”
Still holding Fey's hand, Flynn-Rogers turned to her other visitor. “This is my father, Luther Flynn.”
“A pleasure, Detective Croaker. I hear good things about you.” The big man's voice was deep and fruity, matching his size.
“You must be talking to the wrong people,” Fey said, lightly. “I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”
“We live in a violent society,” Flynn said. “It touches all of us.”
So much for familial sorrow, Fey thought.
“Have you made any progress since this morning?” Cecily Flynn-Rogers asked.
“Inquiries are proceeding as rapidly as possible,” Fey said, meaning not much. “I've interviewing your sister's estranged husband. He told me about Bianca violating the court order to share jurisdiction of their children. He also thinks somebody tortured her to get information about other children Bianca was helping hide.”
“A smokescreen to remove himself from the top of the suspect list,” Cecily said, some of her earlier fury reemerging.
“Possibly,” Fey agreed.
“Cecily,” Luther Flynn stepped in. “You're being unrealistic. There's no evidence against Mark.”
“I heard what Sarah told Bianca.”
“You heard what Bianca force-fed Sarah. We've had professionals testify Bianca was acting out—completing a cycle. She was obsessed.”
Fey didn't feel like refereeing an episode of Family Feud. Interjecting herself, she asked Cecily, “What did you hear Sarah tell Bianca?”
Fey watched Cecily fight not to look at her father. “Sarah told us what the pervert she is forced to call a father did to her. There is no doubt in my mind Mark Ritter was molesting his children.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Mark Jr. didn’t make any disclosures of abuse,” Fey said.
“Boys don't,” Cecily replied. “It's much harder for them.”
Fey didn't buy into the theory, but she kept it to herself. “What exactly did Sarah allege?”
A look of vast distaste crossed Cecily's features. “It was disgusting. She said her father was rubbing her private parts and sticking his finger in h
er anus.”
“By private parts, I assume you mean her vagina?”
“Yes.” Cecily spat the word out as if she'd bitten into a chocolate with a soft center she didn't like.
“Was there any medical evidence?”
“The doctor noted fissures and redness in Sarah's anus.”
Fey nodded. “But Sarah was four. The doctor wasn't able to state unequivocally the fissures weren't caused by other factors—such as constipation, which is common in children of that age.” It was a familiar story in child abuse cases.
Cecily grunted. “When the courts refused to block Mark's access to the children, Bianca had no choice but to do what she did.”
“Do you know where Sarah and Mark Junior are?” Fey asked.
“No.” Cecily was emphatic. “Bianca wouldn't tell me. She was petrified of Mark. She wouldn't tell anyone where the children were in case he found out. A secret is no longer a secret when another person knows.”
Fey turned her head toward Luther Flynn. “Mark Ritter also told me Bianca made allegations against you when she was a child.”
Luther sighed. “My daughter Bianca and I were never close. I have tried to support her over the years, but she always made it difficult. I'm sure you're aware Mark Ritter is a partner in my law firm. He was struggling in his own practice. I thought bringing him into the fold would help him and Bianca. Don't get me wrong—Mark is a good lawyer with a good future. I'm sure he told you about Bianca's delusions, knowing you would find out anyway and be suspicious of why you weren't told up front.” Luther shifted his weight to rest a haunch on a corner of Cecily's desk.
“In nineteen-sixty-nine, my wife Mavis was murdered by her cousin, Eldon Dodge.” Luther's voice had taken on a storytelling tone. “We were estranged after she found out about an affair I was engaged in. She went to live with Dodge, as he was the only family she had in the area. Mavis was a spiteful woman, and claiming sexual abuse of children in order to keep custody is nothing new, as I'm sure you know. Mavis fabricated stories of abuse, but Bianca never made any disclosures because there was nothing to disclose.” He sighed again as if the telling was a burden.
“The whole situation ended tragically. Dodge was a radical, a Black Panther whom the FBI was investigating for committing an armored car robbery in which two security officers were killed. When the police went to get my children back from Mavis, in compliance with my court ordered rights, Eldon thought they were coming for him. He tried using Mavis as a human shield, but when he started shooting he hit her in the back of the head.”
“A smoking gun case,” Fey said without irony.
“Yes,” Luther Flynn nodded. “The only good things to come out of the situation were Eldon Dodge being sent to Death Row, where he is still awaiting execution, and my children were returned to me.” He reached out a hand and stroked Cecily's hair as if she was suddenly five-years-old again. Cecily turned into his semi-embrace and kissed her father's hand.
“It was an ugly and tragic time for me, but it’s all in the past,” Flynn said. “It has no bearing on anything except as it speaks to Bianca's frame of mind. Mavis could have had no idea of the damage she was doing to Bianca by instilling in her the images of abuse she wanted Bianca to spout against me. It unfortunately formed the background of my daughter's whole life. It became her cause célèbre, and has led to nothing but further tragedy.”
To Fey, the whole speech seemed prepared. Was Luther throwing up a smokescreen to hide something, or was he truly reflecting on a tragedy with no bearing on the present? Fey didn’t know yet. Mavis Flynn was murdered thirty years ago. Bianca had been eight, Cecily five. Fey had been a teen. How could there possibly be any tangible connection to the present?
“Tell me, Detective Croaker,” Luther Flynn continued, “was your father on the job?”
Fey frowned. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“If I remember correctly, Croaker was the name of the policeman who arrested Eldon Dodge for my wife's murder.”
THIRTEEN
Fey struggled to avoid all expression. She knew about the children of silence and the lack of attention authorities and parents paid to allegations of incest thirty years earlier. She knew because of her father.
Bringing Garth Croaker's name into the interview immediately turned Fey against Luther Flynn. She was ready to believe anything bad about him even rumored to be true. At least Mavis Flynn had made an effort to save her daughters from abuse. Fey's mother hadn't even tried. It just wasn't done.
Fey fought to remain professional. She had to handle this like any other case. She must be objective. Not happening, she thought. She was back in the muck. All murders were sordid, but why did she always ended up with the battered and molested?
Fey mentally replayed Luther Flynn's mention of her father. Had Flynn been watching for a reaction? Had he been probing to see if she knew something? And if there was something to know, what was it?
Fey answered Flynn's statement as evenly as she could manage. “There’s a coincidence” she said. But she didn't believe in coincidence. Fate, kismet, and bad luck, maybe, but not coincidence. Life had symmetry. All things were connected. Fey knew she couldn't escape her past no matter how far, or how hard she ran. She became a cop to confront her past, but she had spent the best part of her career avoiding it. Now the past appeared to have caught her.
Fey directed her attention to Cecily. “I'd like access to your sister's residence. I can obtain a search warrant, but if you or your father have dominion over the location, it would be easiest if you would give permission.”
Cecily puckered her lips. “I'm afraid neither my father nor I can grant you such permission.”
“Excuse me?”
Luther Flynn waved a hand. “We're not being obstructive, Detective. We wish to cooperate in any way we can. We can't give you permission to search because Bianca was living with another woman — Ferris Jackson. The residence belongs to Jackson.”
Fey sighed. A warrant would be necessary if Ferris would not cooperate.
***
After leaving Cecily's office, Fey called Monk on her cell phone.
“Something doesn't ring true,” she said after filling him in. “They're all blowing smoke up my skirt.”
“Kinky,” Monk said.
“Shut up,” Fey said with a chuckle. “Any word from the dynamic duo?”
Monk knew Fey was referring to Hammer and Nails. “Not yet. Do you want me to leash them in?”
“Better to let them run. What's on your agenda?”
“I'm working with Alphabet and Brindle on the names of the disgruntled parents Mark Ritter gave us.”
“Let them keep digging, but you switch to Ferris Jackson, Bianca's roommate. Get a warrant for both Bianca's phone records and the residence she shared with Jackson.”
“When do you want to see her?”
“Tomorrow morning. We'll serve the search warrant at the same time.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“I'll be on the mobile. I have to follow my nose on something.”
“Don't get it slapped with a newspaper.”
“Now that's kinky,” Fey said and hung up.
With the major parts of the investigation in hand for the moment, she felt easier about following another direction.
If her father had arrested Eldon Dodge for Mavis Flynn's murder in 1969, Jack Kavanaugh would have been his partner at the time. Surely Kavanaugh's odd death was not connected with Bianca Flynn's murder. But the two deaths were there, teasing Fey to prove they were related.
Thirty years ago Mavis Flynn, mother of Bianca Flynn, was murdered by Eldon Dodge. Thirty years ago, Jack Kavanaugh, partner of the man who arrested Dodge,
had stashed two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars in a lawyer's office. Where did coincidence stop and inevitability begin?
Taking the new Chevy Cavalier detective sedan she'd been issued by RHD, Fey drove the few short blocks to the law firm of Alexander and Kelly. On the way, she
took out her cell phone again and dialed a number from memory.
“Hey, Tucker,” she said when a male voice answered the ringing at the other end. “Still playing mix-and-match with the primary colors in your fashion wardrobe?”
“Hey, Frog Lady,” Zelman Tucker crackled back. “I figured you were too important, now you're a big time Robbery Homicide dick, to be talking to the likes of me, a humble journalist toiling tirelessly in the pursuit of truth.”
“Give it a rest. You don't even know how to spell humble, and the only thing you're in pursuit of is your next headline.”
“You wound me.”
“Not possible. How'd you hear about the RHD switch already?”
“Now that really does hurt. I always have my sources. The least you could have done was call to tell me the good news.”
“How do you know I'm not doing so?”
“Because you never call me unless you want something.”
“But it’s always to your advantage.”
Zelman Tucker had started life suckling scandal from his mother's breasts. He'd parlayed his natural talents as a digger of the dirtiest dirt into a career with The American Inquirer, a tabloid trash magazine where Tucker had broken more real stories than The Washington Post.
Fey met Tucker through Ash, the FBI agent she had been involved with until his death. Tucker had written several true crime books based on Ash's cases, and had gone on to write a bestseller about the case Ash and Fey had worked together.
Tucker was now an established literary icon, but in his heart he was still a scandal monger. He loved the sleaze and had more contacts in odd places than the intelligence apparatus of a small country.
Tucker chuckled. “You have something new for me?”
“Maybe later,” Fey told him. “Right now I need you to punch into sleaze mode and dig out everything you can on Luther Flynn.” She knew she was grinding a personal axe, but she didn't care.
“Judge Luther Flynn?”
“As ever was.”
“Oooh, I can smell this one coming.” Tucker sounded excited.