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

by Paul Bishop

  “I want everything, Tucker. The dirtier the better.”

  “Gloves off?”

  “Gloves off,” Fey agreed. “No rules.”

  “Could run into money.”

  “You're rich.”

  “I get the full story later?”

  “Have I ever let you down?”

  “Good enough. When do you want this?”

  “Yesterday,” Fey said.

  She hung up as she turned into Alexander and Kelly's parking lot. The original figurehead, Robbie Alexander, was long since retired. The original Kelly had passed on. However, his son, Scott Kelly, welcomed Fey into his office with genuine interest.

  “We keep things simple here,” Kelly said, indicating the plain, but comfortable office decor with a circular gesture of his hand. “My father believed the work is important, not the surroundings.” He smiled. “Most cops don't trust lawyers. Since we do a lot of work with the law enforcement family, we don't want them to feel we're inaccessible.”

  Fey wondered if the frankness was another fabricated technique to put cops at ease. “I've seen your ads in The Blue Line.”

  “Ninety-five percent of our business is law enforcement related. Both my father and Robbie Alexander, the firm's other original founder, were on the job before passing the bar. Their original goal of working within the law enforcement community is a tradition we still follow.”

  The guy's got a nice smile, Fey thought, but he's a lawyer. Always has to lecture instead of converse.

  “I understand you recently executed the will of a retired officer by the name of Ellis Jack Kavanaugh.”

  “Yes,” Kelly said. “I didn't handle it personally, but I saw the paperwork. Fortunately, it was simple and straightforward.”

  Legalese for easy money.

  “I'd like to view the will and find out if there was any next of kin,” Fey said.

  “I don't see a problem. The will has been fully discharged. Let me get the file.”

  Kelly left Fey in his office for the few minutes it took to get the appropriate paperwork. While he was gone, she looked around at the plaques on the wall. Kiwanis, Rotary, Chamber of Commerce. There were appreciations from the Police Protective League and other law enforcement related organizations. The guy was a regular Conan the Rotarian.

  Fey knew all of it would drive her crazy. Glad-handing, rubber chicken dinners, chasing business, fighting with other lawyers, talking lawyer speak, fancy suits, politics, all for what?

  Putting villains in jail was what her job was about. Any other law enforcement related mandate was garbage. Half the kids wearing the badge today were nothing more than glorified security guards. They wouldn't know an observation arrest if it came up and hopped into the back of their police car. If you ran around the fringes of the job and weren't even wearing a badge, then you were the worst kind of wanna-be. You were either on the job or you weren't. It was clear. Them against us.

  Fey gave a mentally smirk. She was becoming a curmudgeon.

  Kelly came back into the room carrying a buff-colored folder. He wore reading glasses and was studiously turning pages as he walked.

  “There isn’t much here. Mr. Kavanaugh had sunk into a state of mental confusion before dying. Very unfortunate. The estate wasn't large. There were the contents of a small apartment left to a son and daughter, and nothing else except for a codicil fulfilled by another firm.”

  “I'm familiar with the codicil,” Fey said. “It's part of the reason I'm here. There was nothing else beyond the apartment contents? No other assets left to his children?”

  “Nothing is listed. Do you want an address for his son, Brink Kavanaugh? He was the co-executor of the will.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kelly gave Fey a speculative look. “Are you familiar with Brink Kavanaugh?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Not necessarily, but I think you'll find him quite a character.”

  FOURTEEN

  Hammer and Nails sat watching the exterior of the murder scene warehouse. They were in Hammer's personal black van eating Taco Bell and drinking cold coffee. The van was parked in an alley, its flat nose barely visible from the street in the deepening twilight.

  Through the van's windows, they could observe the warehouse, the street in front of it, and the alley on the south side. They had chosen their position carefully, wanting to be able to see the warehouse dumpsters.

  There were other warehouses nearby, along with a row of grungy shop fronts. The shops were a blend of periphery businesses, a liquor store, a small market with Persian hieroglyphics marking the windows, a movie poster and memorabilia store, a foreign language video rental and music outlet, a head shop, and an adult arcade. The fronts of several of the warehouses had been opened to display goods probably fallen off the back of a truck sometime the night before.

  The rest of the neighborhood was a mishmash of decaying apartments housing prostitutes, WAMs (waiter/actor/models), WAMetts, and aspiring screenwriters. The rundown glamour of Hollywood Boulevard was only a block or two away, but nobody in this community was ever going to get a star on the Walk of Fame.

  All of this provided for a certain amount of foot traffic, but after four hours there was nothing to provide a clue to Bianca Flynn's murder. Aside from the occasional customer for the stores, there were a number of winos sitting on the curb and around a small wooden table outside of the market. None of them appeared interested in the warehouse.

  Flipping through a book of I-cards, Rhonda tried to match up the physical descriptions and the bad Polaroid photos stapled to the investigator cards with the semi-homeless population roaming the street. The book had been supplied by the Hollywood Area transient detail. They had threaten the death penalty if Hammer and Nails did not return it.

  “Here's a winner,” she said, holding a card for Hammer to see. “I think it's the guy over near the lamp standard.”

  Hammer glanced at the description. “It says he has AIDs, hepatitis, and herpes. If we have to arrest him, you're doing the search.”

  Rhonda turned the card back toward herself. “It also says he has a ring through his penis, and two others through his nipples.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Personally, I think body piercing is a good idea. It gives the rest of us fair warning somebody is seriously deranged.”

  “How many holes do you have in your earlobes?”

  Rhonda threw a tortilla chip at her partner. “Shut up.”

  Hammer sat up in the van's driver's seat. “This might be something,” he said. Rhonda followed his gaze.

  The duo was used to long stakeouts, part of their reputation came from their patience, but it was nice when the effort paid off. As they watched a woman approaching the dumpster across the street, Hammer felt his energy level kick in.

  The woman was one of the many homeless or transient-types who followed the same rounds, day after day, checking the same dumpsters and alleys for the substance of bare survival. Aluminum cans, bottles, and anything recyclable often provided a thin protection from starvation. Rotting food, newspapers, short-dogs, and stubbies were life luxuries. Will work for food took on a whole new meaning. Scavenging, fighting street predators, making troubled brains function enough to get through one day to the next was hard work. Maybe the hardest work there was.

  Hammer and Nails watched as the woman, wrapped in numerous layers of deteriorating clothing and wearing a silver Dolly Parton wig, pushed a two-wheeled cart along to the dumpster beside the crime scene warehouse. She went up on tip-toe to look over the edge of the metal receptacle.

  “Got her,” Rhonda said, sliding an I-card out of the transient book. “Willetta Rendell. She usually stays in a women's shelter a few blocks north on Gower. She's listed as bipolar manic depressive. The notation says she's friendly if she's taken her meds.”

  “We couldn't be that lucky,” Hammer said. He opened the van door and slid casually to the ground. Rhonda followed him out as her door was too close to the alley wal
l.

  They had already talked to a half-dozen street people who cruised close to the crime scene warehouse. None of the contacts proved of any value, and they were starting to get discouraged. They were tired and bored. Perseverance was a virtue, but there was a limit.

  Willetta didn't see them crossing the street, but as soon as they entered the mouth of the alley, she turned as if scalded.

  “Get away from me!” she yelled. “I got AIDs and I'll bite you!”

  Hammer stopped his approach with Nails behind him. He flexed his knees and crouched down, his back straight. “It's okay, Willetta,” he said calmly. “We're not going to hurt you. We just want to talk.” He had crouched to make himself less of a threat.

  “I don't want to talk. I'll bite you!”

  “Do you know Officer Heising?” Heising was one of the transient detail officers. “I work with him.” Hammer held out his badge. “I'm Detective Hammersmith, and this is my partner, Detective Lawless.” Hammer kept his voice even, almost sing-song.

  Rhonda had always been impressed by Hammer's ability to almost hypnotize suspects and witnesses by using voice inflection. It was a tool developed through years of experience, and it often saved wear and tear on bodies and clothing. It was better to talk somebody to jail than fight them into a cell. In this instance, however, it didn't appear to be working.

  “I'll bite you!” Willetta said and pushed her cart behind her.

  Rhonda wondered how many times this woman had been a victim, how many times had she used this empty threat. The woman was in no shape to ward off an attack from any kind of determined aggressor.

  “Do you know Miss Susie at the shelter?” Rhonda asked. She had stepped past Hammer to make herself the focus.

  “What if I do?”

  “I know her, too,” Rhonda said. “She'll tell you we don't want to hurt you.”

  Willetta appeared to consider. “What do you want?”

  “We want to ask a question.”

  “Are you going to take me to jail?”

  “No. I promise.”

  “Do you have any cigarettes?”

  “We'll get you some from the liquor store,” Rhonda said.

  Hammer slowly came up from his crouch. He sidestepped out of Willetta's direct line of sight, leaving Nails in the spotlight. Willetta's attitude was less hostile toward her.

  “I’ll go to the liquor store and get Willetta some cigarettes?” Hammer said.

  “And a bottle of Jack,” Willetta demanded, pushing her luck. “Big bottle.”

  “Be right back,” Hammer said. “You two go on getting acquainted.”

  As he moved away, Hammer heard Willetta calling. “Get Camels. Don't be bringing back no filtered crap.”

  Hammer was gone a few minutes, but Rhonda had managed to established a tentative rapport with Willetta. The two were sitting on the ground by Hammer's van talking. Willetta was going through the contents of her two-wheeled cart. Scraps of blankets and newspaper where scattered around her along with crushed cans and various unidentified bits-and-pieces.

  Willetta looked up when Hammer came back, withdrawing defensively.

  “It's okay,” Hammer told her, crouching down again. “I've brought your cigarettes.” He held out a pack of Camels.

  Willetta reached out and grabbed the pack, hiding it in the folds of her clothing. “What about the Jack?”

  Hammer displayed a quart bottle of Jack Daniels. “If you can help us, it's yours.”

  Willetta looked at the bottle and licked her lips. “I don't got much, but what I got is worth a lot. Isn't it?”

  “We don't know,” Rhonda told her. “It depends on what you have.”

  “I got a hubcap,” Willetta pulled a battered round of metal from the interior of her cart. “Give me the Jack.” She held out her hand.

  “We don't want the hubcap,” Hammer said.

  Willetta appealed to Rhonda. “You said I could have the Jack if I gave you what I got.”

  Rhonda shook her head. “I said you could have it if you gave us what we wanted — tools, any kind of tools you may have found on your rounds.”

  “This is a tool,” Willetta said. She thrust the hubcap out toward them.

  “No. It's a hubcap,” Hammer said.

  “It's a tool,” Willetta said angrily. “I'll bite you.”

  “Easy, Willetta,” Rhonda said. “It might be a tool, but it's not the type of tool we want.”

  “What kind do you want?”

  “We're looking for a staple gun or a small saw.”

  “Don't got no gun. Give me the Jack.”

  “Not a gun, Willetta. We're looking for a big stapler.”

  Willetta looked at the two detectives. “You going to take me to jail?”

  “You can go back to the shelter any time. Miss Susie will keep you safe.”

  “Miss Susie don't let nobody mess with you or take your stuff while you're asleep.” Willetta agreed vigorously. A sly look then came over her face. “You got any money?”

  “Willetta . . .”

  “You want something you got to pay for it. They always tell me that at the store.”

  “What have you got?” Rhonda asked. It was clear this was the road Willetta had been taking them down from the beginning.

  “Twenty bucks,” Willetta said.

  “Ten,” Hammer said.

  “Twenty! And the Jack! I'll bite you!” She bared decaying incisors and made a gnashing sound in the back of her throat.

  Rhonda put her hand out to touch Hammer. “Twenty,” she said. If there was something here, it was worth twenty. And the Jack.

  Rummaging around in her clothing, Willetta pulled out a rectangular, three-quarter-inch thick, metal object with a hole for fingers and a leaver on the top. “Stapler gun,” she said. “Give me the Jack. I'll bite you!”

  FIFTEEN

  “What are you doing here? You're early. You know I'm still working. Why didn't you use your key?”

  Fey was surprised by the words as they didn't make much sense. The metal door she'd knocked on was set into a larger warehouse roll up door. It had been flung open by a giant of a man. He was over six-foot-four, wide at the shoulders with massive, muscular arms. His broad chest was covered in thick massive hair, clearly visible as he wore nothing other than a pair of nylon running shorts almost hidden by a leather tool belt. He looked like an angry bear disturbed from hibernation. Turning rudely, he walked away from the door, leaving it open.

  “Excuse me,” Fey said, still not understanding the reaction. “Are you Brink Kavanaugh?”

  The giant whirled around at the sound of her voice. His eyes took Fey in for the first time. He was about her age. The crows' feet surrounding his eyes spoke of independent character and too much time spent in the sun. The scent of fresh sweat and musk came off him in waves of animal heat. In one hand he held a short-handled mallet, in the other, a large, razor sharp, steel chisel.

  He wiped a forearm across his grit powdered brow, the muscles in his shoulder and bicep rippling. His expression focused and he appeared to come back to planet Earth. “Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.” His voice was deep and raspy. The wide, reckless grin of a born rogue dimpled his cheeks and tightened the cleft in his chin.

  “Come in if you want, but you'll have to wait,” he said “The rock is ready.” He gestured wildly with the chisel, as if it were explanation enough, turned and stomped away.

  Curiouser and curiouser, Fey thought. This guy might not be the White Rabbit, but I'm beginning to feel a lot like Alice.

  The address Fey had been given for Brink Kavanaugh was centered in a strip of renovated buildings in the heart of Santa Monica. Commercial premises fronted the buildings at street level with living quarters or offices above.

  Unlike the dismal and dilapidated area surrounding the warehouse where Bianca Flynn had been murdered, the properties in Santa Monica were referred to in real estate brochures as Bohemian or eclectic. The artists and crafts people who made a home f
or themselves in the area were impoverished, but they weren't starving. There was hope here along with the promise of prosperity. A stop on the way up, not on the way down.

  Entering Brink Kavanaugh's domain, Fey was unprepared for the sight that confronted her. The small warehouse was filled with the light and shadows created by a bank of high windows running across the rear brick wall. In the middle of the floor a large sand pit was contained within a framework of railroad ties. In the middle of the sand stood a monstrous chunk of granite.

  Wide at the base and tapering up, the rock was fifteen feet tall, reaching toward the where the twenty foot high ceiling should have been. Instead, a square of the second story above the rock had been removed. Skylights from the floor above threw down shafts of sunlight, which glanced off the rock at odd angles. The granite rock itself was so large in circumference a small car could have been hidden behind it. It was a mountain growing in the middle of the building.

  Kavanaugh stood before the monolith in worship, arms extended, mallet and chisel held in either hand. The natural sunlight tempered the scene. Dust motes moved languidly within the streams of light. Shadows thrown by the rock made eerie pockets of nothingness.

  Kavanaugh was no longer aware of Fey’s presence, no longer aware of anything except the rock. A leather thong secured his long ink black hair into a pony tail, which cascaded down between his shoulder blades. He brought his hands together in front of him, the muscles in his back glistening with sweat, fighting each other for prominent definition.

  “Magnificent,” Fey exclaimed involuntarily. With breath caught in her throat, she had no idea if she was referring to the rock or Kavanaugh —both were inseparable.

  Keeping his tools grasped in the crook of his thumbs, Kavanaugh reached out and ran his fingers along the granite. He was humming gently, communing with the stone.

  With abrupt decisiveness, he climbed up a short pile of railway ties at the base of the rock. He ran the fingertips of his left hand across a crease near the top of the rock, steadied the cutting edge of the chisel where his fingers had touched, and smashed the mallet down onto the chisel with a prehistoric roar escaping from inside him.