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

by Paul Bishop

  Chandra also gave them another lead. Although she'd never heard of any of the suspect's movies, she did remember a title, Bad Blood.

  It didn't mean anything to Hammer or Nails, but if the suspect told the truth and was not just bragging, it was probably a straight to video B-flick. As a lead, it was tenuous but it could have potential.

  Rhonda watched as Penny smiled up at her. She felt choked as she looked at the baby's slightly oversized head and flat features. Rhonda had believed she and Hammer were the perfect couple, perfectly matched, perfectly in sync. Down Syndrome hadn't even occurred to her as a possibility for their baby.

  The baby had changed everything. Before Penny, she and Hammer would still have been on the case, still pushing the composite, the movie title lead, anything they had. Now, work days came to an end.

  Penny needed to be picked up from Nanna's, needed her own mother, needed her father. The change didn't appear to bother Hammer, but Rhonda felt claustrophobic. Hammer relied on her, but he could also take care of himself. Penny couldn't. There was no end in sight. Ever.

  Hammer came up behind Rhonda and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “She's beautiful,” he said, looking down at Penny. He felt Rhonda tense within his grasp. “Hey, what's the matter?” He stood up, allowing her to turn around and push him gently back.

  “Nothing's the matter.”

  “Of course something's the matter. I know you. I love you. What's wrong? Is it me?”

  “Why do you think it's you?” Rhonda raised her voice. “Does the world revolve around you?” She moved off toward the door of the room.

  Hammer exercised his right to remain silent, moving to lean over the crib. He put a finger into the palm of Penny's right hand, marveling as the baby's fingers grasped his. He sensed Rhonda lingering, but didn't turn to face her.

  “Doesn't it bother you?” Rhonda asked.

  “What?” Hammer asked, still keeping his back to her.

  “Don't play dumb. Doesn't it bother you she's retarded?”

  Hammer felt himself tense this time. He straightened, but still did not turn around. “Now who's being dumb? Retarded is a filthy word. Penny is beautiful. She has Down Syndrome. She's going to be challenged. She's going to be a lot of work for us. But Down Syndrome children are very special lights.” He did turn around now, to face the woman whom he cherished above all else in his life along with his daughter. “The Down Syndrome isn't your fault. It isn't my fault. It simply is. Penny simply is. Get your mind straight. Whatever challenges Penny has, we will face as a family.”

  “I can't believe you,” Rhonda said. She started to cry. “I want to believe you, but I can't. I want to love her, but I can't.”

  “Why? Because you don't think she's perfect?”

  With her back pressed against the wall, Rhonda slowly slid to a sitting position with her knees pulled up to her chest. “Yes!” It was a wail of anguish.

  Hammer came over and crouched in front of her, wrapping his arms around her knees. “Penny is perfect.”

  Rhonda was crying in a jag, gasping for breath. “How can you say she’s perfect? I let you down. Don't tell me you wouldn't trade her for a normal child in a heartbeat!”

  “I certainly wouldn't.” There was sharp anger in Hammer's voice. He shook Rhonda's legs roughly. “And don't you ever, ever say that again.”

  “What?” The shock of Hammer's statement was enough to interrupt Rhonda's crying. She gulped and sniffed. “What?”

  Hammer more gently rocked Rhonda's legs back and forth. “Penny is our child. Whatever challenges she has, she is our child, our creation. She will love us, and we will love her as we love each other, with every fiber of our being.”

  “But —”

  “There is no but. I'm not much for organized religion, but you know I believe in something we conveniently label God. You do too. Penny hasn't been sent to punish us. She's been sent to bless us. She's special. We have to believe she's special. If we give her everything we give to each other, she will give back tenfold.”

  Rhonda reached out and grabbed Hammer's shirt front with both hands. “How do you know? How can you know?”

  Hammer smiled softly. “Because she came from you and me, and we're perfect together, so she must be perfect, whatever the disguise she's wearing.”

  Rhonda gave a small gulping laugh. She swallowed hard, released Hammer's shirt with one hand and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Hammer laughed at her.

  She laughed back, still crying, and scooted forward to throw her arms around him.

  NINETEEN

  Day two at robbery-homicide was slightly more relaxed than day one. Fey and company were still incomers, but major cases had broken for two of the other teams, and everyone was busy. The noise level in the squad room was a high. Detectives were either on the phone or talking to each other in the staccato shorthand of communication in the cop shop.

  Fey's crew all turned up early. Coffee in hand, they sat around their grouping of desks. Hammer and Nails passed out bulletins containing a copy of the computerized composite along with the physical description of the possible suspect.

  “Outstanding work,” Fey said, impressed. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  She spent a lot of the previous night lying in bed thinking about the investigation. About two o'clock in the morning, she had swung her legs out of bed, turned on a lamp, and opened up the suitcase with the money from Ellis Kavanaugh's legacy.

  There was no way Ellis could have come by the money legally. There was far too much money for a cop to lay his hands on in the normal course of things. The way Ellis arranged for it to be secured with an unconnected lawyer to later dispose of as part of a codicil, was also irregular. Kavanaugh was guilty of something. The question was what?

  Fey's decision was easy. She didn't want the money. Even if it wasn't stolen, it was still tainted by the connection to her father. If she wanted to be rich, she could have taken the money left to her from Ash's estate. Instead she put it in trust for the charities Ash had initiated. She was already comfortable. She didn't need the responsibility of being rich.

  The unbanded bills were thirty years old, but in uncirculated condition. Fey spent an hour checking serial numbers and determined several different sequential progressions. She made a list of her findings and put the money back in the suitcase. The money may only be tepid now, but it had definitely been hot sometime in the past.

  She had brought the money and the list of serial numbers to the station with her.

  “How close do you think this composite is to the suspect?” Alphabet asked. Composites were notoriously hit and miss.

  Hammer shrugged. “It felt good. The witness had a reasonable look at the guy. He even took his sunglasses off when she was talking to him.”

  “Is she sure of the crewcut?” Brindle asked. “It's not exactly a current fashion statement.”

  “The wit was adamant,” Rhonda answered. “She specifically stated it was a crewcut, a standard buzz, not spiked or styled.”

  Alphabet had been thinking. “I know we're supposed to brace Ferris Jackson this morning, but if you can spare us, I'd like to take the composite and make a run at the movie company that owns the crime scene warehouse. Maybe this film Bad Blood was something they produced, and the suspect worked for them. We can also check with the Stuntman's Association, see if they recognize the composite.”

  “Run with it,” Fey said. “But if you get a hit don't chase it without us.”

  Alphabet touched Brindle on the shoulder, and the pair started gathering their stuff.

  Hammer and Nails were quiet. The composite was their lead. They should have been given the assignment to chase down the alleys where it led.

  Fey winked at them. “Take it easy,” she said softly. “There's more than enough work to go around. You guys did a great job, now let it go.”

  Fey needed to maintain Alphabet and Brindle's enthusiasm. If they wanted a shot at following up on the comp
osite, she would let them have it. Hammer and Nails were more than capable of accepting redirection. “Monk and I have another lead to follow up,” she told them.

  This was news to Monk who managed to keep a straight face.

  “You guys handle Ferris Jackson. I know we're spreading ourselves thin, but the leads are too hot to ignore.”

  Hammer picked up the search warrant for Ferris Jackson's residence. “How do you want us to play this?”

  “Use a light hand and see what we can get. We need more information on this underground railroad situation, but finding where Bianca hid her own kids is top priority. There may be something we can learn.”

  When both pairs of detectives left, Fey turned to Monk.

  “What's this other lead?” he asked, smiling gently.

  Fey sighed and filled him in on her thoughts regarding Ellis Kavanaugh and the money. She didn’t mentioning the possible family ties between herself and Kavanaugh's offspring. She didn't yet see the link as germane to the investigation. If her perception changed, she would deal with it then.

  “You want to trace the money?”

  “It may give us a start.”

  Monk shook his head. “These ties between Ellis Kavanaugh and Bianca Flynn are tenuous. Are you sure they're not coincidence?”

  “I can't ignore the implications. The set-up stinks. Why would Kavanaugh leave me this money? What did he expect me to do with it?”

  “Spend it?”

  “Har-har. I have a feeling if I deposited or spent this money, alarm bells would start going off.”

  “Maybe it's what he wanted.”

  “Maybe,” Fey agreed. “Perhaps raising the alarm was Ellis' way of revealing something that happened all those years ago.”

  “Such as?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  Monk shrugged. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I want to book the money into Property Division as evidence and go from there.”

  ***

  The Los Angeles field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation occupied several floors of the federal building located opposite a large veterans' cemetery in Westwood. Fey and Monk waited in the lobby of the seventeenth floor while visitors' passes were processed. A secretary handed them clip-on badges and led them through a maze of hallways to a corner office inhabited by Freddie Mackerbee, the Special Agent in Charge of the L.A. field office.

  “Fey!” Mackerbee exclaimed in delight. “It's been a long time.” He was a short man, built like a throw pillow. His hair receded into a widow's peak, but was still thick and dark.

  “Hello, Freddie,” Fey said, grasping his outstretched hand. “How are you?”

  Pleasantries exchanged, Fey introduced Monk, and several minutes were spent catching up. Mackerbee had been Ash's boss during the time Ash and Fey worked together. He was aware of their romantic entanglement and shared in Fey's loss. Ash had been a good friend to Freddie as well as a colleague respected for his work as an agent. His death had left a hole in the lives of many people. Fey knew she could rely on Mackerbee's help more from their mutual connection to Ash than because of any professional courtesy.

  There was little love lost between the FBI and the LAPD as organizations. Individuals sometimes forged mutual alliances, but the agencies clashed. A good deal of the animosity grew from the FBI not having local powers of arrest in California. Unlike in most other states, FBI agents could only arrest on federal charges in California. They had to defer to local jurisdictions, usually with hat in hand, to pursue other venues of enforcement. This limitation conflicted with the FBI's omnipotent opinion of itself, and it angered the FBI higher-ups. Coupled with the LAPD's own organizational arrogance, the situation encouraged infighting.

  Fey should have started further down the FBI pecking order with her request, but she hadn't wanted to play games. By going direct to Mackerbee, cooperation was likely assured.

  She handed over her list of serial numbers and explained what she wanted.

  Mackerbee glanced at the list. “What do you expect to find?”

  “I'm not sure, but if there is anything it'll be thirty years old or more.”

  “Before my time,” Mackerbee said.

  “Mine too, believe it or not,” Fey said. “Which means we can't be blamed.”

  “Don't be so sure. This is the FBI, blame can always be splashed around.”

  Fey shrugged. “The LAPD has never been short of a scapegoat or two either.”

  The mutual agency bashing eased the way for the two individual entities to work together. It was no longer LAPD versus the FBI, but two individuals working together in spite of the monoliths.

  Mackerbee raised his eyebrows and looked at the list again. “Do you want to wait for results, or do you want me to call you?”

  “I'm not sure how important this is going to be,” Fey said. “If it's no imposition, we'll wait.” Fey knew if she left, it might be days before Mackerbee got back to her. Other crises would take precedent.

  “I'll get somebody on it immediately,” Mackerbee said. “You know where the cafeteria is? I'll find you there.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Mackerbee spotted Fey and Monk at a table near the cafeteria entrance. Fey was nursing a second cup of coffee, while Monk had finished off a surprisingly good omelet.

  “We've got trouble,” Fey said, watching Mackerbee approach.

  Monk looked up, sitting straighter when he saw the expression on Mackerbee's face.

  “You've stepped in a big puddle of crap this time,” the FBI supervisor said. His voice had a hard edge to it.

  “Why should this time be any different?” She silently blessed the instinct which had made her book the money as evidence. “Tell me the worst.”

  “The money was stolen in an armored car robbery in May of nineteen-sixty-nine. Two security guards were killed in a shootout with a trio of Black Panthers. One of the Panthers was killed, but the others escaped with the money.”

  “Were they ever caught?”

  “Not for the robbery or the murders of the guards. Even working with the LAPD, we weren't able to do more than identify one of the outstanding suspects. There was nowhere near enough evidence to file a case, let alone get a conviction. The money was never recovered, and the third suspect never identified.”

  “I take it the suspect you did identify was arrested on other charges.”

  “You bet,” Mackerbee said. “Eldon Dodge is still serving time for the murder of his cousin, Mavis Flynn.”

  TWENTY

  “The composite was our lead,” Rhonda said, miffed. “We should be following it up.”

  Hammer accelerated his black van through a yellow traffic signal and entered a freeway onramp. The van was a conceit. It was part of Hammer and Nails' overall habit of purposely placing themselves above everyone else around them. It was part of their professional arrogance, their shtick.

  “Let it go,” Hammer told his partner. “Alphabet and Brindle won't drop the ball.”

  “That's beside the point,” Rhonda said.

  “It is the point.”

  “What do you mean?” Rhonda was sitting sideways in the car with her back half turned toward the passenger door. She wasn't wearing her seat belt. Neither of them were, never did. It was a bad habit from their patrol days when getting out of the car in a hurry could mean the difference between living or dying.

  Hammer took his eyes off the road long enough to smile at Rhonda. Looking forward again, he reached his hand over and rested it on Rhonda's thigh. “Do you agree that together, we are as good as they come?”

  “Better,” Rhonda said automatically.

  “Okay, better,” Hammer agreed. “It's why we were able to come up with the composite in the first place. Now it's easy for somebody else to run with the lead. Fey doesn't want to waste us on what somebody else can do. She's freeing us to use our initiative to come up with another direction for the investigation.”

  Rhonda raised her eyebrows. “Do you reall
y think Fey's mind works that way?”

  Hammer shrugged. “She's a smart lady. She's using her resources where they'll be most effective. We're the first team. We can finesse or batter away at a situation to achieve a result. Alphabet and Brindle are the follow-up team. They'll take our result and follow it on to its logical conclusion. We can do both. Right now, Alphabet and Brindle can't. So, we trail blaze, and they follow-up.”

  Rhonda blew a raspberry. “You are so full of it.”

  Hammer chuckled. “Come on. What do you want from me?”

  “Our superiority complex is going to get us into trouble one day.”

  “Trouble is my middle name.”

  “Give it a rest, will you?” Rhonda gave a giggle of exasperation.

  Hammer patted her leg. “It's nice to know I can still make you laugh.”

  Rhonda put her hand over his. “Always,” she said.

  Hammer winked at her as he powered the van up and over the Sepulveda Pass before picking up the Ventura Freeway east.

  The neighborhood where Bianca Flynn had lived with Ferris Jackson was in the upper-middle class reaches of Toluca Lake. Sandwiched between Studio City and North Hollywood, the area was a haven for aging movie stars and new Hollywood money. Out of contempt, neither group associated with the other unless, of course, association could further a deal for either of them.

  Hammer slid the van to a stop next to a red curb fifty feet beyond their destination, a two story, brick and ivy fronted residence. A Burbank P.D. blue-and-white with two uniformed officers inside was parked opposite. Rhonda had called ahead to notify Burbank P.D. they would be operating in their jurisdiction and requested a uniformed unit meet them to assist with the warrant service.

  Exiting the car, the duo walked across to meet the uniformed officers. Introductions were made and hands shaken. Hammer explained the situation was low-key and asked the officers to cover the back of the residence until entry was gained. Experience with closing barn doors after the horse fled made detectives take more safeguards than necessary. The unexpected was always anticipated.