by Paul Bishop
“Training a game well.”
Fey was thoughtful, and then her eyes sparked. “Leave the training or train part out. What are we left with?”
“A game well?” Monk shrugged.
“Not a game well,” Fey said. “A Gamewell.”
Monk and the others looked confused.
“What's the difference?” Monk asked.
“Not three words,” Fey said. “Two words. One of them capitalized. A Gamewell. A brand name.”
“The old call box system,” Monk said with a flash of insight. “The boxes were called Gamewells.” He was excited, but had no idea why.
“I found a brass call box key under Kavanaugh's pillow in his apartment. It had been taken out of his shadow box.”
“Okay,” Monk said. “But where does it get us?”
“I'm not sure, but we're going to find out.”
THIRTY THREE
To be buried in the bowels of Parker Center, the police headquarters building, was to be cast aside and forgotten. To be buried off-site at the department's Piper-Tech facility was to be exiled to Siberia.
Piper-Tech was a four-story collection of concrete warehouses and garages built on an abandoned acre of waste ground between connecting freeways. The gleaming architecture of the sheriff department's Twin Towers jail facility and the new transit authority building were close by in distance, but universes apart in aesthetics. The only saving grace for Piper-Tech was the recent relocation to the site of the department's Scientific Investigation Division. This heralded a makeover for the location, or at least for the sections containing the SID labs. There were other parts of the facility still feeling the full blast of Siberian winds.
Fey steered past the police garages on the ground level and found a place to park on the next floor near a cluster of abandoned generators. Using a 999-key, Monk led the way into the building. Walking to the elevator doors, he thumbed the down button. It was colder than the coroner's offices.
“When they call these guys the Cold Squad, they aren't kidding,” he said. Noises behind the elevator door sounded like the torment of the lost souls.
“Any organization hates to admit its failures and hide them away,” Fey said. “A homicide doesn't make it down here until the clues closet is bare. When The Mole, Doc Freeze, and Kid Cool get a case, it's an ice cube.”
The elevator doors groaned open and the two detectives stepped inside.
“How many cases have they solved?” Monk asked, pushing the lowest button.
“They average one or two a year, which isn't bad considering the difficulties.”
The elevator came to a jarring halt, the doors only opening part way. Fey and Monk turned sideways to slip out. They found themselves in a hallway crowded with overflowing file boxes.
A voice reached them from behind the stacks. “Don't touch anything or you'll start an avalanche. Just follow the yellow brick road.”
Looking down, Fey could see a path of yellow bricks painted on the concrete floor. She and Monk followed the path through the maze of stacked files until they reached a large, tidy clearing dominated by three desks and several computer terminals.
A heavy-set, balding man, with thick glasses walked forward to shake hands. A leaner, younger, counterpart looked up from one of the computers with a grin, but kept his fingers tapping.
“Not exactly the Emerald City, but it’s home” the heavy-set man said. He shook hands with Fey and Monk.
“Nice to see you, Mole,” Fey said.
“Before you ask,” Mole jumped in. “We haven't solved the Black Dahlia murder or Hoffa's disappearance yet. We can't even figure out how my wife got pregnant again when I'm never home.”
“And we came here hoping for good news.”
“Good news? In this place? Everything here is old news — and all of it bad.” Mole waved a hand at the surrounding stacks. “You'd never believe the department is planning on going paperless within the next few years.”
Monk nodded at the detective using the computer. “How's it going, Kid?”
Detective Mark Anderson, aka Kid Cool, and Monk had been classmates in the academy fifteen years earlier.
Kid Cool's mother, a single parent with five children, had been murdered twenty-five years earlier. The case was never solved. Ten years later, Kid had become an LAPD officer with every intent of finding his mother's killer. He'd become a detective in record time, worked area homicide units, and then apprenticed himself to Mole and Doctor Freeze as the youngest member of the Cold Squad. His mother's murder was still unsolved, but Kid Cool worked away at it with the same unperturbed determination he used on ever Cold Squad file.
“Where's Doc Freeze?” Fey asked.
“She's on a bagel and designer coffee run,” Mole explained. “We may be heathens down here, but we still have needs.” The elevator could be heard starting its tortured whining again. “Here she comes.”
Fey and Monk waited until a short, unremarkable, blond woman bustled in and placed spreads of cream cheese next to a large bag with a Western Bagels logo on the side. She handed cups of foamy coffee to Mole and Kid Cool. There were several backups still in the transport tray.
“Have some,” she said to Fey and Monk. She sliced through a pumpernickel bagel and smeared it with cream cheese and strawberry jam. “There's plenty.”
“No thanks,” Fey said. “We had our limit earlier.”
“Any more caffeine this morning and we'll begin to vibrate,” Monk agreed.
“Might not be a bad thing,” Doc Freeze said in a saucy tone. Her two compatriots laughed.
Fey and Monk forced themselves not to look at each other. These three had been underground a little too long.
“What can the Cold Squad do for you?” Mole said, spitting crumbs.
“How about a little research?” Fey asked.
“Our specialty,” Mole agreed. “What do you have in mind?”
“In nineteen-sixty-nine, there was an armored car robbery in which two security guards and one suspect were killed. At the time, a Black Panther named Eldon Dodge was believed to be one of two suspects who got away.”
“I remember looking this case over,” Mole said. “Didn't the FBI run most of the investigation?”
“They did,” Fey agreed. “But we would have taken the preliminary reports. No charges were brought against Dodge and the money was never recovered. Dodge was later involved in a shootout with detectives resulting in the death of his cousin, Mavis Flynn. Dodge is on Death Row now, doing time for her murder.”
“You don't have enough to do without opening up closed cases?” Mole asked.
“We have plenty to do,” Fey assured him. “But this stuff could all tie in. The murder of Mavis Flynn might be officially closed, but the armored car robbery is still unsolved. I want to see if we have anything on the armored car robbery and the murder.”
“Mavis Flynn?” Doc Freeze asked. “As in Judge Luther Flynn?”
Fey gave her a tight smile. “She was his estranged wife at the time of her murder.”
“You might be kicking over a major can of worms.”
“My specialty,” Fey said.
“We'll see what we can track down in the files,” Mole told her. “You need this yesterday, of course.”
Fey smiled. “When has anybody ever asked for something and told you no rush?”
“You think something from thirty years ago is going to have a bearing on a current case?” Kid Cool asked
“I don't know,” Fey said. “But there's a twist you may appreciate.” Most people knew about Kid Cool's obsession. “My father arrested Eldon Dodge for the murder. If Dodge didn't kill Mavis Flynn, then my father did.”
Kid Cool gave a low whistle. “Heavy.”
“The past is always with us.” Doc Freeze said, unknowingly echoing the quote that had run through Fey's sleepless night.
“Who said that?” Fey asked.
“I did,” Doc Freeze told her. “What did you think — somebody was throwi
ng their voice?”
***
“Too weird for me,” Monk told Fey in the car heading back to the heart of the city.
“They definitely walk with a different set of ducks,” Fey agreed. “But we'll take any help we can get.”
“Where to now?” Monk asked.
“City Hall East. Mapping and Surveying. See if they have a list of the Gamewell call box locations.”
“Won't be many left. Most have been stolen for collector's items.”
“I agree, but I have a gut feeling I can't ignore.”
A harried clerk spoke to them in the Mapping and Surveying office when Fey asked if there were any maps of the Gamewell system available.
“I doubt it,” The clerk said, turning away to shuffle papers on a desk on another desk without further comment.
Fey had no idea why the clerk appeared so busy. How rushed could things get at Mapping and Surveying?
“Do you think you could check?” Fey asked.
“Check what?”
“To see if you have a map of the Gamewell system.” Fey's frustration with bureaucracy was rising to the surface.
“I told you,” the clerk said. “We don't have any.”
“You said you doubted you had any. If it wouldn't be here, where would it be?”
“I don't know.” The clerk picked up a log book and a purple pen.
“Is there a supervisor?”
“He's out,” the clerk said unhelpfully. She had her head down, busy scribbling.
“Monk,” Fey said. She moved her head with a jerk.
Monk responded by boosting himself up onto the office counter, swiveling on his butt to swing his legs over, and hopping down on the other side.
“Hey!” the clerk said.
Along the wall behind the counter were a number of cardboard boxes holding rolled maps and blueprints. Monk started pulling them out and unrolling them on the counter.
“What are you doing?” The clerk's agitation was obvious. She flattened her hands on the maps, but Monk unrolled another on top of her. “You can't do this.”
“What's going on?” A slim, older man in a white short-sleeved shirt and a father's day tie came out of a back room.
“We're looking for a map,” Fey said sweetly.
“What?” The man looked confused.
Fey flashed her badge. “Are you the supervisor here?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Detective Croaker with Robbery-Homicide. Your counter clerk was unable to help us with our inquiry, so we decided we'd better help ourselves.”
A disgruntled expression moved into place on the supervisor's face. The clerk quickly busied herself rolling up maps from the counter.
“Janice has a problem with authority figures,” the supervisor said.
“I never would have guessed,” Fey said.
Janice disappeared into the back of the office clutching the maps to her flat chest.
The supervisor watched her go with a scowl before returning his attention to Fey. “I'm Brett Hardy. What do you need?”
“A map of the old Gamewell call box system.”
“I haven't seen one of those in fifteen years.”
“Does that mean they don't exist.”
“No. But it does mean you might have a problem.”
“How so.”
“El Nino dumped a lot of rain last winter. The city drains overflowed and the old mapping offices became a reservoir. Much of our historical stuff was damaged and thrown out. Other files were dried out and moved here, but never organized.”
“Great.” Fey was glum.
“Can I make a suggestion?” Brett asked.
“We could use one about now.”
“Why don't you try the LAPD Historical Society?”
***
The LAPD Historical Society was housed in a large trailer parked behind the new 77th Street station. The trailer acted as a mobile museum. It was often driven to public functions.
Fey had called ahead to rouse Roger Lund, the retired sergeant who ran the society. He'd agreed to meet them and help if he could. When they arrived, Fey and Monk found Lund elbow deep in a file drawer under a display of LAPD badges.
“Howdy,” Lund said. “I may have what you want.” He was a stocky man with leathery skin from years as a motor officer. He hauled a series of folded papers out of the drawer and spread them on the floor of the trailer where he was sitting.
“Ahha!” He plucked a tri-folded map out of the collection and stood up with it. “This is it.”
Fey and Monk followed Lund to a low table where he spread out the map.
“The department's system eventually supported two-hundred-and-eight Gamewells across the city,” Lund said.
“Two-hundred-and-eight,” Fey said, realizing how long it would take to check all those locations. She looked at the map, which was faded with age.
“Problem is,” Lund continued, “I'm not sure how accurate this map is. When the Gamewells were serviced, they were sometimes moved to more convenient locations and the maps were never updated.” He pointed to the chart on the low desk. “There are only a hundred-and-eighty boxes shown on this map. Where the other twenty-eight were located is anybody's guess.”
Fey looked at Monk.
“I know,” he said. “Why can't anything be easy?”
“It might help if I knew what you were looking for,” Lund said.
“We wish we knew,” Fey told him.
“Any particular area where your box may be located?”
“If it even exists, the box would most probably have been in what was then called University Division.” It was the area where her father and Jack Kavanaugh worked.
Lund took out a red marker and began circled the area on the map. “Cuts it down to, let's see . . .” He started counting. “Thirty-two marked boxes. They were packed tight. In those days University was a hot division.”
“It's a start,” Fey said.
Lund rubbed his chin. “Are you planning on trying to track down these boxes?”
“Why?”
“We don't have a Gamewell box in the collection. Historically, one would be nice to have. I run the local law enforcement Explorer Scout program. I could mobilize the kids to help you check. If we find several boxes, we could auction off the extras.”
“When can you start?” Fey asked.
THIRTY FOUR
Macalister stared at Hammer and yawned widely. He didn't bother to cover his mouth. Halitosis and stale sweat wafted from him in waves.
“Where's the bimbo,” he asked. “She's a lot easier on the eyes. What's she like in the sack anyway? I bet she just lies there.”
Hammer shrugged. “She's probably not a patch on the farm animals you screw.”
MacAlister laughed. “If you're not going to let me rile you. How about stopping this freeway therapy crap and let me get out of here?”
Hammersmith and Rhonda agreed approaching MacAlister one-on-one might get more out of him than a concerted effort. It could make him cocky.
“Let you out?” Hammer questioned. “I thought a million dollar bail enhancement would be more appropriate.”
“Why bother? Wyatt will get it knocked down in a heartbeat. You've got nothing.”
Hammer curled his fingers back and checked the tips. “Wasn't it nineteen-eight-eight when you arrested Cyril Rathbone for the murder of his wife? You had nothing, until Rathbone waived his rights and confessed. Unfortunately, the tape in the interrogation room wasn't working. Still, confessions were your specialty. Your sterling reputation as a Los Angeles Police detective would easily sway the jury, despite Rathbone swearing blind he'd never waived his rights or confessed.”
MacAlister's face had clouded over, his shoulders hunching forward.
Leaning easily against the bars of MacAlister's locked cell door, Hammer continued in an even tone. “If it wasn't for me and the bimbo coming up with a confession from the real suspect, the next door neighbor, Rathbone would have gone dow
n clean.”
“Where is this little fairy tale leading?”
Hammer pursed and relaxed his lips. “Payback? A million dollar bail enhancement shouldn't be too difficult to get. The assault with a deadly weapon charges may not be enough, but since you've waived your rights and confessed to being involved in the kidnapping of Bianca Flynn . . .” Hammer let the sentence hang.
“You can't be serious?” MacAlister’s eyes were wary.
“Serious as a psycho with a straight razor.” Hammer had run down this path with MacAlister on instinct. It was interesting to see the big man's physical reactions. A pulse was clearly visible over the carotid artery in the neck, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Don't bluff a bluffer.” MacAlister said. “You'd never lie to get me put away. You don't have the balls for it.”
“I might not, but the bimbo does. What was it we got you for in the end when we were working IA? Photographs of you playing bagman for a city councilman?”
“You got lucky,” MacAlister drawled. “I'm making more money now than I ever did on the job, corruption included.” MacAlister gave a rude chuckle and flatuated loudly. “You might be having a wet dream about putting me in jail, but it ain't going to happen. When Wyatt is done taking you and the bimbo apart, there won't be anything left.”
“Others have tried.”
MacAlister yawned again. “You're boring me. Why don't you go home and take care of that spaz you call a daughter.”
Hammer iced over. When he smiled, it was more rictus grin than living expression. His voice changed to a whisper. “Okay. You talked me into it,” he said, pushing away from the bars. “See you on the streets.”
***
Brindle and Alphabet were waiting at Devonshire station in the north end of the San Fernando Valley when Fey and Monk arrived.
“Any problems getting the warrant?” Fey asked.
Alphabet shook his head. “Routine. Judge Wallace didn't even bother to read it.”
“We'll have to remember him next time we want to get something shaky signed.”
Two uniformed officers joined the detectives in the squad room for the warrant service briefing. Everything was expected to be straight forward, but standard procedures had been established for a purpose. Alphabet handed out a form showing an outline of the location to be searched, a list of everyone's positions during the initial entry, the agreed upon radio frequency, a description of the objects of the search, and the location of the nearest hospital, in case something went drastically wrong.