by Paul Bishop
Preston's rented condo was in a small, rundown complex near the 118 freeway, which ran across the north end of the Valley. Noise from the speeding cars filtered down on the dust-swept, sun-broiled buildings.
A black-and-white unit was already on the scene, securing the location. The two officers were happy to have their night-long vigil terminated. Thinking ahead, Alphabet had stopped for coffee and fat pills at the local Winchell's. The offering was gratefully received by the bored officers.
“Do we have a key to the place?” Fey asked.
Alphabet produced a ring of keys in a baggie. “These were recovered from Preston's car after the fire department put the flames out. I don't know if any of them will still work.”
“Worth a try,” Fey said.
At the front door, Alphabet's struggles with the keys produced eventual success. He and Brindle entered first with one of the uniformed officers. The other officer and Monk followed them in. Fey stayed back, observing. Using a disposable camera, she took pictures of the entry.
The interior of the condo was decorated in early trailer trash. Over a television positioned on a plastic milk crate, was a velvet painting of a Polynesian woman with suspiciously Caucasian features and huge, exposed breasts.
“Tacky,” Fey said, observing the painting.
“Hip,” corrected Brindle. “Tacky is in style.”
The rest of the living room was dominated by a thrift store couch, a drugstore sound system, a scattering of CDs, a battered coffee table, exercise equipment, and the debris of marijuana and alcohol usage. There was a stack of video tapes piled on the floor next to a VCR.
“Lifestyles of the young and stupid,” Fey said.
“Are you being judgmental?” Monk asked. He turned holding several publicity head shots of Preston picked up from a Formica kitchen table. “After all, he was one break away from stardom.”
“Him and every other eighteen to twenty-five-year-old in this city.”
The search warrant stated the search was for evidence tying Preston to the torture of Bianca Flynn. What that might be was anybody's guess.
While Brindle and Alphabet worked the living room and the kitchen, Fey and Monk moved through to the largest of the two bedrooms. The room smelled of stale sweat unwashed clothing.
Grayish sheets were twisted down the middle of the bed. Monk turned the mattress over, disturbing a family of silverfish.
“Someday I'll find something worthwhile under a mattress,” he said.
“You have to go through the motions,” Fey said.
The wall behind the bed was a homage to Preston's so called career. Photo stills from the Citadel films, in which Preston had been employed as a stuntman, were pasted haphazardly with underground magazine reviews of the miles-off-Broadway plays in which Preston had bit parts.
“Anything?” Alphabet asked, sticking his head through the doorway.
“Not yet,” Fey told him. “You?”
“Cold pizza and moldy cheese.”
“No diamonds hiding in the ice cubes?”
“To be honest, I didn't check.”
“Tsk, tsk.”
Alphabet grinned. “We'll start on the bathroom and the other bedroom,” he said before withdrawing.
Fey was going through the drawers of a battered dresser. The top drawers held tee-shirts, undershorts, and socks. Bills and receipts, the paperwork of life, were crammed into the lower drawers. She was sifting through them for anything of interest, when Monk finished with the closet and returned to the bed.
The mattress was still leaning against the closed drapes of the room's window where he and Fey had placed it. With his hands covered by plastic gloves, he felt the top of the box spring for irregularities. Before finishing, he grasped the edge of the bed frame and turned the box spring over. “Better go through the motions,” he said, and then grunted, causing Fey to look over.
“What?”
Monk reached into the frame and pulled a large manila envelope free. He held it up. “More publicity shots maybe?”
“Who knows?” Fey said.
Monk was opening the metal clip on the envelope, when Alphabet's voice called Fey. Following the sound across the hallway to the second bedroom, she stopped abruptly at the door. Brindle and Alphabet stood in the middle of the room turning around to stare at the walls. Fey followed their eyes and felt instantly sick.
The collage of career shots behind Preston's bed was nothing compared to this display. Images of child pornography were pasted everywhere. The pictures were not just pornographic, but sadistic.
A mattress with a red comforter over it sat in the middle of the room. A thirty-five millimeter camera was on the floor next to a video camera on a tripod.
Fey retreated from the overwhelming room and leaned her shoulder back against a hallway wall.
Monk came out of the bedroom holding out several oddly cropped photos he'd taken from the envelope he'd found. “Look at these.”
Fey took them, wanting anything to replace the images she'd seen in Preston's other bedroom, but the cropped photos Monk gave her were even worse. Worse, because they showed Preston himself engaged in carnal acts with two different children, a boy of about eight and a girl of around five. There were other adults in the photos, but careful cropping had removed their identification.
Fey threw the photos on the floor in anger. “How can anyone do that!” She was more than disgusted. “It pisses me off! I'm glad the bastard blew himself up. I hope he's roasting in hell!”
***
The team met back at base. the SID criminalists and photographers had been turned loose at Ricky Preston's condo. Fey didn't know what they could accomplish, but she couldn't walk away without doing anything.
Hammer had put his scavenging skills to good use. Canvassing Parker Center, he'd uncovered a small conference room tucked away in the corner of the eighth floor.
Robbery-Homicide was already crowded, and the addition of Fey's unit had not helped. The team's desks were down in the office, but Hammer's find was the perfect place for them to use as a retreat. Fey immediately dubbed the location the Bat Cave.
“Using this place is not going to ingratiate us with the troops below,” Brindle observed.
“Tough,” Fey said. “They either accept us or they don't. Our terms not theirs.” She was in a foul mood.
“I'm not complaining,” Brindle said. “I'm glad to be out from under the microscope.”
“Did you get anything from MacAlister?” Fey asked Hammer.
Everyone was seated around the battered conference table. Hammer had brought in an old fashioned coffee machine rescued from the Ark. It was bubbling noisily.
“Nothing but aggravation,” Hammer replied. “Bail was posted an hour ago. He's on the street with an SIS unit following him.”
“They'll have to be good,” Fey said. “MacAlister is street savvy.”
Hammer shrugged. “Don't worry about MacAlister. I'll take care of him when the time comes.”
Fey didn't like the tone in Hammer's voice, but didn't pursue it. “How about Bianca's kids?” she asked.
“I took care of that end,” Rhonda reported. “Neither one of them will disclose anything. In my opinion, they're scared stiff. The situation has traumatized them. The Department of Children’s' Services is caring for them on paper only. For stability and continuity, DCS ran an emergency approval and are letting the kids stay where they are.”
“You found somebody with common sense in a city agency?” Fey was mock aghast.
“I'm very persuasive,” Rhonda explained. “How about you guys? What did you come up with at Preston's pad?”
Alphabet gave a quick briefing. He finished by saying, “We found these on the wall in the second bedroom,” and dropped six Polaroid photos in the middle of the conference table.
Hammer and Nails leaned looked at them together. “Bianca Flynn,” Rhonda said, recognizing the crime scene.
“Took them for his own enjoyment during the tortur
e session,” Alphabet said.
The photos were ugly and harsh.
Hammer tapped the snapshots with a finger. “I thought we agreed this was not a sexually motivated crime.”
“I don't think it was,” Fey said. “I think the motive was to get information. But Preston was a sick puppy — he couldn't help enjoying his work. If Bianca had lived long enough, Preston may have progressed to sexual attacks, but sex wasn't the focus of the crime.”
“Do you think Bianca dying panicked Preston?” Rhonda asked. She was sifting through the Polaroids again.
“Possibly,” Fey told her. “Especially as it doesn't appear Preston got the information he needed from her.”
“Any ideas what information he wanted?” Hammer asked.
“Yeah,” Fey said, handing the photos from the manila envelope to Hammer. “Monk also found these. There was a note attached — a blackmail threat. Preston was ordered to find where Bianca hid the originals. If he didn't, the partials would be given to the police.”
Hammer shuffled through the cropped prints with Rhonda looking over his shoulder. Rhonda blanched.
“What is it?” Fey asked, seeing the reaction.
“The kids in the photos,” Rhonda said. “They're Mark Junior and Sarah, Bianca's children.”
THIRTY FIVE
“What game do you think they're playing?” Devon Wyatt asked MacAlister.
The big man was slumped over a chair in the corner of Wyatt's Beverly Hills office. He had showered and shaved since Wyatt had bonded him out, but the smell of incarceration still clung to the hairs inside his nose. “Who cares? They've got nothing. They know nothing.”
“You're not that stupid, are you?”
“I eat jerks like Hammer and Nails for breakfast and fart them out by lunch.”
“Is that why instead of handling the Hudson pickup and terrorizing the priest, you end up in jail on ADW charges?”
MacAlister's voice rose sharply. “There was a felony warrant out for the mother. I was simply preparing to use whatever force was necessary to effect a citizens' arrest. We'll beat the rap in court.”
“I'll beat the rap in court,” Wyatt said harshly. “You'll sit there like a good little boy, consulting with a female defense associate to show how harmless you are.”
MacAlister grinned. “Just make sure she has big tits.”
Wyatt made a face. “You disgust me, MacAlister.”
“That's what you say now. What about when you want somebody to do your dirty work? Why don't we file a personnel complaint against Hammer and the bimbo for letting a felony warrant suspect go?”
“They didn't.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. They have coerced the DA into cooperating with them. Judy Hudson and her daughter are currently in court protective custody pending a hearing on their case in California, a state notoriously sympathetic to mothers. Max Hudson is not going to be very happy with you. The last thing he wanted was headlines.”
“Screw him.” MacAlister was disgruntled. Sooner or later, he would find a way to make Hammer and Nails pay. Hammer had reacted to the crack about his spaz daughter. Maybe there was something he could do in that arena.
Wyatt sighed. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but dealing with MacAlister scared him a little. The man was unstable. “I didn't get you out of jail to argue. Just find the priest and finish the job you were hired to do.”
***
Father Romero sat in the cool darkness of the confessional. So many sins, so few true repenters. It was the burden of every priest, their own sins making them as vulnerable as the people who came to them for forgiveness.
The afternoon rush to confess was over. Father Romero checked to see the church was empty, then returned to sit in the confessional. The small space soothed and comforted him. Perhaps there would be a late penitent, somebody who needed forgiveness for true transgressions.
As if cued by the priest's longing, the air in the tiny booth swam sluggishly through the dividing screen as a dark shape moved into the attached cubicle. There was the noise of the shape settling onto the hard bench seat.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned.” The voice was harsh, repressed. “It has been ten years since my last confession.”
“A long time, my son. What has brought you back to the fold?”
“A grievous sin.”
“Your Father in Heaven will forgive you if you are truly repentant.”
“Will your god forgive a sin not yet committed?”
“My god is your god. He will forgive the thought of sin as easily as the sin itself. Through his strength, he will help you resist the sin.”
A thick arm suddenly burst through the thin wooden screen separating the confessional booths. Splinters flew, and the hand on the end of the arm snapped closed around Father Romero's throat like a striking serpent.
“But I don't want to resist, Father! I enjoy sin all the more because it is a sin.”
Father Romero had both his hands clasped about the iron wrist of his attacker. He couldn't speak. No air could creep past the fingers locked on his throat. He found himself thrust back against the thin wall of the confessional box, gasping for breath as the hand released its grip and withdrew.
Before Father Romero could move, the curtain on his side of the confessional was torn aside and MacAlister's hand was again at his throat. MacAlister picked the priest up by the neck and shook him like a terrier with a rat. He chuckled deep in his throat. “Where's your god now, Father? Are you praying for him to smite me down?” MacAlister shook the priest again. “He doesn't appear to be answering you, unless the answer is no.”
“What do you want?” Father Romero asked agonizingly, his voice rasping like flesh over a cheese grater.
“I want you to show me how your little underground operation here works. I want to know all the ins-and-outs. And if you don't tell me, I'm going to tear you apart.”
“I am not afraid to die.”
MacAlister still held the priest at arm’s length with no visible effort. “I'm glad to hear it. But remember, with you or without you I will get what I want. So, you decide if dying is worth it, or if it's better to live to be a worm another day.” MacAlister tightened his grip.
“All right,” Father Romero croaked, his eyes rolling up in his head.
MacAlister released his strangle hold, and the priest fell to the floor like a shot duck.
“Glad you could see it my way father because the train and its contents belong to me, and there is nothing you or anybody else can do about it.”
***
Outside the church, a three car, six member, SIS team had MacAlister's van under surveillance. MacAlister had recovered it from the police impound lot unaware it was carrying a tiny tracking device. Two other members of the SIS team had taken up positions outside the church doors.
Using a state-of-the-art video camera equipped with a super-sensitive directional microphone and a night vision lens to pierce the gloom of the church, the two officers at the door recorded the action inside. That they did not intervene when MacAlister physically assaulted Father Romero was part of the controversy surrounding the mandate of the unit.
By allowing Father Romero to be roughed up, the results could lead to uncovering more serious criminal activity. Arresting MacAlister for simple battery would accomplish nothing more than a misdemeanor charge, which might not even be filed by the city attorney due to lack of any real injuries.
By letting MacAlister proceed, letting whatever larger crime he was planning come to fruition, it could mean a long prison term for MacAlister — and those controlling him.
Hammer had arranged for SIS's predator team to cover MacAlister. Lieutenant Gene Budrow, the leader of the unit, had long awaited a chance to repay Hammer for getting him out of a fix in a major internal investigation. Helping to nail a douche bucket like MacAlister would be partial payment. Other RHD entities might resent the intrusion of Fey's team, but whatever informat
ion SIS came up with, Budrow would see it got straight back to Hammersmith.
Rightfully or wrongfully, Special Investigative Services did not arrest suspects for minor crimes. MacAlister could slap people around all he wanted. He could shoplift, spit on the sidewalk, steal cars, or let his dog crap in the park. SIS specialized in violent crimes involving life or death — rape, robbery, murder. When the time of reckoning came, if MacAlister chose to fight rather than surrender, he'd become another unmourned six on SIS's record. Six foot under in a six foot box.
THIRTY SIX
Fey tried to examine her feelings about Bianca's children being with Ricky Preston in the pornographic photos. There was an odd quality of displacement. Because of her own sexual abuse by her father, Fey knew what Sarah and Mark were going through in the photos. She could see in their eyes the sense of detachment abused children develop to close themselves off from the horror of the situation. She was intimate with that detachment. Once learned, it was never forgotten.
She shuffled through the cropped photographs. The blackmail note with them was a Xerox copy of a computer printed file, second generation with no prints or other helpful markings. The photographs had been cropped to hide the identity of the other participating parties. However, there was an extra arm showing in one picture, an extra hand in another, enough to show other adults involved. The skin pigment of the arm was black. The pigment of the hand was white. Child abuse was the great equalizer, cutting through all socioeconomic and ethnic strata.
Fey stared at the photos trying to connect to the background, to find something to give her a clue to when or where they were snapped. The photos were taken from an elevated position. The bed itself was nondescript, and the floor and walls were fuzzy. The bed was fitted with a brass headboard, but there was nothing to distinguish it from a million others.