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

by Paul Bishop

  When Fey put the photos down, the only solid conclusion she could make was the photos were not posed. Preston and the children did not know they were being photographed. The camera was most likely stationary, maybe hidden in the corner of the ceiling. If this was true, it begged the question of who placed the camera there and why.

  Hammer hung up the phone and broke into Fey's reverie. “That was Gene Budrow from SIS. His people followed MacAlister to the Church of the Black Madonna where they taped him slapping Father Romero around. MacAlister was talking some crap about a train, before Romero reluctantly led him into the back of the church. SIS couldn't follow, but clearly MacAlister was forcing Romero to take him down into the catacombs.”

  “MacAlister was saying something about a train?” Fey asked.

  “Yeah. The tape is on its way to us. Budrow's people waited for MacAlister, but he never reappeared. Probably went out through the tunnels with Father Romero, like we did.”

  “Too bad,” Fey said. “Maybe they can pick him up again later. She thought for a moment. “Before he died, Jack Kavanaugh said something about a train?”

  “Either trains or training, and a game well. Naylor, the gambler who Kavanaugh bumped against, also said Kavanaugh mentioned trains and railroads.”

  “We're now working on the assumption the words game well are really one word referring to the department’s old telephone system. The railroad could be a reference to Bianca's underground railroad. Kavanaugh mentioned a train, and now MacAlister is talking about a train —”

  “Meaning?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Big help.”

  “Unless you have an idea, you'd better grab Rhonda and go talk to your priest friend. I don't think he's been totally up front with you.”

  As Hammer headed for the door, Brindle asked, “What do you want us to do?”

  Fey reached out a hand and touched the pictures of Ricky Preston. “Something here isn't clear. I want you to take Ricky Preston's life apart brick by brick. He's connected to Bianca's children, and I want to know how.”

  “We're on it,” Alphabet said.

  When the others left, Fey called the Cold Squad.

  “Were the reports we sent over any help?” Freeze asked as soon as Fey identified herself.

  “What reports? I was calling to see if you'd come up with anything.”

  “Kid Cool hand carried a whole stack of stuff to RHD for you.”

  Fey felt her face turning red. “Do you know who he gave it to?”

  “Sorry, I don't, and he's not here right now to ask.”

  “Doesn't matter,” Fey said. “The stuff you sent, was it copies or originals?”

  “Copies. I've still got the originals here. They haven't been refiled.”

  “Great,” Fey said. “If you could run them through the copy machine again, Monk will come right over and pick them up.”

  “Sure, but what happened to the stuff Kid Kool brought over?”

  “I don't think everyone at RHD has got the cooperation gene,” Fey said. “If butt hairs could fly, Robbery-Homicide Division would be an international airport.”

  ***

  Aware her messages were not finding their way through the RHD gauntlet, Fey phoned Zelman Tucker.

  “Don't tell me, let me guess.” she said when Tucker said hello. “You've been leaving messages all over the place for me and I haven't called you back.”

  “You must be psycho, I mean psychic,” Tucker came back at her, recognizing the voice. “I've been trying your mobile for ages.”

  “The battery is dead.”

  “They can be recharged.”

  “What will they think of next?”

  “How about a spare battery?”

  “I'm too cheap.”

  “At least you're honest.”

  “I take it you have something on Luther Flynn?”

  “It's stuff like this makes me sorry I retired from the tabloids. This guy has dirt written all over him. It would make an award-winning piece on American Inquirer.”

  “Now there's an oxymoron. An award winning episode of American Inquirer. Almost as good as jumbo shrimp or military intelligence.”

  “Do you want the information, or do you want to keep taking pot shots at my venerable past?”

  “Like shooting cows with a sniper scope.”

  “How would you like me to put my dirt-digging skills to work on you?”

  “I bow to your greater threat. What do you have on Flynn?”

  “I get the book exclusive when this has played out, right?”

  “Don't tease me. Give.”

  There was the sound of papers being shuffled at Tucker's end of the line. “On the surface, Luther Flynn appears to be the perfect candidate for the California Supreme Court. He's been short-listed for the current open position, but from what I gather he's been tainted.”

  “By what?”

  “Nothing public yet, but there are rumors he gets his kicks with little kids.”

  “Old news. Bianca Flynn made those allegations against him years ago. Flynn got a restraining order stopping her from making the statements in public.”

  “His daughter's allegations aren't the problem.”

  “Whoa, you mean there are new allegations? A criminal case?”

  “Nothing substantial. There's word he has all the wrong connections. His e-mail address turned up on a couple of child pornography lists on the internet during an unrelated F.B.I. investigation.”

  “How stupid can he be?”

  “You'd be surprised. Most people have no idea about the information trail they leave behind when they visit regular legitimate internet sites, let alone the pornography sites.”

  “Surely it isn't enough to stop him getting to the California Supreme Court?”

  “Not by itself, but there is now an independent counsel investigation to explore the background of judges who have heard recent child pornography and pedophile cases. When Flynn's name turned up unexpectedly during the unrelated internet investigation, he became part of the current inquiry.”

  “Any idea what brought about the new investigation?”

  “Irony.”

  “I don't understand.”

  Tucker gave a short snort. “The new probe is based on information gathered by Bianca Flynn.”

  “As you say, irony.”

  “There may have been a restraining order stopping her from making allegations against her father,” Tucker said. “But it didn't stop her gathering information pertaining to known judges who are tainted when it comes to hearing child sexual abuse hearings in their jurisdictions — judges defense lawyers know will use every technicality to block child pornography and pedophile cases from proceeding. If cases do get heard, and a conviction is handed down, then there is a very soft sentence waiting at the end of it all. And there are the judges in family court who give children back to accused abusers. Bianca Flynn cast a wide net.”

  “Are you saying these judges are compromising themselves over sympathy for child molesters? That's insane.”

  “Not if the judges are molesters themselves. Not if evidence of their predilections is in the wrong hands. From what I've been able to gather, Bianca's report caused quite a reaction in the justice department. There are four California judges who are going to be investigated, with Luther Flynn at the top of the list.”

  Fey's mind spun. “Does Flynn know about this?”

  There was a pause at Tucker's end of the line. “He's got to know there's a reason for holding up the decision on the vacant California Supreme Court seat. I'd say he's scrambling to get himself out of town before he finds himself indicted.”

  Fey thought for a moment. “Those internet lists you talked about —”

  “The ones Luther Flynn's name turned up on?”

  “Yeah. Can you see if two other names turn up on the same or related lists?”

  “Who do you want me to check?”

  “Ricky Preston and Mark Ritter.”

/>   “Preston is the guy who blew himself up all over the news yesterday?”

  “Yeah, and Ritter is Bianca Flynn's estranged husband.”

  “Oh, baby,” Tucker said. “The way you think scares me sometimes.”

  “Then we're even. I'm scared to ask how you found out all this information.”

  “A reporter is only as good as his sources.”

  “You should have been a cop working with informants.”

  “You have to be kidding. Me, a cop? I'd be so crooked I'd have to sleep in a corner.”

  “You're amazing.”

  “Then hang on, Frog Lady, because the best is yet to come.”

  “There's more?”

  “I caught a rumor going around about a bunch of kids from south of the border being brought stateside to be sold into sexual slavery. Flynn's name is connected with the rumor.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “It's not clear.”

  “Speculate.”

  “I think he's planning a get out score. You know, grab a large chunk of change and retire to Thailand where the fruit is sweet and so are the boys.”

  “Not on my watch.”

  “Then you better find a way to take him down.”

  THIRTY SEVEN

  When Monk returned with the Cold Squad files, he found pizzas and salads laid out on the conference table with a selection of canned sodas.

  “I ordered in,” Fey said.

  Monk pushed the stack of files into Fey's arms and used a napkin to grab a slice topped with mushrooms and pineapple.

  “You're a mind reader,” he said. “I'm starved.”

  “I might as well glue this pizza right to my thighs,” Fey said, setting the files down and taking another slice for herself. “It's going to end up there eventually.”

  “With your time on the job,” Monk said, “you should be immune to carbohydrates.”

  “Maybe, but my jeans aren't.” Fey wiped her fingers and turned her attention to the files. “Did you look through any of these?” she asked, leafing through the pile.

  “No,” Monk said through a mouthful of pizza. “I wanted to get out of there before I was transmogrified into a geek. Ten more minutes in the Cold Squad's dungeon, and Doc Freeze might have started to look good.”

  “Don't worry you're not her type — too much upstairs.”

  “Brains can be sexy.”

  “Then why do big boobs win every time?”

  Fey located the original crime report for the armored car robbery and pulled it from the file. She was unprepared for the shock it gave her. The cramped printing was instantly recognizable as her father's. His presence was a cold, malevolent ghost suddenly surrounding her.

  There was more to bother her. Garth Croaker had been working detectives in University Division at the time of the robbery. He shouldn't have been taking the original crime report. It should have been done by a uniformed patrol officer.

  Scanning the report, Fey could see no effort had been put into it. The basic information was there but nothing else. The suspect information was generic, listing the two unidentified suspects as male blacks, no further.

  As Fey deciphered the cramped report narrative, she felt a hollow ache deep in her chest. She didn't want to think about her father. She had buried him literally and figuratively. Just looking at his writing brought back her despair and his depravity. She could feel her father's rough hands touching her, poking and prodding in all her secret places. She could feel the punches, hear the vitriol in his voice, “You're a bad girl. A very bad girl. You have to be punished.”

  She closed her eyes and saw hands undoing a belt buckle, a special detective belt buckle formed to make the numbers 187 — the Penal Code section for homicide.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped in her seat.

  “Whoa!” It was only Monk. He'd pulled his hand back, but tentatively replaced it. “You okay?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Fine.” More than anyone on the team, Monk sensed her demons.

  “If you say so.”

  Fey brandished the reports. “My father's printing,” she tried to explain. “He wrote this report, even though there are two other officers' names at the bottom.”

  Monk studied the report, giving Fey time to regain her composure. “You see this?” he asked after a few seconds. He put the report on the table in front of her. “Look at the date of occurrence and date reported.”

  Fey looked where Monk was pointing. They're the same, as they should be,” Fey said. What's the deal?”

  “Now look when the report was processed by the records unit.”

  At the bottom of the report was a box to be initialed and dated by a civilian clerical worker when the original report was copied and distributed to the various file locations.

  Fey looked at the box. “This can't be right.”

  “No. It can't. But it is.”

  The date in the box initialed by the civilian records clerk was three months after the date of occurrence filled in by Fey's father at the top of the report.

  “He fixed the report,” Fey said. “Changed it from the original. Why?”

  “The big question,” Monk said.

  “My father must have pulled all the copies of the original report and then sent this bastardized version through to replace them.”

  Monk picked up the reports from the shootout in which Mavis Flynn was killed. “These are dated two days before your father sent through the replacement report on the armored car robbery.”

  “Odder and odder,” Fey said. She took the officer involved shooting reports and read through them. Here, too, she could read between the lines of cop jargon to see her father covering himself with phraseology. Fey had done her own share of butt-covering in reports, her own share of screwing suspects with a pencil. Not lying, but writing a report on the slant. She'd been around long enough to recognize it when written by others.

  “Who else would have a copy of the original robbery report?” she asked, thinking.

  “Your father knew what he was doing. It wasn't nearly as complicated then as it is now. He must have replaced all of the reports in our system.”

  Fey snapped her fingers. “In our system maybe.” She picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.

  “Freddie Mackerbee,” she said when the phone was answered at the other end. She paused waiting to be put through.

  “Uh, oh,” Monk said seeing trouble coming.

  The head FBI agent's secretary picked up the line.

  “This is Detective Fey Croaker with the LAPD calling for Agent Mackerbee,” Fey stated, and was put on hold again.

  Freddie Mackerbee's voice came on the line. “Fey? You have some set of balls calling here.”

  “Calm down, Freddie. I need some help.”

  “The FBI doesn't practice therapy.”

  “Ooh, ouch,” Fey said flatly. “Now you've got the sarcasm out of your system, how about some inter-agency cooperation?”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I'm not. I need a copy of the original LAPD report on the armored car robbery.”

  “Check your own archives.”

  “Freddie, I know you have the file sitting in the middle of your desk so you can remember to stay angry with me. Please fax me a copy of the report.”

  “Since when do you say, please?”

  “Freddie, have I ever left your butt hanging out to dry? Who covered you in glory in the JoJo Cullen case?”

  “Don't try tugging my heart strings.”

  “Don't do it for me Freddie, do it for Ash.” Fey made the statement in a callous fashion, but the effect was still electric.

  “You are a real bitch,” Mackerbee said.

  “One hundred percent,” Fey agreed. “You ready for my fax number?” Fey rattled it off without waiting for an answer. “I'll be sitting by the machine twiddling my thumbs.” She made a kissing noise into the phone, and hung up. She looked at Monk.

  “He gonna send it?�
�� Monk asked.

  “He'll send it.”

  Thirty minutes later, the fax machine Hammer had installed in the office spat out the appropriate paper work. Fey had to laugh when she saw the cover sheet. Mackerbee had Xeroxed an image of his hand with the middle finger extended.

  Taking the still warm sheets to the table, Fay placed the faxed report next to the one written by Garth Croaker. The one sent by Mackerbee was clearly written by another hand with far more detailed information, especially in the boxes reserved for the description of the two suspects who fled the scene.

  One specific characteristic leaped out. In the description box for physical oddities there was the notation; scar running from left corner of the mouth to under the chin.

  “Something?” Monk asked, sensing Fey's reaction.

  “Only proof there is a god,” she said.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  “You're going after a highly respected judge based on the word of a tabloid scribbler and a thirty-year-old report missing from the LAPD's files?” Gordon O. Drummond asked. Whip Whitman had heard Fey's tale and figured he had to kick it upstairs to the chief.

  Fey tossed the cropped photos from Ricky Preston's residence on GOD's desk. They scattered like pornographic playing cards. She pointed a forefinger on the black arm in one photos. “That's Luther Flynn's arm,” she said. Her emphasis couldn't have been more positive. She moved her finger to indicate the white hand seen in another photo. “And I'll bet the house the other hand belongs to Mark Ritter.”

  Drummond shook his head, his eyebrows rippling like fornicating ferrets. “You are making a jump across a huge gulf of supposition. How do you know?”

  Fey's fingers moved to dance across the faces of Sarah and Mark Jr. “I been there. I know.”

  The chief sighed. He rubbed his eyes. “Let me rephrase my question. How can you prove it?”

  Fey's smile was grim. “Then you accept my suppositions?”

  The chief looked at Whip Whitman, who was studiously studying the carpet.

  Fey leaned away from the pictures and sat in her chair again. “My father was not only a child molester, wife beater, and all-around piece of human excrement, he was also as corrupt as hell. What a surprise...” She shifted in her seat before continuing. “My father wasn't your standard pedophile. He didn't pick on other kids, just my brother and me. It wasn't about sex; it was about power. He was a control freak, and this whole investigation stinks of the kind of control he reveled in.” She took the abbreviated armored car robbery report from the Cold Squad, and the true report faxed over by the FBI, and let them settle on top of the pictures.