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

by Paul Bishop

  With the noise of the hair dryer blocking out any chance of conversation, Fey mentally chastised herself. The more she tried to put her feelings down to post-coital contentment, the more she realized her satisfaction went beyond the joys of having an overdue itch scratched. She knew she was setting herself up for the possibility of a big fall, but there was something pushing her to believe Brink was also infatuated with her.

  She turned off the hair dryer and was running a brush through her hair when Brink approached and handed her a mug of coffee. He kissed her lightly on the back of the neck, and then moved away.

  “How involved was my father in whatever it is you're investigating?” he asked. He was barefoot, but was now wearing jeans with a grey polo shirt.

  Fey took the offered mug and followed Brink to where two matching, handmade, rocking chairs were placed in a sun spot. The chairs sat on a colorful, woven rug with a low table between them.

  Fey sipped her coffee before speaking. “I think your father was trying to do the right thing thirty years too late. How much do you remember about his time on the job?”

  Brink added a splash of whiskey to his coffee and held the bottle out to Fey. She shook her head and covered her mug with a palm. Brink placed the bottle next to his chair.

  “I remember dad was never around when Jenna and I were kids,” he said. “He and your father would always be off on some investigation that was too big to talk about. By the time mom left him, he was no more than a token male in our lives. Since Jenna and I have grown older, we've always tried to take care of him, not the other way around.”

  “Did he ever talk about an armored car robbery investigation or a shootout in which a woman was killed?”

  “Not that I remember,” Brink said. He placed his mug down on the low table. “What's this all about?”

  Making a snap decision, Fey launched into an abbreviated explanation. “Thirty years ago, our fathers were working University Division. They caught the call on an armored car robbery in which two guards were killed. One of the robbers, a Black Panther, was also killed, but two others got away with several hundred thousand dollars.”

  Brink whistled. “A lot of jingle back then — even now.”

  “You bet,” Fey agreed. “The incident kept the newspaper headlines busy for a few days, especially after the FBI took primary responsibility for the case. Our fathers stayed on as the LAPD liaisons. In those days, the department did a lot of the Bureau's footwork.”

  “Not standard procedure today?”

  “Far from it,” Fey confirmed. “The antagonism between LAPD and the Bureau is now legendary. Individuals get along, but the organizations are constantly playing Brutus and Caesar.”

  “Interesting image.”

  Fey rocked the wide, low-set chair back and forth, finding its stark construction surprisingly comfortable and the motion soothing. “One of the main suspects in the case was another Black Panther named Eldon Dodge. He was cousin to Mavis Flynn, who worked at the bank where the robbery took place. She was probably the source of the inside information.”

  “Is this Mavis Flynn any relation to Judge Luther Flynn?”

  “You know Luther Flynn?”

  “His name has been all over the newspapers lately, what with one daughter being murdered and the other being on the police commission. I do more than chew up rocks, you know. I can read.”

  Fey held out her hands. “Pardon me. It can sometimes get claustrophobic as a detective. You begin to think nobody else knows what's going on except for your immediate associates.”

  “So, Mavis is related to Luther?”

  “Was related. She was murdered about three months after the robbery. She was married to Luther, but she'd taken her two daughters to stay with Eldon when one of the daughters claimed Luther was molesting her.”

  “And how did our fathers get involved in all this?”

  “I think their investigation led them from Eldon to Luther, but Luther had a proposition for them. I believe he paid them off with the money from the robbery to turn a blind eye to his involvement and to take Eldon Dodge out of the picture.”

  “Luther paid them to put a hit on Dodge?” Brink had retrieved the coffee pot and refill the mugs. This time, Fey also took a refill from the whiskey bottle.

  “I think it was the original plan. More than the money from the robbery, Luther Flynn wanted his daughters back. He made official child concealment allegations against Mavis, giving our fathers an excuse to kick in the door where she was living with Eldon. Eldon was the intended target of the hit, but the way things played out it was Mavis who my father killed, using Eldon's gun. He turned the whole situation around, with the backing testimony of your father, to pin the Mavis' murder on Dodge.”

  Brink was looking shell-shocked. “And you think your father — our fathers — turned two little girls back to a man who was molesting them? Why would they it?”

  “Besides money?”

  “Of course, besides money. How could they?”

  “It probably didn’t matter what your father thought. I'm sure my father was pulling the strings, making the decision. Child molestation didn’t concern to my father. He was doing it to me on a regular basis.”

  Her statement reverberated in the void between Brink and Fey. The look in Brink's eyes was telling.

  “Not you, too?” she said softly.

  Brink didn't take the opening. “Where is Dodge now?” he asked, taking a long pull on his spiked coffee.

  “On death row.”

  “For thirty years?”

  “Yup. Stinks doesn't it?”

  Brink poured more whisky in his mug. “So the money my father left you was part of the payoff from Flynn?”

  “The serial numbers on the bills identify it as money from the armored car robbery. I maintain in any male partnership there is a wolf and a sheep, a leader and a follower. My father was always a wolf, constantly looking for someone like your father — a sheep — to follow him around as a witness to his vilest deeds. Your father deteriorated piece by piece after what he’d done. Eventually, he was in so deep there was no way out.”

  “He left the money to you, knowing it would show up dirty and lead you to find out what had happened all those years ago? Why didn't he call you or send a letter?”

  Fey stopped the rocking chair. She ran her fingers through her hair. “The money was a back-up plan. Left in place in case what he was actually doing didn't work out.”

  “And what was he actually doing?”

  “In his apartment there were a number of reference books and magazines dealing with the sexual abuse of children. Bianca Flynn's name was highlighted. She worked as a child advocate. I’m assuming your father approached her and told her his story.”

  “Then they cooked up a scam to take Luther Flynn down?”

  “Luther was the albatross around both their necks. Your father was running from somebody at the race track, somebody who scared him more than the race track security personnel. I'd say, he was chased onto the track.”

  “By Flynn?”

  “No, but somebody connected to him.”

  “You're kidding, right?”

  Fey shrugged. “I can’t prove it, yet.”

  “How can you prove ever prove it? Everything is either speculation, or it happened thirty years ago. My father and Bianca Flynn are dead, so they can't help you.”

  “Maybe they can.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve no doubt your father left more behind than the money. We have some pictures of Bianca Flynn's kids being molested. I'd say the location of the negatives and copies of those pictures were what Bianca Flynn was being tortured to reveal. If your father was working with Bianca, he might have helped her obtain the photos and hidden them.”

  “Where?”

  “Now you're asking the difficult question. Under your father's pillow, I found his old brass call box key. The system of call boxes was used by the department, but abandoned fifteen or more years ago. The
boxes were either destroyed or stolen. One or two may remain around the city, but they're difficult to find. Your father didn't take the key from his shadow box without reason. He had to have had a use for it. In the old days, cops used Gamewell boxes for secreting all kinds of things. It's possible, in his mental confusion, your father might have resorted back to something with which he was familiar. Do you know if he knew where a surviving call box might be?”

  Brink blew air through pursed lips. “My father never did anything in a reasonable manner when there was a more difficult way.”

  “Did he have a safety deposit box?”

  “He couldn't afford one. Anyway, he hated bureaucracy.”

  “Did he have a favorite drinking hole?”

  “Yeah, a place called Code Four.”

  “I know it. An old time cop bar. The name is cop talk for everything's under control.” Fey stood up to retrieve a briefcase-sized, black canvas case she had brought in from her car. It contained her gun and all the other necessities of her life. Back at the chair, she opened the case and pulled out a copy of the Gamewell map from the historical society.

  “The Code Four is on the edge of what was the University Division boundary. There are three spots marked nearby where call boxes used to be. The bar has always been a cop hangout. It would make sense for there to be several Gamewell boxes in the area when the system was operational.”

  “Do you think they're still there?”

  “My partner and a bunch of Explorer Scouts have been checking the locations without success.” Fey looked at her watch. “They've probably checked these, but I say it's worth going back to try again.”

  “You want company?”

  Fey didn't hesitate. “Sure. Why not?”

  FORTY ONE

  Fey's initial enthusiasm began to lessen after she and Brink checked all three Gamewell locations near the Code Four. Even the area was depressing. An urban ghetto abandoned even by the predators. A few small stores still operated to provide the needs of the elderly who clung to the once upscale area by the tips of arthritic fingers.

  It was dark, the only light provided by a single street lamp and the neon of the letters C, O, F, and R in the sign over the Code Four bar.

  “It's a bust then?” Brink asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  “How about a drink?” Brink indicated the Code Four with a twitch of his head.

  “You take a girl to the nicest places,” Fey said.

  Brink held the front door open for Fey. “Ever been here before?”

  “Once or twice,” she told him. “It's been a cop institution for years, but after University Division was absorbed into other areas, only the dinosaurs remembered it from its heyday. I never worked this specific area, so it never became a personal hangout. Anyway, it's depressing. A home for cops who have nothing else going for them.”

  Inside, the bar was murky, worn leather booths hidden in shadows, scuffed floor boards covered with a scattering of sawdust and cigarette butts. The bar was a long stretch of scarred hardwood. There were several drinkers gathered at the far end watching ESPN, and several of the booths sported couples whose looks wouldn't hold up in the light.

  Brink rested a boot on the tarnished brass foot rail running along the bar's length. He ordered a beer for himself and a vodka-and-seven for Fey.

  The bartender took a long look at Fey. “You haven't been in here for a while.”

  Fey was surprised. “More than a while,” she said. “More like fifteen years.”

  “It's Croaker, right?” the bartender asked. He looked close to seventy with a battered pug's face. Nose like a mountain of lumpy mashed potatoes, and stringy hair doing little to hide ears pulped by a thousand heavy punches.

  “Right.” Now she was amazed.

  “Bomber Harris,” the bartender introduced himself. He held out a plate-size hand.

  “How can you possibly remember my name?” Fey asked, reaching out to take the proffered hand.

  “What's the name of the first guy you arrested?”

  Fey didn't even have to think. “It was a woman. A shoplifter. Maggie Swanson.”

  “You ever see her again?”

  “No.”

  “But if she walked in the door behind you would you recognize her?”

  “Probably.”

  “I rest my case.”

  Fey raised her glass in a toast.

  “It also helps that you've been in the news some. It's hard to forget a face the Eye Witless twinkies keep shoving in front of you,” Bomber said, giving away a little of his secret.

  Fey returned Bomber's laugh with a smile, never at ease with the notoriety publicity had brought her.

  “Years ago,” Bomber continued, unaware of Fey's discomfort, “I poured drinks for your father. Is he still this side of the grass?” He automatically refreshed Fey's drink. Code Four was a drinkers' bar.

  “No,” Fey said, in a tone forbidding more questions. “He died shortly after he retired.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Bomber said. “He was a good cop.”

  Fey was sure everyone was a good cop in Bomber's eyes. Especially if they paid their tab.

  “You might also have known my father,” Brink said. “Jack Kavanaugh? He worked with Garth Croaker.”

  Bomber swiveled his eyes toward Fey's companion. He attitude changed subtly, becoming wary. “No. Can't say I did.”

  Fey reached out a hand and plucked at Bomber's sleeve. “Never lie to a cop, Bomber.”

  The bartender returned his glance to Fey. “He's not a cop.”

  Cops know cops. Bomber had walked a beat after giving up the ring. He'd then worked across the bar from cops for more than three score years. He'd know a cop blindfolded, in a black dungeon, while unconscious.

  “Bomber, we know Jack Kavanaugh used to drink here,” Fey said. “Recently.”

  “Did he?” Bomber wouldn't meet Fey's eyes. He wiped the bar in front of him. “I have to take care of other customers,” he said and moved away.

  Brink looked at Fey. “What was that about?”

  “I don't know. It's like he’s scared.”

  “Of what?”

  Fey finished her drink, twisting the glass around on its napkin. “The question might not be of what, but of who?” She turned. “Let's go back to the car. I need a flashlight.”

  Having retrieved the needed item from her glove box, Fey led Brink on another walking tour of the spots where the three local Gamewells had supposedly been located. The weight of the gun in her shoulder rig was reassuring. She'd put the rig on and taken the gun out of her bag when she realized how much ground they were going to be covering on foot.

  The first two locations still produced nothing like a call box. The third and last location was almost next to the Code Four. There was a telephone pole at the curb where the box should have been located, but no box.

  Fey used the flashlight to examine the pole closely at the height where the box should have been. “There are no mounting holes,” she said to Brink, who was following behind her like a faithful bloodhound.

  “Maybe the pole has been replaced. You said the call box system went out of service fifteen years or more ago.”

  “Possibly,” Fey said. She shone the flashlight at the area around the pole. “A lot of things can change in fifteen years.” Shining her light in a wider arc, the beam caught the dull pattern of chain link fencing behind the Code Four. Fey walked up to the fence. On the other side, rails of disused train tracks rusted quietly. There were large clumps of bushes at intervals along the track, one clump directly behind the bar.

  “What have you found?” Brink asked.

  “I'm not sure yet,” Fey told him. “Help me see if there’s a cut in the fence.”

  Fey moved left and Brink went right. After less than ten paces, Brink called out. Fey moved to join him. He showed her a rent in the chain link.

  “Come on,” Fey said, and pushed through. “Look,” she said, pointing with the flashlight beam
to an ancient telephone pole near the tracks. The pole was broken off ten feet from the ground.

  “Fifteen years ago the phone lines must have run along the rail lines. The poles were likely moved to the curb when the lines were upgraded.”

  “Would make them easier to service after the tracks were no longer in use,” Brink said, catching some of Fey's excitement.

  Fey walked rapidly back toward the rear of the Code Four. There was the stump of another pole, this one about four feet high. She walked along, past a clump of bushes grown high and wild, to another pole sheared off at ground level. This pole was twice the distance from the second one. Looking back, she could see the clump of bushes she'd passed was almost exactly halfway between this pole and the last.

  Walking back to the clump of bushes, Fey made her way around the circumference of the plant. Then she found an entry into the heart of the leaves.

  “Yes!” she said, blood coursing through her veins when she saw the splinter-ridden pole in the middle of the bush.

  Brink was on Fey's heels. “Is there a box?”

  “Absolutely,” Fey said. She reached out to touch the blue shell, running her fingers over the Gamewell logo on the front, the wide opening of the key hole. From her pocket, she took out her own brass Gamewell key, retrieved earlier from her uniform belt as a talisman.

  She inserted the key into the box without ceremony, giving it a hard twist. The key turned, and Fey pulled the door open. Inside, a black, Bakelite phone receiver still hung on a rusting hook, but there was nothing else.

  “Whatever was in here, somebody has beaten us to it,” she said. “Come on. Back to the bar.” She pushed Brink ahead of her as they left the clump of bushes and jogged to the hole in the fence.

  “Is it the box my father was using?” Brink was slightly breathless.

  “Most likely. And it may be why Bomber clammed up when you mentioned your father. There isn't much Bomber doesn't know about what goes on in or around the Code Four. If your father was using the call box, Bomber is too sharp not to know about it.”

  When they reentered the Code Four there was another man behind the bar. Fey thought she recognized him as one of the drinkers from down the far end.