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

by Paul Bishop

  “Where's Bomber?” she asked.

  “Went home. He wasn't feeling well.”

  Fey grunted with feeling and shook her head.

  “What can I get you?” the new bartender asked.

  “A bullet so I can shoot myself.”

  FORTY TWO

  The noise level in the office the next morning was reaching pandemonium levels with everyone trying to talk at once.

  “Cool it!” Fey called out. “Since I'm the boss, I go first.”

  This proclamation received several raspberries, but it had a calming effect.

  After leaving the Code Four the night before, Fey ran a check on Bomber Harris — true name Bennie Harris. She had a patrol unit meet her at his residence. She made Brink wait in the car while she checked the location with the uniformed officers. Nobody answered the door, and a spot of illegal entry confirmed Bomber wasn’t there.

  Fey pulled Bomber's vehicle info from the DMV computer and put a want on the car and issued a detainer for Bomber. She blamed herself for playing the situation wrong in the Code Four. Clearly, Bomber had been hiding something, but she had not followed up fast enough.

  Afterward, she dropped Brink at his warehouse loft and, despite his gentle hints about coming in for a nightcap, drove herself home to take care of her horses and cats. She lay in bed for a few hours, going over the case, looking for anything they had missed. She drifted off to sleep forty-five minutes before the alarm jarred her awake.

  Crying over her missed opportunity with Bomber wouldn't do any good. She shared her screw-up with her troops. Her self-deprecating manner earned their sympathy when she knew she deserved their scorn. If any one of them had made the same mistake, she would have chewed them a new orifice.

  “You're sure something was in the Gamewell?” Alphabet asked.

  “Between finding the key under Kavanaugh's pillow, the Gamewell being hidden behind his favorite drinking hole, and a bartender who starts acting like a hinked-up suspect, the odds are favorable.”

  “What do you think was in it?” Rhonda asked.

  “I want to believe it was the negatives and more prints of the shots we found in Preston's bedroom,” Fey said.

  “What else could it be?” Alphabet asked.

  “Who knows,” Fey said. “Did the rest of you come up with anything?”

  Alphabet grinned. “It took a while, but we found a solid connection between Preston and Mark Ritter.”

  “Spit it out,” Fey said. “We're all waiting.”

  Brindle took her cue from Alphabet's glance and produced a sheaf of paperwork from a briefcase. “We decided to pull the transcripts from the Court Clerk's Office for all of Preston's arrests. The reports from his battery and ADW cases produced nothing.”

  “But?” Fey asked, pushing for the point.

  “But,” Brindle teased, “his arrest for lewd acts with a child, the one for which he received his three year sentence, was more interesting.”

  Alphabet took over the telling. “Preston was working as a janitor in day-care centers and after-school programs. He was arrested when several kids made allegations of molest. The original allegations were focused on Preston supplying kids to outside sources as well as for his own needs. The kids were all under six. The prosecution had a difficult time establishing them as court qualified. The fifteen counts boiled down to two provable instances. All of the allegations regarding supplying the children to outside sources were dropped. Preston should have hit the bucket for eight to ten years, but the judge low-balled with five, and he was out in three.”

  “Let me guess,” Fey said. “The judge was Luther Flynn?”

  “Even better,” Brindle said.

  “Better?”

  “Better,” Alphabet agreed. “The judge was Luther Flynn, and the defense attorney was Mark Ritter.”

  “It fascinates me how perverts find each other,” Brindle said. “If Preston, Ritter, and Flynn were all molesting Sarah and Mark Junior, then this court case is a direct link.”

  Fey had seen similar links before in ritual abuse cases. “Recognition of their shared kinks must have occurred in some fashion.”

  “Maybe Ritter and Flynn were already in cahoots,” Alphabet said. “It's possible Flynn and Ritter, or somebody else within their circle, were the outside sources Preston was supplying. After he was released, Preston probably hooked up with Flynn and Ritter again, looking for a reward for keeping his mouth shut.”

  “Sarah and Mark Junior?” Fey added to the theory.

  Alphabet shrugged. “It's a possibility.”

  “More like speculation,” Fey said. “But, it does fit. Further digging might turn up a stronger connection. Get on to the Sexually Exploited Child Unit. See if they can interview kids from the places where Preston worked.”

  “It’s going to take major effort to find kids from so long ago. SECU is going to kick and scream.”

  Fey dropped the transcripts on the table. “They throw a seven right there in the office. It's their job, and I want these bastards. If Scarborough gives you any problems, tell him to take it up with me.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Who else?” Fey looked expectantly around the table.

  Hammer half raised his hand. “I'm disgusted to say, we're drawing a blank. We talked to the Ritter kids again, but they're either too scared to disclose, or they've blocked out the memories. We don't think we can press them any harder without doing damage. It's going to have to be left up to the shrinks, which means time.”

  “I agree.” Fey said. “The kids are the major victims. We have to work in their best interest. How about Ferris Jackson or Father Romero?”

  “Also a blank. They've disappeared,” Hammer said.

  “Ditto MacAlister,” Rhonda chipped in. “Everyone has gone to ground. We've got feelers out everywhere, but so far nothing.”

  “Keep on it. I also want you to liaise with Transit Division. Zelman Tucker claims there's a rumor connected to a shipment of children from South America to be sold into sexual slavery. Tucker thinks Luther Flynn is running it as a get out score. Between Jack Kavanaugh's ramblings and the catacombs of Father Romero's church being so close to Union station, I have a hunch those kids may be brought in by train. Check the schedules, see if anything sets off alarm bells.”

  Rhonda nodded as Hammer scribbled something on a note pad.

  “Monk?” Fey turned her attention to her second in command. “You've been quiet. What's up your sleeve.”

  “I don't know how significant this is,” Monk said.

  “What?”

  “I've been breaking down the reports and follow-ups regarding the murder of Mavis Flynn. I made a matrix of all the names involved and their connections. There was one brief reference on an SID report of a request made to a Piet Muller, but there was no further mention of what or why.”

  “And you don't like it when things trail off to nowhere,” Fey said.

  “Exactly. I found out Muller was a criminalist working for the Sheriff's Department's forensic unit as a ballistics expert. He specialized in shooting scene reconstructions.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “He's alive,” Monk said. “I've got an address for his daughter's residence, where his retirement checks are sent.”

  “Then let's see where it leads.” Fey stood up. “What are we waiting for, people? It's time to wrapped this up. Ferris Jackson, Father Romero, MacAlister, Bomber Harris, they can't all have disappeared. Find 'em and break 'em.”

  FORTY THREE

  The winding road known as Old Topanga Canyon detoured off Pacific Coast Highway to wind through a mix of old hippie hideaways, hidden celebrity retreats, and houses where old California families had lived for generations. It was not unusual to see a mansion worth ten-million dollars next to a weather-beaten, ramshackle barn worth eight-million dollars only because of the land it was on.

  At the far end of the road, real estate prices dropped back to typical high-dollar California pri
ces, but it was still the land that held the value, not the structures.

  As Monk slowed the detective sedan to check for obscured street numbers, Fey closed the files she was sifting through.

  “You're right,” she told her partner. “There's only the one reference to Piet Muller. No follow-up information. No indication he even followed through on the request.”

  Monk drove slowly past two more houses. “We know your father screwed with the reports. He could also have destroyed any report made by Muller if it didn't fit with the scenario he was creating.”

  “Even if there is a report,” Fey said, “will prove anything.”

  “If the report was worth destroying, it might help where Eldon Dodge is concerned.”

  “I don't know why we're bothering.”

  “We're bothering because it's the right thing to do. We aren't happy with loose ends. You taught me from the start not to ignore loose ends.”

  “There are always loose ends.”

  “Don't be argumentative. There's a world of difference between a loose end you've tracked as far as it will go, and a loose end you ignore for the sake of convenience.”

  “Dodge belongs in jail. We're not going to be doing anyone any favors by finding evidence that might set him free,” Fey said, unwilling to be fed her own medicine.

  “You don't think he's telling the truth about admitting to his involvement in the robbery where the two guards were killed?”

  “If you were cleared of a murder you didn't commit, would you immediately confess to two you did?”

  “Can't say I would.”

  “I've never known a con who was sincere about finding God.”

  Fey pointed a finger toward a sign on the east side of the street. “There it is.”

  The numbers 778 were prominently displayed on a sign advertising Old Topanga Kennels over the silhouette of a large, muscular dog. Below the silhouette were the words, Home of World Champion Portuguese Water Dogs, Member PWDCA, and a listing of several AKC registered dams and sires in residence. A smaller sign next to the first stated Muller Dalmatians with a painted picture of the instantly recognizable breed.

  “What is a Portuguese water dog?” Monk asked. He could see several of the curly-haired dogs trotting along behind a low chain link fence. “They look like giant poodles with an attitude.”

  Fey laughed.

  “I hate dogs,” Monk said.

  “Come on.”

  “Really. Messy, stinky, slobbery, constantly following you around and sticking their head in your crotch.”

  Fey laughed. “This is a side of you I don't know. Dogs are lovely animals, and PWDs are as fun loving as they come.”

  “PWDs?”

  “Portuguese water dogs. They are not overgrown poodles. Not even close.”

  “Miniature bears then,” Monk said. He'd pulled into the driveway and felt the six or seven dogs who had gathered were assessing his meal potential even though their tails were wagging.

  “PWDs are an unusual working breed. Love the water. They worked on fishing boats in Portugal as a well-kept secret for centuries.”

  “They should have stayed a secret,” Monk said, watching as Fey approached the low fence holding her palm out for the dogs to smell.

  “No picking up strays while we're here,” Monk told her.

  “Two horses and two cats. I need a dog to balance things out.”

  A tall woman wearing Levis and a man's denim shirt came out of an outbuilding and saw the two detectives.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. There was a very slight trace of an accent in her voice.

  “Lovely dogs,” Fey said.

  “Ay, they are,” the woman said walking among the brood, who all crowded around her. She shared out pats and bumps. “But a lot of work just the same.”

  “See,” Monk said in a low voice. He was close enough to Fey to receive a sharp jab from her elbow.

  “I'm Lieutenant Croaker, and this is my partner, Detective Lawson,” Fey said to the woman. “Are you Joanna Muller?”

  “Joanna Tripp,” the woman said. “Muller is my maiden name. What's this about?”

  “We understand your father lives with you,” Fey said. “He retired from a civilian position with the Sheriff's Department?”

  “Yes, but years ago.”

  “We'd like to talk to him about an old case he worked on,” Fey said.

  The woman looked uncertain.

  “Is something wrong?” Fey asked.

  “Dad's not well,” Joanna said. “In fact, he's dying.”

  Fey put a suitable expression on her face. “I'm sorry.”

  “It's been a long time coming. Lung cancer. Smoked too much, too long.”

  Neither Fey nor Monk knew how to respond.

  The woman made up her mind. “Come inside. I'll see if he's up to talking to you. I don't expect you can do any more damage than what he's done to himself.”

  The kennel grounds were in good condition. The grass was trimmed. The outbuildings appeared clean and well maintained. The house they entered, with several dogs trailing behind them, reflected the same level of care and grooming. There was nothing fancy or expensive, but everything clean and tidy.

  “Everything is so squared away,” Fey said. “How do you do it with all the dogs?”

  Joanna laughed. “It's not easy, but the stud does well. My husband and my brother work their tails off with me. However, we're expecting two litters within the week. The kennels will become a mad house overnight. Come back then and see if you think everything is ship shape.”

  Joanna walked them through the kitchen and down a hallway to a large family room with an enclosed patio attached.

  “Dad likes the sun,” Joanna said. She motioned to a hospital bed set up on the patio. “It reminds him of South Africa.”

  “You're South African? I thought I detected an accent.”

  Joanna shook her head. “California born and raised. The accent comes from hanging around the family. Mum and Dad immigrated before I was born. My brother took out his citizenship papers a few years back, but Dad never did. It's why he stayed a civilian with the police force. You had to be a citizen to become an officer.”

  Joanna led them onto the porch. It was filled with light and gave a beautiful view of the trees along the back of the kennel property.

  The man on the bed had a sheet pulled up to his chest. His arms held the sheet down on either side. He was sleeping, his face gaunt. An oxygen tube rested in his nostrils.

  Laying a gentle hand on her father's arm, Joanna spoke softly. “Dad?”

  The man's eyes opened.

  “You have visitors,” Joanna told him.

  Piet Muller turned his head slowly, pale blue eyes seeming to fight to focus on his guests. “Hello,” he said. His voice was low, but strong. “Do I know you?”

  “I'm Lieutenant Croaker,” Fey said, stepping closer to the bed. “This is my partner, Detective Monk Lawson. We're with LAPD. Robbery-Homicide.”

  Piet Muller gave Fey a long look. “Croaker, you say? Any relation to Garth Croaker?”

  “He was my father. I'm surprised you remember him.”

  Piet snorted. “How could I ever forget him? He was a bastard.” He leaned over to spit on the as if it were a grave.

  “Dad!” Joanna said, shocked.

  “It's okay,” Fey said. “He's right.” She brought her attention back to the old man. “I'm more interested in why he feels this way.” It put a lump in her throat learning how many people her father had screwed over, how many people hated him. For years she’d thought she was the only one who despised him, and she had felt guilty for those feelings.

  Piet Muller was silent, lying back on the bed.

  “Do your feelings about my father have anything to do with a report you were asked to compile on a shooting scene thirty years ago?”

  Muller's eyes popped open. His breathing quickened.

  Joanna stood up from where she had been sitting on a low stool next to
the bed. “You're agitating him. You'll have to go.” The concern in her voice was real.

  Muller reached out and touched his daughter's arm. “Let them stay. I've carried this weight a long time. It is good I should get rid of the effin' thing before I die.”

  “Dad,” Joanna now gripped her father's hand.

  “Help me sit up,” Piet said. His voice seeming to gain strength.

  Joanna quickly set to adjusting the top half of the bed to a slant and arranging pillows. Piet, his body frail with cancer, maneuvered to prop himself onto them with his daughter's gentle guidance.

  “Do you know what my forensic specialty was?” Piet asked when he was settled.

  “Reconstruction of crime scenes?” Fey asked.

  “Specifically, ballistic reconstruction,” Piet said. “This was in the days before officer-involved-shooting teams were commonplace. I was a pioneer in my field. I would respond to shooting scenes and use the physical evidence of bullet holes, expended shells, and anything else available to recreate the shooting scenario. Your father wasn't pleased to see me turn up at the Mavis Flynn murder scene.”

  “No offense,” Fey said, “But this was thirty years ago. You must have worked hundreds of cases since. How do you so clearly remember dealing with my father in this investigation?”

  Piet was silent for a few moments, then he looked at his daughter and gripped her hand. “Because he threatened to molest Joanna if I made my findings official.”

  FORTY FOUR

  Devon Wyatt opened the door to his law office at exactly nine o'clock. Since the door was unlocked, he expected to see his secretary at her desk. When she was not there, he cursed, hoping she had only stepped out for a moment and had not left the office unlocked overnight.

  Even the prestigious Beverly Hills address was not a guarantee against office creepers. Three months earlier, Wyatt's office had reported twenty-thousand dollars in computer equipment stolen. The fact Wyatt hadn't lost the equipment and was only soaking his insurance company, taking advantage of the other recent burglaries in the building, didn't make him any less of a potential victim.