by Paul Bishop
Wyatt did have a safeguard. If he was ever really burglarized, he could turn MacAlister loose with every assurance of the equipment being returned and the perpetrators punished. There was something to be said for not having to play by the rules. Fear, pain, and intimidation worked far better.
Wyatt checked the phone system on his secretary's desk and saw it was still switched over to the answering service. He cursed again and switched it to ring straight through to the office. As he did, the office door swung open and a harried looking young woman stumbled in.
“I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Wyatt. “Traffic was terrible and I stopped to pick up coffee and bagels.” She held up a cardboard tray with two disposable cups and a pastry bag balanced in the cut-outs.
Wyatt gave her a sharp look, which he immediately tried to modify. She was relatively new and he hadn't gotten her into bed yet. He took in the overlarge breasts and the well-shaped legs beneath the short skirt. Chasing her out in a fit of temper might be what she deserved, but it wasn't what Wyatt believed he deserved. Having her legs in the air with him between them was what he deserved, and he wouldn't get there if he frightened her away.
“It's all right, Paige,” Wyatt managed to keep most of the aggravation out of his voice. “But the door was unlocked when I arrived. You must remember to lock it when you leave.”
Paige was so flustered she almost dropped the coffee tray as she tried to set it down while also balancing a large purse and an armload of notebooks. “But, Mr. Wyatt,” she said. “You were still here when I left last night.”
Wyatt felt like screaming, but then realized Paige was right. He'd been doing paperwork while waiting to hear from MacAlister, and he had let the secretary go home.
He smiled and took a container of coffee, trying to remember locking the door. Surely he had, but he couldn't remember.
He walked through to his inner office, set his coffee down, and picked up the phone. The door softly closed behind him. He hesitated and then replaced the phone receiver.
Tuning slowly, Wyatt saw Arch Hammersmith casually leaning against the closed door. Rhonda Lawless was draped elegantly across a nearby armchair.
“Why am I not surprised?” Wyatt asked. “Breaking and entering has always been one of your specialties.”
“But you are surprised,” Hammer said. “Your carotid artery is pulsing so hard in your neck, I can see it from here. Always a sign of guilt.”
“Anyway,” Rhonda said. “We didn't have to break in. The front door was open.”
“Bull –” Wyatt said. He could feel sweat suddenly on his forehead. There was something preternaturally calm about the pair.
“Language,” Hammer cautioned.
“What do you want?” Wyatt boosted one buttock onto his desk. He'd butted heads with Hammer and Nails in the past. It had not been an exhilarating experience. They had the rare ability to make Wyatt feel unsure of himself. Like the best interrogators, they always appeared to know far more than they did.
“We have a proposition for you. Something mutually beneficial,” Hammer said, sitting in the chair behind Wyatt's desk.
Hammer's maneuvering forced Wyatt to turn to look at him, leaving his back exposed to Rhonda. Wyatt could feel the sweat running from his underarms. This was ridiculous. He'd warned MacAlister about these two, but he hadn't reckoned he would end up as the subject of their attentions.
“I'm listening,” Wyatt said. He slid off the desk and moved to another chair in his spacious office where he had both of the detectives in sight.
“We're going to take down MacAlister and Luther Flynn, and we want you to help us do it,” Hammer said. He swiveled in Wyatt's chair and put his feet up on the desk.
Wyatt forced a laugh. “What does Judge Flynn have to do with MacAlister?” He stood up. “You must be mad.”
“Settle down,” Rhonda told him. “If you notice, Hammer didn't say we want to take down MacAlister and Flynn. He said, we're going to take down MacAlister and Flynn. With you or without you doesn't matter much to us. It could be less messy with you.”
“And if you help us,” Hammer added, “it means you don't go down with them.”
Wyatt was recovering his composure. “Your amateur intimidation act doesn't cut squat with me. You have nothing on MacAlister, Flynn or myself. Now get out before you embarrass yourselves further.”
Hammer took his feet slowly off the desk and brought Wyatt's chair to an upright position. He looked over at Rhonda. “Amateur intimidation act?”
Rhonda shrugged. “Guess we're going to have to turn up the intensity.”
As she spoke, Hammer launched himself over the wide polished desk, scattering pen sets, paperweights, coffee cup, and blotter. Wyatt was still concentrated on Rhonda when Hammer's shoulder struck the middle of his body and sent him flying backwards into the chair behind him.
The chair went over backward. Wyatt followed it, arse over tea kettle, smacking his head on the wall and sprawling on the floor.
Hammer had Wyatt by the tie before he stopped moving. He smacked Wyatt's head into the wall again and slapped him across the scalp, sending Wyatt's hair piece spinning off like a hairy flying saucer.
“Listen, you bag of crap,” Hammer said through gritted teeth. “We've played games with you for years, but play time is officially over.”
“I'll break you,” Wyatt said. He was trying to yell, but he couldn’t speak louder than a whisper.
Using his grip on the tie, Hammer slammed Wyatt's head into the wall again. “No you won't. You might try, but if you even got close, I'd kill you without thinking about it. You know me, Wyatt. You know I'd do it. MacAlister might be your big-time bully boy, but he isn't even close to me.”
Wyatt tried to call out for Paige, but Hammer's knee was suddenly digging into his chest. He couldn't talk, couldn't breathe.
“It doesn't have to be this way,” Hammer said. “I know you love money. It's lawyers like you who give the remaining one percent a bad name. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps you don't really know what you've gotten yourself into this time.”
Hammer held his free hand out behind his back, and Rhonda stepped forward to hand him copies of the prints found under Ricky Preston's bed.
Hammer shoved the graphic images in front of Wyatt's face. “Look at these.” His voice was low, but insistent, on the edge of control. “This is what child molest is all about. This is what your buddies are doing. Is this what you do? Screw little children? Or do you simply ignore it when others to do it? Either way, it’s the same thing.”
“I don't make moral judgments,” Wyatt said, when Hammer eased the pressure on his chest.
“Of course you do,” Hammer said. “Every time you turn a blind eye to what your clients have done, every time you bend the rules to let a bad guy go free.”
“You bend the rules,” Wyatt said, half exasperated.
“Bend them? We break them every chance we get. The difference is, we have a moral compass. Your only concern is where the next retainer check is coming from.”
“You're worse than your boss.” Wyatt grunted out the words. “I thought her God complex was bad, but it's nothing compared to you two.”
“This has nothing to do with a God complex,” Hammer said. “It has to do with right and wrong. Those aren't difficult concepts.” Hammer pushed the prints against Wyatt's nose. “And this is wrong. Do you have a counter argument?”
Wyatt made an attempt to focus on the prints. “No,” he said, finally.
Hammer took his knee off Wyatt's chest. “Let me throw in something extra,” Hammer said. “Something to make joining forces with us more palatable.”
Wyatt pushed himself onto his elbows, trying to catch his breath.
“After we take down MacAlister and Flynn, we're quitting,” Hammer said. “This is our last case. We're getting out.”
“What?” Wyatt was shocked.
“Congratulations. You're the first person we've told,” Rhonda said, feeling better than she had in a lo
ng time. She and Hammer had gone out to dinner the previous evening and decided to make a number of changes in their lives.
Hammer began to stand up, hauling Wyatt to his feet by the tie. Rhonda stepped forward to help him.
Wyatt grunted, having to hold onto Hammer to steady himself. “Why?” he asked. “I thought you white knights were in for the duration.”
Hammer shrugged. “Our priorities have changed. We have a daughter who needs special care. Rhonda is going to stay home with her, and I'm going to take a position with a private security firm.”
“I don't see you in a uniform shaking doors.”
“Har, har,” Hammer said. “Ethan Kelso at Highland Security is expanding. He's offered me my own branch. Industrial espionage work.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“We wanted to see the look on your face,” Hammer said.
“Croaker doesn't know yet?”
“Doesn't even suspect,” Rhonda told him.
Wyatt took his tie out of Hammer's hand and straightened out his clothing. “She's going to go crazy.”
“We also want to see her face,” Hammer said.
Wyatt retrieved his hair piece. He shook it out.
“Leave it,” Rhonda told him. “It always looks like a dead pigeon. You're better off without it.”
Wyatt looked at her and then chucked the offending mass into the trash can beside his desk.
“How do you know I'm connected to Luther Flynn?” Wyatt moved to the chair behind his desk and flopped into it.
“It took a while for us to find the connection,” Hammer said. “But when we began considering all the smoke you've been blowing over Eldon Dodge, it became clear.”
Wyatt pushed the button on the intercom box shoved aside when Hammer vaulted over the desk. “Paige, bring me a glass of water.” He released the button and looked back at Hammer. “I still don't get it.”
“Let me spell it out. For thirty years, Dodge has kept his mouth shut about Luther Flynn's involvement in the armored car robbery in which the two guards were killed.”
Wyatt's eyes widened.
“That's right,” Hammer said. “We've got that little piece of information cornered. Somebody has been supporting Dodge all these years. When we found the connection between Dodge and Flynn, it was logical to assume Flynn has been picking up the tab for Dodge's silence.”
Rhonda picked up the thread. “Flynn is currently in deep trouble with the feds. Bianca was running an investigation threatening to topple her father's personal empire. He needs a big score to get out. When Bianca was killed, and we put the heat on, Flynn needed something to distract us. Eldon Dodge was perfect.”
Paige came in and placed a glass of water on Wyatt's desk. If she was shocked by the presence of Hammer and Nails, or by the state of the office and her boss, she hid her surprise. “Is there anything else, Mr. Wyatt?”
Wyatt sighed. “Not right now, Paige.”
When she left, he drank the glass of water straight down. “Bianca Flynn's death isn't down to Luther,” Wyatt said. “He never would have used an amateur to get information from her when he had MacAlister at his disposal.”
Hammer shrugged. “Maybe he didn't want to be beholden to you. We've got Flynn and his son-in-law Ritter connected to Ricky Preston. It's not hard to see Flynn trying to cut corners by using Preston to get to Bianca.”
“It doesn't track,” Wyatt insisted.
“Details,” Hammer said. “Something to clean up later.”
“Why are you so intent on taking down MacAlister? How about I give you Flynn and MacAlister walks. He's a valuable tool.”
“Find another,” Hammer said. “It's personal. He goes down, and Flynn goes down. If you don't help us, then we stay around long enough to make sure you go down.” Hammer tossed the prints onto Wyatt's desk. “You've got a lot to answer for. We start rattling skeletons in your closet and the orange jump suits you'll be wearing won't have an Armani label in the collar.”
Wyatt looked at the pair. Cooperating went against all his instincts except his instinct for self-preservation.
He watched as Hammer and Nails exchanged one of their patented, non-verbal communication glances. He hated when they did it.
“We know about the get out score,” Rhonda said, her attention focused on Wyatt again.
They didn't know all about it yet, but there was a time to bluff.
Wyatt fought not to react. “What are you talking about?”
Hammer rose and Wyatt half pushed himself back from his desk, as if expecting another attack. Hammer leaned over the desk top. “Flynn is planning on selling a shipment of Latin orphans as sex toys to big money pedophiles. He's bringing them in on a train and is going to use the catacombs under the Church of the Black Madonna as a staging area before delivery.” Hammer wasn't exactly winging it. He and Rhonda had checked train schedules and analyzed logical probabilities prior visiting Wyatt. “If you don't help us stop him, we'll bury you so deep even the worms won't find you.”
Wyatt held up his hands. “I give up.” It was time to save what he could. “If it will get the pair of you out of my life, it'll be worth it.”
FORTY FIVE
Fey was worried she was taxing Piet Muller too much, but she needed the information he had to give. There was nobody else who could provide it. She realized there was a dubious morality in possibly hastening a man's death in order to solve a case. The moral thing to do would have been to walk away. Was a crime clearance, even a murder clearance, worth a few days, or even a few hours of a man's life? Most detectives would say no, but they would mean yes. For cops, the job always loomed bigger than the individual. Self-sacrifice was nothing new in the wasteland of cops' personal relationships. And if they demanded selflessness from themselves, they also demanded it from others.
Muller was not complaining. If anything, he appeared to be getting stronger as the interview progressed. He had sent his daughter to fetch a large steamer trunk from his bedroom. Monk helped carry it from Muller's bedroom to the patio.
“A man's life is his work,” Muller said, as Fey opened the lid. The trunk was filled with reports, folders, measuring tools, drafting implements, and a bundle of long straws. Everything was preserved in immaculate condition, reflecting the tidy nature of the house and kennels. A family trait handed down from generation to generation.
“The reports are filed by month and year,” Muller said. “What you're looking for should be easy enough to find. It was one of my earlier cases and will be somewhere near the bottom of the trunk.”
Monk and Fey began carefully removing the contents of the trunk. Together, they made neat stacks on the floor under Muller's watchful eyes.
“You kept copies of all your reports?” Fey asked.
“Not everything,” Muller said. “Just the reports in which ballistic reconstruction was the focus. I told you I was a pioneer in my field. I always meant to write the definitive book after I retired. I finished three quarters of it before my condition got worse. We always think we have more time than we do.”
Fey knew a lot about that subject. Her relationship with Ash had taught her about time, and the lack of it.
Monk uncovered the report for which they were searching. The name Mavis Flynn and the date were printed in large block letters across a white label stuck to the front of a maroon cover.
“If this was an LAPD case,” Fey asked, “why were you called in?”
“I had a friend working as an LAPD criminalist. He was familiar with my work and would bring me in on anything interesting.”
“And he called you out on the Mavis Flynn case?”
“Yes. I'd had several good court successes already, and district attorneys liked the work I was doing. As you know, it's always best to back up eye witness testimony with physical evidence. But, you must understand,” Muller said, “I went to the scene believing I would be preparing a report showing Eldon Dodge responsible for killing his cousin.”
“But, that's n
ot what you found?”
Monk handed the slim report to Muller. The frail man flipped through several pages until he came to a fold-out graph.
“Come here,” Muller said, and both Fey and Monk moved closer to the bedside.
With a long finger, Muller pointed at the graph. It was filled with lines and trajectories. “I started working with the description of the shooting provided by your father and his partner. It was pretty straight forward, but after I started to reconcile the position of the body with the bullet entry and exit wounds, things were not quite so clear.”
“What do you mean?”
The angles weren't right. Mavis Flynn was a tall woman. As tall as your father, but not as tall as Eldon Dodge. If Dodge had shot her, the exit wound would have been lower than the entrance wound.”
“And it wasn't?”
“No. If anything, the exit wound was on a slight up angle.”
Fey tapped the graph. “But what does it prove? Anything could have been happening in the struggle leading to the shooting.”
“True,” Muller said. “But it was enough to start me looking further. I was approaching the investigation with the mindset of a scientist. I didn't give a thought to what would happen if I disproved your father's story. I was a neutral fact gatherer.”
Monk posed the next question. “Did you find anything significant?”
For a moment, Muller struggled for breath. Joanna came over to check on him, but he pushed her gently aside. “I did,” he said. “There was both an entry and an exit wound in the victim's head. This meant the bullet itself had to be somewhere.” He paused, his breathing shallow. “I found the bullet in the wall beside the window through which Eldon Dodge fled . . .” his voice trailed away.
Fey picked up the significance. “Meaning Dodge didn't fire the bullet. If he had, it would have lodged somewhere behind my father. Not in front of him.”
“Exactly,” Muller said. He appeared to run out of steam, lying back on his pillows, the report sliding from his grasp to the floor.
Fey could imagine the scene, thirty years earlier, when Muller would have tried to point out the discrepancies in the shooting scenario. Her father must have gone nuts, especially when he found Muller was only there to do research. Garth Croaker's survival and manipulation skills must have resulted in his threat to molest Muller's daughter if Muller made his findings public.