by Paul Bishop
Fey placed a hand on top of Muller's arm. “I'm sorry,” she said.
Muller's eyes popped open. For a moment they were a clear and sparkling blue, seeming to poke directly into Fey's psyche. “It is I who am sorry. I know who you are now. I remember hearing about your background when you were involved in the JoJo Cullen case. If I had taken a stand, perhaps your father wouldn't have done the things he did to you.”
“He was already doing them,” Fey said. “You have no guilt. You had to do what you thought best to keep Joanna safe.”
A tear rolled from Muller's left eye and ran down his sunken cheek. “But that man Dodge, he went to jail.”
“Death Row,” Fey said. “I know. I went to visit him recently.”
“He was innocent.”
“Of murdering Mavis Flynn perhaps, but not of other murders.”
“That doesn't make what I did right.”
“No,” Fey said. “But it doesn't condemn you either.” She picked up the report. “May I have this?”
“Will it make a difference?” Muller asked.
“It's the truth,” Fey told him gently. “The truth always makes a difference.”
FORTY SIX
The call from the Patrol Watch Commander caught up with Alphabet and Brindle while they were in the offices of the Sexually Exploited Child Unit. Detective Leon Scarborough was turning an interesting shade of purple while Brindle was explaining what Fey expected of the unit. The beep of Alphabet's pager defused the moment, and the fighters went to neutral corners while Alphabet dialed the number on the readout.
He spoke briefly before hanging up and smiling at Brindle.
“Something?” she asked.
“Earlier today I called VPU and added my pager number to the detainer warrants for Father Romero and Ferris Jackson.” Aside from other duties, the Vehicle Processing Unit did all the data entry on stolen/recovered vehicles and warrants attached to license plates. “I don't trust everyone at RHD to pass our messages along. If something broke, I wanted to be sure we were contacted.”
“And?” Brindle asked impatiently.
“Ferris Jackson has just been stopped by a North Hollywood motor cop for running a red light. He ran the plate and the hold popped up.”
“Great! Where is she?”
“She's still in the field with the motor officer. Apparently, she's spitting mad and making life miserable for everyone. I've asked for her to be taken to North Hollywood station and for her car to be impounded.”
“Anyone with her?”
“No. She was on a solo run and in a hurry. Said she was coming to see us.”
“Why didn't she call us?”
“Broken dialing finger maybe. I don't know. Do you want to stand around arguing or do you want to go and ask her?”
“Shall we call Fey?”
Alphabet shook his head. “We can't go running to mother every time we get a chance to hit a home run. This is ours. We'll call her when we have something substantial.”
Brindle walked across the room to where Scarborough was sitting at his desk, still fuming.
She tried a smile on him, but it didn't appear to make a dent. “We're asking for a lot,” she said. “You have a ton of other cases, but any effort to help find other victims associated with Ricky Preston would go a long way to nailing this case.”
“You're talking wild goose chase,” Scarborough said. “You've got enough victims without looking for more.”
“Not the point,” Brindle said. “Will you help us or not?”
“You people at RHD think your crap doesn't stink. You figure all you have to do to get additional manpower is snap your fingers. We can't even get enough personnel to handle the cases assigned to us, let alone do the job properly.”
Brindle threw up her hands. “Forget it,” she said, grabbing the file on Ricky Preston from the desk top. “We've got another lead to roll on, and then we'll do this ourselves.”
“You wouldn't know where to start,” Scarborough sneered.
“I know where not to start,” Brindle fired back. “Maybe you need something to remind you what your job is all about.”
The verbal salvo hit Scarborough hard. The tall detective sighed, letting his fury go. “Give me the information. I’ll see what we can do.”
“No way,” Brindle said. “This has got to be done right, not some half-hearted effort from a burned out has-been.”
“Screw you,” Scarborough said. He reached out and tore the file from Brindle's grip. “If there are any other victims out there, we'll find them.”
Brindle slid a smile back on her face. “I'm sure you will.” She turned to follow Alphabet out the door.
In the deserted hallway outside the office, Alphabet ran his hand lightly down her back between her shoulder blades. “You are hell on wheels, aren't you?”
She turned her face toward him and put an arm around his waist. “You should see me in bed,” she said, and then pushed him gently away as somebody else entered the corridor.
***
On the drive to North Hollywood station, Alphabet kept up a nonstop verbal barrage of chatter about nothing in particular. It was as if he had to have words coming out of his mouth to block any chance he might say what was truly on his mind.
Brindle didn't know why she had made the comment in the corridor, or why she had pulled him close with her arm around his waist. Nor did she know if she was sorry she had taken those actions. It was all very confusing. She was getting used to having Alphabet around, getting used to depending on him.
As he slid the police car into the parking lot for North Hollywood Area Station, Alphabet was still chattering. When he fumbled with the emergency brake and had trouble undoing his seat belt, Brindle leaned over and placed a finger on his lips. The expression on his face was of a basset hound caught peeing in the corner of the living room. Brindle laughed. “It's okay,” she said. “Let's get this damn case done and over with and then we'll handle what's going on with us. Deal?”
Alphabet grunted. “Deal,” he said, visibly fighting to change the expression on his face and get his mind back to business.
Entering the station, they checked with the watch commander who told them Ferris was being detained in an interrogation room.
“Anybody get her a cup of coffee, or let her smoke a cigarette?”
The watch commander shook her head. “Coffee costs a quarter, and there's no smoking in the station.”
Alphabet shook his head wearily. “Anybody ask her if she needed to use the bathroom?”
“Didn't have a female officer available,” the watch commander said without blinking.
Alphabet looked around. He could see at least three uniformed female officers at the front desk and in the records section. It never ceased to amaze him how cops thought they had to be hardnosed every second of the day. Ferris Jackson wasn't even a suspect, but she was guilty by association. There was a detainer out for her, so she must be guilty of something and didn't need to be treated like a human being.
The department had made great strides in recent years in the areas of human relations and sensitivity, but it still couldn't break the them against us mentality, which pervaded police forces from the first day of their existence. As far as cops were concerned, there were two teams in the world, law enforcement vs. everyone else. Every day the Super Bowl crown was up for grabs across urban sprawl and through rural farmlands. You never gave an inch, not even when giving an inch could gain you a mile.
Treating a person with respect cost nothing. Make sure their minor creature comforts were addressed, and maybe they would cooperate. Treat them like pariahs, deprive them for the sake of depriving them, and you guaranteed hostility.
Cops never learn this lesson. They only see the small picture. Knowing the vagaries of the justice system, which many times did result in criminals walking away unscathed, cops delivered as many little miseries as they could. Vigilante justice at its most pathetic.
Alphabet opened the doo
r to the first interrogation room and found Ferris Jackson huddled and hostile inside.
She took the fingernail she was biting from her mouth. “Who are you?” Her voice was hard. Sitting on the hard bench across one wall, her legs were wrapped almost twice around each other, her arms hugging her scrawny chest, eyes blazing.
“I'm Detective Cohen,” Alphabet said. He didn't offer to shake hands. “This is my partner, Detective Jones.”
Brindle inclined her head and followed Alphabet into the room. They both sat down on the bench across the opposite wall and left the door to the room open.
“Where are the other two?” Ferris demanded. “I thought they would be here.”
“Hammersmith and Lawless?”
“Whatever,” Ferris said. “The two who followed me to Father Romero's church.”
“They're the varsity team,” Brindle said. “You don't rate them anymore. You're going to have to settle for us.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you could be in a lot of trouble.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then I can leave?”
“No.”
“Then I am under arrest.”
Alphabet inserted himself into the pissing contest by holding up his hand. “You are not under arrest, but you are detained. If you force the issue, we will arrest you as a hostile material witness.”
When Ferris didn't respond, Alphabet continued. “I'm sorry you had to be brought to the station in this manner. Whether you believe it or not, we are trying to do the right thing. We are trying to make sure whoever was involved in the murder of Bianca Flynn does not get away with it.”
“That will only last until you find out somebody with clout is involved.” Ferris's voice was almost a whine. “Then you'll back off.”
“If that's what you think,” Alphabet said, “then you don't know us, or our boss, very well. We know you and Father Romero are in over your heads. We know Luther Flynn is involved. We know Mark Ritter is involved. However, we're going to need your help to take them down.”
Ferris' legs untwisted slightly, the arms gripping her chest loosening some. “I know you won't believe this,” she said, “but when I was stopped by that anus on the motorcycle, I really was coming to see you.” Her arm swept out, “Not you specifically. The other two. Hammer and Nails.”
“Why?” Brindle asked.
“Because Father Romero has disappeared and I'm so freaking scared.”
FORTY SEVEN
“Where to now, Boss?” Monk asked as he backed the car out of Muller's driveway.
Fey had been thinking about their next steps as they had said goodbye to Muller, his daughter, and their dogs. Fey found out she couldn't even get a puppy if she wanted one. All of the expected litter were sold.
Plugging the portable rover into the car's built in radio unit, Fey said, “It's time we stopped pussyfooting around and went directly to the source.”
“You talking about confronting Flynn?”
Fey settled herself into the car seat and put on her seat belt. “Luther Flynn is at the center of everything we've uncovered. It's time we put him on notice. Maybe it will force his hand, or shake something loose.”
“Aren't we going to be fighting outside our weight?”
“You think just because Flynn is a judge he's exempt from the law, or from being questioned?”
Monk swung the car onto the road and accelerated. “No, but I'm not sure we have anything substantial to back us up if he starts to push back.”
“Since when did you become an old lady?”
Monk gave a radiant smile. “It's my job,” he said. “If I play the little old lady, it keeps you grounded. You still drag me into things, but you take a second look at the lay of the land before you do.”
“Wise ass,” Fey said. She punched Monk hard in the arm, a curiously old fashioned, yet affectionate gesture. “Does that mean you're up for taking on Flynn?”
“It means,” Monk said, “I've been wondering why we haven't busted his chops before now.”
Fey borrowed Monk's cellular, cursing because she still had not reactivated her own, and called the desk at Detective Headquarters Division. A roster of all judges and their home residences were kept on hand, and a male detective who sounded as if he hadn't reached puberty yet, provided an address for Flynn.
“We're in luck,” Fey said, ringing off.
“That will make a change,” Monk said.
“Flynn lives in Pacific Palisades, off Sunset near Will Rogers State Park.” She gave numbers and named a street.
“Home ground,” Monk said, as the location was within West Los Angeles Area.
“Yeah,” Fey agreed. “Let's hope it gives us the advantage.”
Fifteen minutes later, Monk pulled up to a large gated residence. He pushed the button on the intercom box.
“Yes,” a tinny female voice responded.
“West Air Patrol,” Monk said. Not seeing any closed circuit cameras, and gambling the detective car couldn't be seen from the house, Monk invoked the name of the security company whose sign was planted next to the gate. “Your alarm has been activated, and we need to check the grounds.”
“Everything is okay,” the tinny voice replied.
“I'm sure it is,” Monk said, “but we have to check. It's standard procedure.”
There was no response from the intercom, but after a few seconds the electronically controlled front gate began to swing open. Monk drove through.
Following the circular driveway, he stopped the car by the front door.
Monk's cellular rang, and he fished it out of his jacket and handed it across to Fey. She flipped it open and pressed the receive button.
“Hello.”
“Fey, it's Hammer,” the voice on the line said. “How come you're answering Monk's phone?”
“Probably for the same reason you're calling his number. My phone is still down. What's happening?”
“Too much to go into over the phone. Can we meet?”
“We're pulling in to Luther Flynn's residence in Pacific Palisades.”
“Ooooh, bad idea,” Hammer said.
Fey looked out her window and saw the daughter, Cecily Flynn-Rogers, step out of the front door and give them a questioning look. “Too late to tell me now. We've been seen.”
“Hell,” Hammer said. “Play for time. We're fifteen minutes away.” The line went dead.
“Trouble?” Monk asked.
“You expected something different?” Fey opened her door and stepped out to talk to Cecily.
“You're not West Air Patrol,” she said accusingly.
“Is Judge Flynn at home?” Fey asked, ignoring Cecily's observation.
“No, he's not. What is this about?”
“Routine follow-up,” Fey said.
“But Chief Drummond told me the man who died in the car crash was responsible for my sister's death.”
“He was,” Fey told her. “But there are still a few loose ends. Can we come in?”
“Why did you say you were from West Air Patrol?”
“Why are you being so uncooperative?” Fey answered Cecily's question with another. “Ricky Preston may have been the person who tortured your sister, but somebody was pulling his strings. We need to find out who.”
“Ridiculous,” Cecily said. “Who would do such a thing?”
Fey took a good look at Cecily. The woman's hostility from the start of the investigation bothered her. The reconciliation act she'd put on in her office with her father present had been transparent. This was the real woman. Her reactions to dealing with the police were not normal, even for somebody with an agenda. Something was wrong.
Luther had not called in favors to get Cecily appointed to the police commission because she loved cops. If anything, she had a mad-on for everyone in law enforcement.
“We both know who was pulling Preston's strings,” Fey said bluntly, going for shock valu
e. The front steps of the residence were not exactly the place for a confrontation, but you went with what you were given.
“You're out of your mind,” Cecily said. She turned started back into the house. “I'm going to call Chief Drummond.”
Even though she reacted quickly, Fey couldn't get to the door before Cecily slammed it shut and threw the lock. “What’s going on?” Monk yelled as he moved by the front of the car.
“Hell if I know,” Fey said. “This was the last thing I expected.” At the front door she knocked and twisted the handle. “Cecily,” she called out. There was no response. Fey cupped a hand and tried looking through a frosted glass side panel.
“Quick, Monk, get around back,” she said. “I can't see a thing, but she may be trying to do something stupid.” Fey banged on the door with the fleshy part of her fist.
Monk began jogging toward a tangential driveway, which he assumed led back to the residence garage. As he did, the electronic gate, which had swung closed after he and Fey had entered, suddenly activated and began to swing open. There was the sound of a car engine, and he was forced to jump out of the way as Cecily raced past in a black Mercedes.
“Yow!” Fey cried out, seeing Monk hit the ground. She cleared her gun from its shoulder holster, but knew she'd never be justified in shooting at the fleeing vehicle. Still, she had to do something, shooting review board questions or not.
The electronic gate was half open when Fey took a two handed grip on her gun, set her feet shoulder-width apart and fired one round. She qualified with her weapon every month, and the constant practice paid off. The electronic box controlling the gate exploded in a small ball of fire.
When the gate stopped opening at the halfway point, Cecily slammed on the Mercedes' brakes, but she was too late to stop the front of the car skidding forward and plowing into the edge of the wrought iron. The car slew sideways, smashing its passenger side into the slump stone wall surrounding the residence, and knocking a decorative carriage lamp from its perch. The lamp toppled and hit the car roof with a thud, the globe exploding in shards of milky glass, electrical wires streaming out behind it.