by Paul Bishop
Fey guided her out of the cell and into an interrogation room. She provided a box of tissues and waited while Cecily blew her nose and tried to get control of herself.
The room was small. A filthy metal table in the middle, with a hard-backed chair on either side. The walls were covered with white acoustical tile, the floor was cracked linoleum. The odor of thousands of sweaty, nervous suspects hung like vague ghosts in the air.
“It's over isn't it?” Cecily asked.
“It would appear so,” Fey said, not at all sure it was. She wasn't even positive what Cecily was talking about.
The hidden microphone in the room was hot. Fey had to read Cecily her rights before asking any questions, but it was perfectly legal to let a suspect ramble without prompting. Monk was sitting in the tape room listening on headphones. They had decided it was best to let Fey handled Cecily by herself. They didn't want to crowd her.
“I know about you,” Cecily said.
“You do?” Fey asked.
“Your father loved you, like my daddy loved me.” Cecily's voice was an octave higher than normal.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Fey said, her pulse racing.
“Sure you do,” Cecily insisted. “It was all over the papers a couple of years ago.”
Fey again silently cursed Devon Wyatt for blasting her psychiatric tapes throughout the media during the JoJo Cullen case. He would never be a white hat in her book, no matter how much help he gave them on this case.
“My father sexually molested me,” Fey said. “I don't call that love.”
“Don't you?” Cecily's expression was of a child trying to be coy. “That was always Bianca's problem. She said she didn't want daddy touching her. But I did. I liked it. Daddy loved me. Bianca became jealous when Daddy stopped touching her and would only touch me. I was special, you see? Bianca hated me being special.”
“Cecily, why are you telling me this?”
“Because he told me I would always be his special girl, and now he's left me and I'm not special anymore.”
Fey shook her head. Cecily was regressing. This wasn't the catty bitch she'd dealt with earlier in the investigation.
“Are you going to read me my rights?” Cecily asked.
Here we go, Fey thought. This is where she clams up.
“Don't worry, I'll waive them,” Cecily said, surprising Fey.
“All right,” Fey said. “You have the right to remain silent,” she began reciting from memory. “If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you without charge before questioning. Do you understand these rights I've explained to you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you want to give up your right to remain silent?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to give up your right to an attorney?”
“I am an attorney.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
The two women looked at each other. “What do you want to know?” Cecily asked.
It was like discovering a genie in a bottle and being given a free wish. “I want to know about the photos with Ricky Preston and your father in them.”
Cecily's expression clouded over and Fey thought she'd lost her.
“That was typical Bianca. She was jealous of her own children. She couldn't stand to think her father loved his grandchildren and me more than he loved her.”
This is coming out of left field, Fey thought. Talk about a rubber room candidate. “How did you find out about the photos?” she asked.
“Bianca showed them to me.” Cecily was playing with her hair, winding it around a finger. “She thought she was so smart. There had been a break-in at Daddy's house. A few little things were taken, jewelry and petty cash. We thought it was kids, but it was Bianca.”
“Bianca broke into her father's house?”
Cecily laughed. “Not a chance. She had her pet puppy, Jack Kavanaugh, do it. He broke in and planted some special camera before taking the stuff to make it look like a burglary. The camera was very high-tech. Bianca paid for it, of course.”
“Of course,” Fey said, keeping the conversation going. She thought about Kavanaugh. He was a dichotomy — deteriorating mentally in some areas, yet able to hold it together through obsession in others. Trying desperately to right the past, while making a mess of the future.
“I was so angry when Bianca showed me those photos.”
“With your father?”
“No. I was his special girl. I was angry with Bianca, and that man, Kavanaugh. They both came to see me. Bianca thought if she showed me the pictures I would help her get Daddy in trouble. I didn't let them know I was angry. I had to help Daddy. I told them I'd help. They didn't understand Daddy and the others only wanted to love Sarah and Mark Junior.”
Fey felt close to fainting. She couldn't get enough breath. “Who else was in the pictures?” she asked.
“You don't know?”
“I've just seen the cropped set you gave to Preston.”
“Daddy was in the pictures.”
“I know. Who else?”
“Tony and Ricky.”
Fey was confused for a second and then connected Tony to Anthony — the police commission president. “Tony Barrington?”
“Yes. I went to Tony after Bianca left. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to upset Daddy. Tony called Ricky Preston. Ricky told me if I'd pay him, he'd take care of Kavanaugh and get the original photos from Bianca.”
“You turned a sadistic killer loose on your own sister?” Fey was losing it.
“No,” Cecily insisted. “What happened to Bianca was her own fault. Ricky said he was only following Kavanaugh at the race course. He only wanted to talk to him, make sure there were no other copies. Kavanaugh ran out onto the track all by himself.”
Fey realized Kavanaugh had known what Ricky Preston looked like. He must have spotted him following him at the track and spooked himself into taking the action that cost him his life.
“What about Bianca? Did she shoot staples into her own breasts and thighs?” She desperately wanted to say something to shock Cecily back into the normal world.
“All she had to do was tell Ricky where the original photos were. Everything would have been fine, if she had cooperated.”
Delusion City, Fey thought. There was no normal world for Cecily any longer. Maybe there hadn't been for a long while. Long-term sexual molestation changed the rules of normality.
“If you're Daddy's special girl, why are you telling me all this?” Fey asked.
“Because Daddy left me,” Cecily said. She was still playing with her hair. “He told me if I always did what he said, he would never leave me.”
Fey couldn't take anymore. She stood up. Calmly she said, “You're going to jail for a long, long time, Cecily.”
“Why?” Cecily said with a frown. “I only did what Daddy told me.”
FIFTY ONE
“There's a guy at the desk to see you, Fey,” Frank Hale told her as she breezed in through the rear entrance to the RHD offices. The large room was experiencing an afternoon lull of activity. There were three other detectives and Hale in the squad bay. Two were on the phone, while the third was about to nod off from too many carbohydrates at lunch.
“He'll have to take a number,” Fey said, referring to her visitor. “I've got several more pressing issues at the moment.” She had turned Cecily over to Monk. He'd arrange to have her booked. Reports would have to wait. “Have you seen Whip?” she asked Hale.
“Back in his office,” he said, gesturing with a thumb. “But I think you should talk to the guy out front first. He appears very anxious, like he's about to go postal or something if he doesn't get to see you.”
“Who is he?” Fey asked, moving past Hale and forcing him t
o walk with her toward Whitman's office.
“Said his name was Bomber Harris.” Hale read the name off a note he'd been writing to leave for Fey.
She stopped in her tracks. “Bomber?”
“Yeah.”
“Whoohoo!” Fey said. “My lotto numbers just hit.” She reversed direction.
“Fey,” Hale called after her.
There was something in his voice that made her stop to take notice. “Yeah?”
“We're not all like Rappaport,” he said. “Most of us at RHD are top detectives. We wouldn't be here if we weren't. You don't have to prove yourself to us, and neither does your team. Don't force us to prove ourselves to you.”
Fey tightened her lips, but inclined her head in acknowledgement of the olive branch. “Are the rest of these testosterone cowboys on your side?” She encompassed the room with a wave of her hand.
Hale chuckled. “Except for a couple like Rappaport, but we hate them as much as you do. Anyway, you don't appear to have any problem handling his kind.”
“It gets boring.”
“You're breaking my heart.”
“Fey flipped her fingers. “One big happy family from here on.”
“I'll believe it when I see it,” Hale said, but Fey was already moving away.
In the reception area, she could see Bomber Harris vibrating in one corner. He was standing with one foot on top of the other as if trying to keep his anxiety contained.
“You're here,” he almost shouted when he saw Fey. He thrust out a half-moon sports bag, which he'd been holding behind his back. “Take this!”
Fey looked at the bag, but made no move to do as requested. “What's in it?” she asked.
Bomber looked around as if expecting to be attacked. Frank Hale drifted unobtrusively into the reception area, there to back Fey up if there was a problem. Bomber gave him a pointed look before saying, “You know what's inside.”
“Tell me.”
Bomber plunked the bag down on the counter separating the reception area from the squad room. “It's the stuff Kavanaugh put in the Gamewell box.” He backed away, leaving the bag where he'd plopped it.
“What's the matter, Bomber?” Fey asked. “What are you so nervous about.
“I'm not nervous,” Bomber said, making a visible effort to pull himself together. “I'm ashamed.”
“Ashamed?”
“Do you want me to spell it out?”
“Up to you,” Fey said. “But I think you need to get it off your chest.”
Bomber looked at Hale again. Fey followed his glance. “It's okay,” she said. “He's with me.”
Bomber took a step back toward the counter. “I've known Jack Kavanaugh a long time. He often ran a tab, but he always paid up. Lately, he'd been acting odd. I knew he was losing it some days, but this was different. I saw him coming out of the bushes one day when I was putting the trash out. It didn't make sense. Later I went and checked. I saw the Gamewell. We all used them in the old days.” He paused, licking his lips.
“What did you do?” Fey prompted.
Bomber shrugged. “Nothing then. It was Kavanaugh's business. He wasn't hurting me. I figured I'd leave him alone.”
“But when you heard he was dead?”
Bomber twitched his head. “Yeah, well . . .”
“You checked out the Gamewell to see what was inside?”
“Anybody would have.”
“I agree,” Fey said. “But most people would have turned in what they found. Most cops, anyway.”
Bomber didn't say anything.
Fey unzipped the bag. “What happened, Bomber? Did you think you could make a score?” She rummaged around inside the bag and pulled out photos matching the set recovered from under Preston's bed. These had not been censored by Cecily's scissors. They showed Ricky Preston, Mark Junior, and Sarah, along with the complete images of Luther Flynn and Anthony Barrington.
“Bingo,” Hale said softly, looking over Fey's shoulder.
“How could you, Bomber? All those years you were a cop. All the years you've worked with cops.”
“I didn't,” Bomber said. “I thought about it, but I didn't.”
Fey took several other items out of the bag. Several pieces of jewelry, a handful of loose monetary bills. She was willing to bet they were the items taken from Luther Flynn's home when Kavanaugh made the break-in look like a burglary after he installed the surveillance camera.
There were also several notebooks. Fey flipped through them. They were filled with scribbled writing, detailing in rambling prose what Kavanaugh had been trying to accomplish. A written confession if ever there was one. She didn't know if any of it would be admissible in court, but it was sure to fill in a few holes.
“Why did you disappear on me?” Fey asked Bomber.
He looked down at his feet. “I'd never make a good criminal,” he said. “I have too much of a conscience. I couldn't let what was going on in those photos continue. I thought I could, but I can't.”
“It's okay,” Fey said. “You've done the right thing. We'll just say you brought this stuff in as soon as you found it. Nobody has to know any different.”
“I will,” said Bomber.
“We all have to live with our misjudgments,” Fey told him. “Be glad you were able to rectify yours.”
Bomber nodded his head and left without another word.
Hale was still looking at the pictures. “I know a couple of these people,” he said.
“Not socially, I hope,” Fey said.
“Screw you,” Hale replied without heat. “Don't you ever let up?”
“Not while I'm this side of the grass.”
Hale tapped the photographs. “Is this what you wanted to see Whip about?”
“These and a couple of murders I'm trying to clear up. You and your crew want in?”
Hale realized Fey was making her own peace offering.
“In a heartbeat,” he told her. “What do you want us to do?”
FIFTY TWO
Sophia Ungarte looked at the cheap watch pinned to the waist of her worn madras skirt.
9:50.
They should be pulling into the Union Station in five more minutes and then they could get free of the hell-hole the freight car had become.
Fifty children and five adults in the enclosed space, with no toilet facilities and no windows, had turned the freight car into an oven of oppression almost before the train had pulled away from the station where they had been smuggled on board.
Now, after the five hour trip, they would be lucky to find nobody suffocated when they were finally let out.
She looked at the children around her. Most were between the ages of five and eight. There were a few older and a few younger, but they all shared in common the haunted look of small, wild animals. It was a look that came from not knowing where your next meal was coming from, or if the shadow you just saw was a predator waiting to strike.
Life had to be better in Los Angeles. It couldn't be any worse than in the rotting jungles of Nicaragua, or El Salvador, or Guatemala, or any of the other countries where the orphans had been gathered.
The lives they left behind were scarred by death squads who murdered parents before the terrorized eyes of their children, and were filled with the despair of pestilence, famine, brutality, and depravity. Sophia figured any life would be better than the ones these children were leaving. She had no idea what a monster by the name of Luther Flynn had in mind.
Sophia felt the sudden change in the speed of the train and realized they must be slowing down for the scheduled stop at Union Station.
She checked her watch again.
9:55.
FIFTY THREE
The doors to the church of the Black Madonna were locked tight. No passing sinner with a yen to repent was going to find the sanctuary for which the small church was so well known.
“What do you think?” Fey asked Monk.
They were standing on the opposite side of the street a block away.
They could see Hammer walking back down the church steps after his abortive attempt to open the front doors.
Lurking behind them, Winchell Groom gently cleared his throat. He was tall and rapier thin. With a long index finger, he adjusted the round wire rim glasses he wore to fill out the sharp features of his face. In the past, he had kept his skull shaved, but recently he had allowed a thin covering of kinky black hair to grow out. Fey thought it looked weird, and wished she knew him well enough to tell him.
In the darkness, Monk cupped his fingers around his watch and illuminated the face. 10:00 PM. “I'd say they should all be waiting at Union Station by now.”
Fey brought a rover up to her lips and pressed the transmit button. “Raven One to Raven Four. You have anything on your end?” The RHD units had secured a private frequency for the operation.
Frank Hale's voice came softly back over the handheld radio. “Raven Four. A large van pulled into the parking lot. MacAlister is driving. I don't see Flynn, but there is a guy with a dog collar in the passenger seat. It must be Romero.”
“Has the train arrived?”
“Negative. It's running ten minutes late.”
“Have you seen Flynn?”
“Wait for it —” There was a pause. “He's getting out of the side door of the van now. He’s nervous as hell. His head is bobbing like a bird looking for predators.”
“Hold steady,” Fey told Hale. “You have all three players. We're going to enter the church. Let us know when they head for the catacombs.”
The rover in Fey's hand beeped in acknowledgement. Hale's crew was staked around Union Station as point guards. This was Fey's crew's operation. The bust belonged to them, but they were happy for the extra help.
Fey tapped Groom on the arm. “You've reviewed the warrant to get in the church?”
“It's a go,” the district attorney told her.
Fey keyed her rover again. “Raven One to Raven Three.”
Alphabet's voice came back almost immediately. “Raven Three.”
“Is the Department of Children's Services Emergency Team here yet?”