Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

  Fey spread her hand out on the table in front of her. “There’s also the biological evidence. If we can match JoJo’s DNA to the semen recovered from the victims.”

  “Exactly,” Groom interjected. His original doubts had begun to wash away, replaced by visions of glory and credit for getting a major conviction from the case. His ambition had taken over from his gratitude to Fey for bringing him in on the case. Now, if she wasn’t going to back him in the case, then maybe the sooner Robbery-Homicide became involved the better.

  Fey and Ash made eye contact. Groom didn’t notice. Fey intuitively knew she was reading Ash’s wave length. The FBI agent was bothered by the situation, and Fey was trusting that instinct.

  A case like this should grip you in the thrall of its unfolding excitement. In a cop’s career there were thousands of cases that required nothing more than going through the motions. Depending on the cop there was a fair share of cases that made a splash and caused a few ripples. If a cop wasn’t careful, there were also a few investigations where personal involvement could tear you apart. And then there were the big cases – maybe one, maybe two, rarely three – that became career landmarks.

  Arresting and convicting JoJo ‘Jammer’ Cullen as a serial killer was going to be a landmark, career-making case. The evidence was all there. The pieces of the puzzle, with a smattering of luck and a dollop of good police work, had all fallen into place. JoJo ‘Jammer’ Cullen was as guilty as the day is long.

  But.

  The big but.

  It hung in the air between Ash and Fey like a hawk riding an updraft, circling and circling, but not coming to roost. There was nothing to do or say. They had to go with what the evidence indicated, until they could put a finger on what was touching off all of their experienced warning systems.

  Suddenly, Fey wanted to be done with the whole investigation. Since the discovery of Ricky Long’s body, she’d been running from the specter of RHD taking over the case. Now she wanted nothing more than to dump the entire situation in their lap.

  Ash’s presence had twiddled her emotional and physical knobs. Fey’s earthy nature was responding to the man, and she’d been around enough to know that Ash wasn’t immune to the same reactions. Pheromones and receptors were working overtime in the age old ritual that draws male to female and female to male. Fey could acknowledge to herself what was happening, but she was also aware of something else beyond lust.

  It was a connection on a professional level. They were in sync. The experience gave Fey a flash of insight into the essence of Hammer and Nails’ relationship.

  The thoughts racing through Fey’s mind came back full circle to JoJo. He was as guilty as sin. But ... And at that immediate moment, Fey and Ash were the only two intimately involved in the case who were going to believe in the but.

  A deputy stuck his head through the interview room doorway. “Excuse me ... Detective Croaker?” He looked askance at all three of the room’s occupants.

  “Yes,” Fey spoke up.

  “Cullen’s lawyer is here and wants to talk to you.”

  “Who called Cullen a lawyer?” Fey asked sharply.

  The deputy shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Beats me. Nobody here did as far as I know.”

  A man stepped around the deputy and into the interview room.

  “Wait a minute,” the deputy said. He put a hand out to stop the man.

  Devon Wyatt looked down at the hand on the sleeve of his handmade suit and almost snarled. The deputy stepped forward to meet the challenge.

  “Leave it,” Fey said, as if calling off an attack dog.

  “Go chew a bone somewhere,” Wyatt said.

  The deputy was caught with his macho hanging out.

  “I said, leave it,” Fey repeated.

  Reluctantly, the deputy released Wyatt’s sleeve and stepped back.

  “It’s okay,” Fey said.

  Giving Wyatt a glare, the deputy turned and walked away. As he exited, two other men filled the doorway. Fey didn’t recognize them.

  “You don’t appear surprised to see me,” Wyatt said to Fey.

  “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” Fey said.

  Wyatt almost smiled. “No. You wouldn’t,” he said. Without further prologue, he pushed his point. “I want access to my client.” His tone was neutral, not challenging.

  “I always thought you were a good lawyer,” Fey said. She felt claustrophobic with too many people in the small room.

  “I am a good lawyer.”

  “Then why are you trying to demand things you know you can’t have right now?”

  “Are you denying me access?”

  Fey changed the subject. “Who are these gentlemen?” She pushed her chin out in the direction of the doorway.

  Wyatt turned for the introductions. “This is Martin DeVries. He owns the San Diego Sails.”

  DeVries stepped forward and extended his hand toward Fey. She shook it and in turn introduced Ash and Groom. DeVries was in his late sixties, portly in the way of successful men who can hire tailors to hide their bulk. His full head of salt and pepper, razor-cut hair gave him a distinguished presence.

  “Ozzie Balzac,” said the other man, sliding past DeVries to shake hands with Fey. “I’m the Sails’ head coach.” He was tall with high cheekbones, a crooked nose, and massive hands.

  Fey figured Wyatt must have picked up the early morning news broadcast about JoJo’s arrest. He’d obviously been busy since then. She wondered if Wyatt had a tame helicopter pilot on call to shuttle in his clients, or if he’s had to hustle to dig one up.

  “You’re the ambulance chaser to beat all ambulance chasers,” Fey served the ball to Wyatt. There was a hint of admiration in her voice.

  “You want to match testosterone levels?” Wyatt asked, returning easily.

  “How’s your son?” Fey asked, casually. Spike and point.

  “Now, Detective Croaker –” DeVries started, his voice sonorous. Fey gave him her attention.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” she interrupted.

  Standing, she picked up her purse and moved through into the hallway, continuing to talk. The small room had been getting to her. “You’re going to tell me that there must be some mistake. That JoJo Cullen couldn’t possibly have killed anyone. That you will bring all of your considerable influence and resources to bear on this case to free JoJo.”

  DeVries wasn’t used to having underlings mock him. His expression clearly displayed his distaste.

  Fey continued. “Though I’m loath to admit it, Mr. DeVries, you’ve hired yourself a top lawyer. If anyone can embarrass the police department, Mr. Wyatt can. But nobody is going to get in to see JoJo until the doctor gives the okay.”

  Balzac stepped forward. “What’s happened to him? Is he injured?” It was clear to see where his priorities lie.

  DeVries put a hand out and pushed Balzac back. “I want to speak to your superior.”

  “I have no superiors,” Fey said. Playing semantics had always been a favorite pastime for her. “But if you want to talk to my supervisor, all you need to do is turn around.” Fey pointed down the hallway and everyone turned to look.

  Mike Cahill, accompanied by Captain Strachman were walking toward the group looking like thunder. Behind them were two other men. Fey recognized them.

  Derek Keegan and Andy Hale. Robbery-Homicide had sent out their big guns.

  The balloon was about to go up.

  Chapter 33

  “I feel like I’ve been shot at and missed, and crapped at and hit,” Fey said. She was back at West LA station with her feet up on the corner of her desk, and the rest of her slumped back in her chair. A mug of over-brewed coffee sat close at hand on her blotter.

  Her sentiment was shared by the rest of her crew. Having the Cullen investigation taken over by Robbery/Homicide was a major letdown. Even though they knew it would happen eventually, the feeling was akin to being a quarterback in the super bowl, only to find yourself replaced befor
e calling the first play.

  The desultory talk amongst the unit was about how relieved they were that they weren’t going to get caught in the middle of the brouhaha the Cullen case would create; how they could now get on with their other cases; how nice it was going to be to go home on time for a change; how glad they were that Robbery/Homicide was stuck dealing with the press and the pressure that this case would generate. But it was all a crock. Deep down, everyone in Fey’s unit yearned to be a part of the investigation. Each believed, in their heart of hearts, that they could do a better job than the prima donnas from Robbery/Homicide.

  It was arrogance and detective ego speaking, but no homicide dick worth anything was lacking for either arrogance or ego. Those traits, as much as any other skills, set them apart from other mainstream detectives and contributed to the unique mind set of the death romancers.

  Ego made a homicide detective stay with a case until it was solved. Arrogance helped homicide dicks deal with facing the daily specter of their own mortality. The combination of the two created a greater whole than the sum of the parts. Non-homicide detectives often figured the combination created an ass ‘whole.’

  Working homicide was the most demanding of all investigative assignments. Detectives who had never worked homicide were looked on by dicks who had as merely being ‘play detectives’. Popular sentiment among homicide detectives ran that if you weren’t working homicide then you weren’t worth crap.

  Homicide was king of the hill, the ultimate assignment. You could take the worst that the human condition threw at you, the more depraved the better, and beat it down. If you didn’t develop the twin shields of arrogance and ego, however, then working homicide would eat you up and spit you out in broken, whining, thumb sucking little pieces.

  There were two commandments when you worked homicide: Never lose your cookies; and never, never let anyone see you cry.

  To work homicide successfully, you had to learn to commit murder – because, over and over again, you had to kill the part of yourself that feels pity and empathy. If you worked homicide long enough, your emotions became diamond hard, and you lived as if you were already in your own grave. You drank to remember life. You drank to forget death. And you drank because it beat all hell out of trying to deal with the horror of either one.

  As other detectives begrudge the attitude of the area homicide detectives, the area homicide detectives begrudged the attitude of the Robbery/Homicide dicks. Robbery/Homicide Division was the most exclusive club in the world, a tough, tight-knit fraternity that acknowledged nobody outside of their own sphere. Divorce, chauvinism, and alcoholism were rampant. A team of dicks from RHD could take pride in drinking a bar dry, then being called out to solve a who-dun-it murder, and have it wrapped up with a suspect in the can before the sun was over the yardarm again.

  The majority of murders are sordid, miserable, sickening affairs involving petty and pathetic lives. These were the cases that RHD would turn their nose up at working. It was a mindset that claimed these types of cases were beneath them. But the Cullen case was different. This was a limelight case – something big enough to get fat RHD asses off of bar stools and out to fight crime.

  But RHD hadn’t solved the Cullen case. Fey’s unit had laid the groundwork, and luck and good coppering by a West LA uniform had broken the investigation wide open. But now RHD was stepping in to claim all the kudos on the way back to their bar stools.

  The situation left a bad taste in the mouth of Fey’s unit. There was still a lot of investigating to be done on this case, investigation that they felt they were entitled to carry out. But they had been usurped, left standing at the altar, screwed without being kissed. It was the stuff of which grudges were made.

  The squad room was a hive of activity as other detectives buzzed about their duties, but none of the activity touched the repressed mood of the Homicide/MAC Unit. Alphabet had his rump perched on Brindle’s desk, with Brindle herself in a chair near him. Sitting opposite them, Monk’s posture imitated Fey’s, while Hammersmith and Rhonda Lawless had pulled their chairs close to Fey’s desk. It was as if the unit had spun in on itself, circled the wagons, and was preparing to repel boarders.

  Hammer and Nails had returned from San Diego half an hour earlier to discover the change of command.

  “I knew it,” Hammersmith had said. He set a brown envelope down on a desk before stretching and yawning.

  “Can we do something about it?” Rhonda asked. Fey was struck by the fact that the question was directed specifically at Hammersmith and not at the unit in general. It was as if Hammer and Nails may have had something in their bag of tricks to reverse the order of things.

  Hammersmith shrugged. “I think that’s a bit of a stretch, even for us.”

  Fey decided to put in her two cents worth. “It’s a done deal. A moot point. We couldn’t get the case back if we wanted it. And even though we’re all sitting around here as if we’ve had our teddy bears stolen, I’m not sure we would want it back.” The declaration brought some thoughtful nods from the assembled detectives. They had almost convinced themselves she was right.

  “How did the San Diego search go?” Fey asked.

  “It was an experience,” Nails said. “The guy lives in an orphanage.”

  Fey looked taken aback. “An orphanage? What are you talking about?”

  “Apparently, if any of us knew anything about basketball, we would have known the JoJo Cullen story,” Hammersmith said. “He grew up in an orphanage in San Diego. The pride and joy of the nuns and priests. A sweet child with the physical skills of a god.”

  “They never found a family to adopt him?” Monk asked.

  Hammersmith bounced his eyebrows. “He went into foster homes a couple of times, but they didn’t work out for one reason or another. That was until he was fourteen, when a high school coach saw him playing basketball in the local park with a bunch of high school team members. JoJo was blowing them off the court. The coach and his wife had two sons of their own, but the guy convinced his wife to adopt JoJo. From that point on, JoJo’s basketball career took off. When he became rich and famous, he donated big bucks to the orphanage, had a dormitory converted for his own use, and moved back in.”

  “Weird,” Fey said. “What about the coach and his adopted family?”

  Hammersmith shrugged. “Don’t know. I didn’t think we were writing a biography. I’m sure, though, that we’ll all be able to read about it real soon once the press starts digging for sound bites.”

  “You’re right about that,” Fey agreed. “Anyway, did you turn up anything from the search?” Pointedly, she looked at the box Hammersmith had brought in with him.

  Nails had slid on a pair of latex gloves. She picked up the envelope and opened it before carefully sliding the contents out onto the desk. “JoJo appeared to live like a monk at the orphanage –”

  “A sloppy monk perhaps,” Hammersmith interjected.

  “– so there wasn’t really anything of interest,” Nails continued, ignoring her partner. “Nothing, anyway that appeared to connect JoJo to any of the murders. Then we found these.” With long, latex-enclosed, fingers she spread a series of Polaroid photos and a cassette tape across the desk top.

  Everyone gathered around to examine the booty.

  “Oh, sweet Mary,” Brindle Jones said with her first glance.

  Her impression was justified. There were four Polaroids – two each of Ricky Long and the boy known as Rush. In all the photos the boys were naked and bound and gagged elaborately.

  “Where did you find these?” Fey asked.

  “In JoJo’s bedroom between the mattress and the box spring.”

  “That’s original,” Fey said.

  “Well, the guy is obviously no rocket scientist,” Hammersmith said.

  “Yeah, but how smart does a killer need to be?” Brindle asked.

  “Fortunately, or unfortunately, that’s not going to be a question we have to answer this time around,” Fey said. She shuf
fled the photos together with a pencil and pushed them toward Rhonda. “Call Keegan and Hale down at RHD,” she said. “This case is their baby now, let them change its dirty diapers.”

  Monk pointed to the cassette. “What’s on the tape?”

  Hammersmith produced a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Rhonda who used her gloved hands to place the tape inside. She pressed the play button.

  The squad room filled with a pathetic wail.

  “Come on, man. Let me go. Please. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll do you like you’ve never been done before.” The young male voice was filled with fear as it gasped for breath. “I can’t breathe. This rope is choking me. Please, don’t let me die.”

  Hammersmith hit the stop button. The silence that followed was deadly still. Nobody wanted to move.

  “A voice from the grave,” Hammersmith said grimly.

  Chapter 34

  Ash was also feeling let down over the case. He had no illusions about Robbery-Homicide. They would freeze him out completely. The cooperation between the bureau and the LAPD was tenuous at best. With a high profile suspect successfully in custody, LAPD was not going to let the FBI anywhere near the case. Credit was not going to be shared.

  But that wasn’t the only reason Ash was unsettled. The case stuck in his craw. It didn’t wash. He still wasn’t sure what it was about the setup that he didn’t like, but there were elements that didn’t ring true for him.

  Maybe he was losing his touch, he thought. Maybe his reactions to the Croaker woman were clouding his judgment. After everything he had been through in the past year, how could he possibly allow himself to be attracted to a woman – a woman who, with any luck, was going to be around a year or so from now.

  He was bothered because his attraction to Fey hadn’t been of the one-night stand variety. He’d never followed that path anyway. Even with Holly, the commitment had been his even if it wasn’t hers. Sure he was attracted to Fey sexually, but Ash was well aware that for him to be interested in a woman physically, there also had to be an emotional connection. Fey had beguiled him from the start, and he sensed that he was having the same effect on her.