by Paul Bishop
Finally, Mackerbee gave in. “I’ll get you Croaker.”
A wry grin crossed Ash’s mouth. It was there for a second and then gone. “And we’ll bring you the real monster.” “Okay, it’s a deal,” said Mackerbee. He put his hands flat on his desk top. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go catch me a killer.”
Ash stood up and moved away.
“Ash,” Mackerbee said, stopping the agent at the door.
Ash turned to look at him. Mackerbee had a puzzled expression on his face. It was as if he was struggling to grasp a concept beyond his capacity.
“What else do you believe in?” he asked.
Ash shrugged. “An apple a day, a stitch in time, death as an adventure, suicide as an answer, happy endings, Democrats saving the country, all the usual fairy tales.”
“How about love at first sight?” Mackerbee asked. He thought he saw something slide across Ash’s dark eyes like a shark swimming in shadows.
“Only in the movies,” Ash said, not wanting to give Mackerbee any satisfaction.
“Never at murder scenes?” Mackerbee pressed.
“Never.”
Mackerbee shrugged. “If you say so.”
Ash nodded. “And what do you believe, sir?” he asked, feeding Mackerbee the straight line he knew his boss and friend was waiting for.
Mackerbee started reaching for his bottom drawer. “I believe I’ll have another drink.”
Chapter 38
The verbal explosion in Mike Cahill’s office practically rattled the old fashioned Venetian blinds that covered the windows. Two seconds later, Cahill was at his open office door bellowing into the squad room.
“Croaker! Get in here!”
Cahill turned and strode back into his office without waiting to see if Fey was coming.
“Whoa,” said Hammersmith, pausing while filling out an arrest packet for a spousal abuse suspect. “He sounds pissed. What have you done, boss?”
Fey had been in the middle of shuffling her own paperwork when Cahill had yelled at her. The bellow had startled her so much, she’d shot out of her chair like a fifth grader caught cheating on a pop quiz.
“I think he just got news that I’m going to be loaned to the FBI for a while. I don’t think he’s too happy about it.”
Rhonda Lawless was in her accustomed position, across from Hammersmith, working her way through a stack of MAC reports. Like every other detective in the squad room, she had turned her head to look at Fey. Rhonda’s brain was racing to analyze the situation. “You cook something up with that Ash character?”
“Maybe,” Fey said. “But I think I might have cooked my goose instead.”
“Does this have something to do with JoJo Cullen?” Hammersmith asked, already knowing the answer.
“Maybe,” Fey said again, adding, “I better get in there.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hammersmith. “I take it this is something you really want to do?”
Fey sighed. “Yeah. This whole thing doesn’t sit well with me. We wrapped everything up in such a pretty package that nobody seems willing to untie the ribbon and find out if the truth is actually inside.”
Hammer and Nails exchanged glances. Fey found their habit of non-verbal communication disconcerting. They appeared to function on a different plane than everyone else.
“Do you think Cahill is going to nix your party?” Hammersmith asked.
“It sure sounds like it,” Fey said.
“Then you better let us talk to him first.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means that we’re with you on this thing,” Rhonda said as she stood up. “We can smooth the way for you to hang out with Ash, but if what you’re doing pans out we want in on the kill.”
“Are you guys sure you know what you’re doing?” Fey wasn’t sure herself. She wasn’t used to putting her faith in others.
“Trust us,” Hammersmith said, his smile was sardonic. He twirled an imaginary mustache. “We didn’t earn the nicknames Hammer and Nails for being soft. Give us a couple of minutes with Cahill and I think we can cool him down.”
Hammersmith stood up and walked with Rhonda to Cahill’s office. They entered without knocking, and Rhonda closed the door behind them.
“Where’s Croaker?” Cahill barked as he glared up at the pair from behind his desk. “I don’t have time for you two right now.”
“Oh, I think you do,” Hammersmith said. He planted himself on the top of a credenza that ran along one wall. He put the sole of one cowboy boot on the edge of Cahill’s desk. Cahill looked pointedly at the boot, but didn’t say anything.
Rhonda sat in the visitor’s chair closest to Cahill’s desk and crossed her long legs. Cahill spared her a three second appraisal to see if she was purposely Sharon Stoneing him, and decided that if it ever came down to it, she was probably the more deadly of the duo.
“Well?” Cahill said. He had a high voice to begin with, but under stress he sounded like a ferret on helium.
Hammersmith took the lead. “By any chance did your little temper tantrum just now have anything to do with Fey and the FBI?”
“That’s none of your business.” Cahill was feeling mightily pissed off, and he wasn’t going to be shoved around by a couple of subordinates. “I’m not sure who you two think you are, but you’re getting awful close to stepping over your boundaries. You may think you’re Batman and Robin, but don’t push your luck.”
“I forget,” Rhonda said to Hammersmith, ignoring Cahill completely, “which one of us is Batman?”
“You are,” replied Hammersmith. “I don’t have the legs for the part.”
Rhonda brought her attention back to Cahill. “Whatever Fey has arranged with the FBI, we think you should go along with it.”
“Where do you get off?” Cahill couldn’t believe his ears. “Just because you come here from Internal Affairs and can pull enough strings to stay together as partners doesn’t mean you run my detective division.”
“Actually, we’re not string pullers,” Hammersmith said.
Cahill’s head swiveled back to the lanky cowboy.
“We’re blackmailers,” Rhonda said.
Cahill’s head swung back to her. He felt as if he were a spectator in a tennis match. He realized the two detectives were keeping him off balance on purpose, but he couldn’t do much about it.
“Blackmailers?” Cahill asked when neither of the detectives said anything further.
“Yeah,” said Rhonda in a slightly breathy voice. She had a sexual edge working and was enjoying this almost a little too much. “Such an old fashioned word, isn’t it.”
“I don’t understand,” said Cahill. “Are you threatening to blackmail me?” He snorted. “I haven’t done anything to be blackmailed for.”
Both Hammer and Nails looked at the lieutenant silently.
“This is ridiculous,” Cahill said after a bit.
“Then how come you’re not telling us to get out of your office anymore?” Hammersmith asked.
“Okay,” said Cahill. “Get out of my office.” Sweat had popped out on his forehead, and it was clear he was trying to bluster his way through the situation.
“Nice bluff, Lieutenant, but come on. Do we have to spell it out for you?” Hammersmith asked.
“Spell what out?”
“S-E-C,” Rhonda spelled softly in a sing-song voice.
“See you kissing her in the parking lot,” said Hammersmith.
“R-E-T-A-R-Y,” Rhonda forced the letters to fit the well know rhyme.
“Why? Because you’re poking her.” Hammersmith leaned forward.
“A-M-B-E-RRRRRRRR ...” the two detectives sang together, finishing their Mickey Mouse Club imitation by naming Cahill’s secretary.
Cahill looked big time uncomfortable. If he’d been an ostrich, he would have stuck his head in the sand. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You’re not even convincing yourself,” Hammersmith told him.
“What would Mrs. Lieutenant say if she found out that instead of being called-out to roll on police calls twice a week, Amber has been hauling your ashes?” Rhonda asked coyly.
“What would Mrs. Lieutenant say,” Hammersmith chipped in, “if she knew your overtime balance was almost down to zero from all that Code-X time you take to coincide with your secretary’s sick days?” Code-X was LAPD jargon for establishing a cover story of official business while actually being out screwing around. If a detective stated they were Code-X and a spouse called for them, whoever took the call would say the detective in question was out on an investigation and couldn’t be reached. Many an ass had been covered over the years by Code-X.
“You guys can’t be serious,” Cahill looked ill. “My wife would never believe you.”
Hammer and Nails laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound.
Hammersmith took his boot down and leaned forward with his palms flat on Cahill’s desk. He brought his face in close to his supervisor’s. “Lieutenant,” he said, his voice low and full of menace. “We’ve got videos. Can’t be letting those Internal Affairs surveillance techniques get rusty, you know.”
Cahill’s coloring had gone from pale white to green. He was sweating bullets. “What do you want?”
Hammersmith leaned back to his original position and smiled. “We’re easy,” he said. “Back off of Fey and let her go and do her thing. We’ll cover for her while she’s gone. We won’t let you down.”
“That’s it?” Cahill asked.
“Hey,” Rhonda said. “We just want to make things run smoothly around here and put villains in jail. You don’t screw with us, and we’ll take good care of you.”
“You two are too much. I curse the day I ever signed your transfer acceptance forms. Not that I had much choice when the pressure came down. How much stuff do you have on other people in this department?”
“Now don’t be that way, Lieutenant,” Rhonda said, trying to placate. “That would be telling. We can all get along here. Stand by us, stand by Fey, and we’ll make you look good.”
“Trust us,” said Hammersmith, his sardonic smile in place.
“Videos?” questioned Rhonda, as the pair made their way back to their desks.
Hammersmith shrugged. “Hey, so I ran a little bluff. Worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, but you almost gave the poor guy a heart attack. I’ll be surprised if he even be able to get it up the next time he’s with Amber. He’ll be paranoid about being filmed.”
Hammersmith laughed. “Amber will be disappointed, that’s for sure.”
“What are you two laughing about?” Fey asked. She’d been regretting her decision ever since agreeing to let Hammer and Nails talk to the lieutenant. What if Cahill had wanted to talk to her about something else?
“It’s cool,” Rhonda said. “Your FBI gig is on. Cahill will tell you himself when you go in.”
“Just go easy with him,” Hammersmith said. “The poor guy has had a bit of a shock.”
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Fey said to them both. “By the way,” she said, pausing on her way to Cahill’s office. “What’s new with Darcy Wyatt?”
Rhonda sat down again at her desk. “The prelim was delayed again last week. His father has hired and fired three different lawyers on the case and they keep getting continuances so they can become familiar with the case. Devon Wyatt is, of course, playing the puppet master where the defense of his son is concerned. I think he’s hoping our best victim will die before we get to court.”
“From the injuries sustained from Darcy?”
“No. The old gal has recovered very well and she’s got all her marbles. But she wasn’t in the best of health to begin with, and it is possible she could pass away at any time.”
“Is Darcy still in custody?”
Hammersmith answered up. “Yeah, and it’s really hacking off Devon Wyatt. The defense has asked for three separate bail hearings, but each time we’ve managed to shoot them down. Between Darcy and JoJo, Devon Wyatt is not having much luck getting his clients out of jail.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Fey said. “Devon Wyatt isn’t concerned about getting either of them out of jail. He probably figures he’s better off with both of them in jail. He knows where they are and they can’t get into any more trouble. Wyatt is like a magician, he’ll use smoke and mirrors to misdirect you and then blindside you when you least expect it.”
“Devon Wyatt,” Hammersmith said, “is living proof that snakes fornicate with cockroaches.”
“How about the other victims?” Fey asked. She still felt proprietarily about the case since she’d obtained Darcy’s confession.
“Not much joy there, I’m afraid,” Hammersmith said. The coffee room was right behind his desk and he’d poured a mug for both himself and Nails. “Most of them are scared out of their wits to testify. Their response to the trauma they suffered hasn’t been as good as with our local victim. The pizza delivery thread and M.O. ties them all together, but beyond that we don’t have much to prove Wyatt was involved in all of them.”
“There’s something else as well,” Rhonda said. “Two of the victims report they thought there was a second suspect at the crime scene.”
“They were raped by two suspect?”
“No. They just felt that there was someone else in the room along with the suspect who raped them. Somebody watching.”
“You think Darcy had a running mate?”
“Hard to say. We’re still checking employees from the pizza chain to see if we can come up with a connection. Nothing yet, however.”
“Okay. Stay on it and let me know what happens.”
“We’ll do that,” Hammer said. “So, when you go off to play footsies with the feds, make sure we have some way to stay in touch.”
“Yeah,” said Rhonda. “And don’t hurt the feds feelings. Let them think they were the ones who arranged for you to get kicked free. We prefer to keep a low profile.”
Fey gave a mock salute and headed for Cahill’s office. Low profile, she thought. Those two are about as low profile as a couple of sharks in a goldfish bowl.
Chapter 39
Ash opened the imposing carved wood front doors of his unusual residence. Fey was leaning against a low railing at the top of a flight of six stone steps.
As soon as she saw Ash, Fey knew she wanted him. It was ridiculous. She was supposed to be here on a professional basis, but her hormones kept getting in the way. Calm down, she told herself. You’re not sixteen, for Heaven’s sake. Sure, he’s lean and attractive, but so are hundreds of other guys in this profession who you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole.
Ash was not unaware of Fey’s reaction. Unwanted emotions of his own had immediately resurfaced, and he didn’t understand them. Fey would not be considered knock-your-eyes-out beautiful, but there was something attractive about her that grabbed him. But there was something more that held him – something underneath the surface beauty. Something intangible, yet very real.
“Pretty impressive string pulling,” Fey said without moving from the railing. “Four hours after talking to you, my boss gets a call telling me I been reassigned to Robbery-Homicide as LAPD’s liaison with the FBI. I call down to RHD and they tell me to meet you here.” She didn’t say anything about Hammer and Nails role in the affair. Ash may be a sexy fed, but he was still a fed. And she’d never met a fed that didn’t like an ego stroke. It was a need that was handed out along with the Cracker Jack prizes the fed called badges.
Ash smiled. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Your boss, and both Keegan and Hale down at RHD, are ranting and raving like a nun in a whorehouse.”
Fey agreed. “I think they want to tear your head off and spit in the hole. My boss certainly didn’t want to let me go, and Keegan and Hale don’t want the FBI anywhere near this case.” She trailed off with a laugh and Ash felt his heart lurch.
This is silly, he thought, trying to shake himself emotionally. He stood in
the open door looking at her without saying anything.
“Can I come in?” Fey asked eventually. She pushed off the railing to a standing position. “Or are we on the way out?”
“No. No. Come in,” Ash said, stepping back out of the way and holding the door open for her. He felt like he’d just hit puberty and needed to check in the mirror for new pimples.
Fey moved inside. Under a pinch-waist black jacket decorated with black brocade piping, she was wearing a burgundy jumpsuit. A wide black belt cinched it tight to her waist. Around the belt were distributed a 9 mm in a black holster, a black ammo pouch, a black plastic beeper, and a pair of handcuffs. Her shoes were fashionable, but modest black heels – high enough to give a hint of sexual understatement, but low enough to be practical in a police situation. It was a more fashion conscious look than what Ash had seen her wearing before, and he allowed himself the thought that she may have worn it for his benefit.
Fey looked around with interest. “An interesting choice of homes for a cop. I’ve never known anyone who actually lived in a church before.”
“A converted church,” Ash emphasized.
“Okay. If you say so.” Fey did a slow three-sixty turn taking in the chapel around her. There were no pews or alter, just a huge open room with a two story ceiling decorated in warm colors and fabrics. “I understand that not many people get invited to visit you here. I’m honored.”
Ash didn’t know what to say to that, so as usual, he kept his mouth shut.
Fey turned to look at him and gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic,” she said, misinterpreting his silence. “I truly am honored.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Sexual tension was catching them both in its undertow, but before it could be acknowledged, a spitting explosion of fury attacked Fey’s feet.
The large sphere of frenzied black fur somewhat resembled a cat. It had no ears, one eye, a stub of a tail, and a long strip of fur down one side that had grown back over a long scar in the opposite direction to the rest of the fur.
