Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

“How about your lawyer?”

  “No. There’s no way either of them would have agreed to let me talk to you.”

  “But you still called us?” Rhonda asked. It was important to get the legalities straight.

  “Yeah. I called you.” Darcy knew how the game was played.

  “Why?” Hammer took over the interrogation. He and Rhonda were one of the few teams of detectives that could split the responsibilities of an interrogation.

  The days of the good cop/bad cop routines had gone the way of bright lights and rubber hoses. The good cop/bad cop technique of intimidation had been so successful that liberal defense lawyers had found a way to make it against the law.

  Current standard procedure was to let only one detective do the talking. The single lead detective technique ensured that only one line of questioning was pursued – two detectives asking questions often tore an interrogation into separate tangents, often destroying the fragile bond established between interviewee and interviewer.

  Hammer and Nails didn’t have that problem. They were so in tune that each knew instinctively where the other was going during questioning. They preferred to respond to the interrogation as it progressed, controlling it by trading off the questioning and keeping a suspect off balance.

  “I want to trade,” Darcy said, plunging into the deep end.

  “Trade?” Hammer asked. Rhonda was sitting next to him, and he suddenly felt her toes making their way under his pants leg. He twisted his head to look at her, but she was ignoring him. She was sitting up close to the table, her hands beneath it.

  “Yeah. You know,” Darcy said, not picking up on the seduction that what was happening on the other side of the table. “I give you something, and you give me something in return.”

  “What could you possibly give us that we’d be interested in?” Rhonda asked. She knew it was her turn to do the talking. Hammer was slightly flustered. Her hand was in his lap.

  “What I can give you is big. Bigger than big. So big it will make you famous.”

  “What if we don’t want to be famous?”

  “Come on,” Darcy said. “Everyone wants to be famous.”

  “And just what do you expect to get in return?” Hammer asked. He was back in control of himself, but Rhonda was doing her best to distract him again. Underneath the table, he could feel her trying to pull his zipper down.

  “I want out of here. I want the charges against me dropped in return for me turning state’s evidence.”

  Hammer laughed. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Rhonda. He would have stood up to leave, but she had her hand inside his pants, her fingers wrapped around his quickly hardening member.

  “You must either think we’re crazy, or you really do have something to trade,” Rhonda said to Darcy. Her visible demeanor gave nothing away concerning her under the table manipulations.

  “I do! I do!” said Darcy. He’d always had trouble with women, but this one seemed to understand him. Funny enough, so did the first female cop who’d talk to him when he’d been arrested. Croaker. That was her name. She seemed to understand him also. Maybe it was something to do with being a female cop. Maybe it gave you an understanding of outsiders. “Just get me outta here.”

  Hammer leaned across the table. The tips of his ears turning red. “You’re lying,” he said. “You claim you’ve got some hot scoop, and we’re just supposed to roll over and release you on eighteen counts of rape, ADW, and attempted murder – release you so you can go out and do it all over again? I don’t think so.”

  Darcy looked in askance at Rhonda. “I’m not lying here.”

  “You must be,” Hammer said. “You’re lips are moving.” He suddenly backed off as he felt Rhonda squeeze him tightly under the table. He relaxed slightly and pushed back in his chair. Rhonda’s hand loosened its grip slightly and went back to a more stimulating movement.

  “The man is right,” Rhonda told Darcy. “It doesn’t matter how big your information is, there’s no way you’re walking on the charges.”

  “Not even if it has to do with JoJo Jammer?”

  Both Hammer and Nails were silent for a few seconds after that bomb dropped.

  “What are you saying?” Hammer asked eventually.

  “I’m saying that you got the wrong guy, and I know who the right guy is.”

  “You’re pulling my chain, is that it?”

  “No way, man,” Darcy said. He was feeling a little more sure of himself. “I’m not crazy either. I wouldn’t try to make a trade like this without being able to deliver the goods.”

  Rhonda’s hand had slipped back out of Hammer’s pants. The situation had become far more serious than they had imagined. Hammer squirmed in his chair, putting himself back together again.

  “Saying yes or no won’t be up to us,” Hammer said. As independent as the pair liked to think they were, everybody had their limits.

  “I’m only dealing with you. Nobody else.”

  “That’s cutting your options down.”

  “I’ll take that chance. I’ve seen how you two have taken on my father. You ain’t scared of nothing. If anybody can make this fly, it’s you.”

  “I’m not so sure we want to make it fly,” Hammer said. “You’re one bad dude. It doesn’t make sense to let one major butt-wipe go just to catch another one. If you were a small fish giving up a big fish it might be different.” Hammer shrugged.

  “You’ve got me,” Darcy said. “I don’t expect to walk away clean. I can do time, but it’s got to be country club time. I’ll do whatever therapy you want. When I get out, I’ll have to register. You’ll know where I am. I can be monitored. I can be stopped from doing it again.”

  Hammer snorted his derision.

  Darcy shook his head. “It’s better than what you’ve got.”

  “And what’s that?” Rhonda asked.

  Darcy leaned forward. “Those kids in the graves ... There’s gonna be more. The guy got JoJo just like he wanted, but he won’t be able to stop forever. When that feeling comes over him maybe he can fight it, subdue it, but he can’t stop it. I know how that works. He has the taste. He’ll kill again. And again.”

  Rhonda felt her heart pounding. “You’ve got to give us something more,” she said.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Get me away from Bubba Jack Henderson.”

  “Who?”

  “My current cellmate. Either get me away from him, or get him away from me. I want to be safe in here. If you leave me in a cell with him, I won’t be around to give you the information you want.”

  “All right,” Hammer said. “We’ll go that far. No other promises.”

  Darcy’s relief was so great he felt lightheaded.

  “What are you giving us in return?” Rhonda pressed.

  Darcy thought for the best clue he could give them with the minimum of information. He didn’t want to lose his edge.

  “There’s a blue van involved,” he said.

  “There’s a lot of blue vans out there,” Hammer said. “Give us more.”

  Darcy sat back with his arms across his chest. This was the moment of truth. “That’s it,” he said. “I can’t afford to give you more?”

  “Get your stuff together, Bubba Jack,” the deputy said from outside the cell. “You’re moving on.”

  Bubba Jack swung his feet off his bunk and hopped to the floor. “You got something for me?” he asked.

  The deputy held up three cartons of Marlboro cigarettes. “Compliments of Detective Hammersmith. He threw in an extra carton.”

  Bubba Jack smiled. “I knew the Hammer was a man of his word.” Using economical movements, learned from long years of incarceration, he began to gather his few belongings. “You tell him that if he ever needs Bubba Jack to do him a favor again all he’s got to do is ask.”

  “Easiest smokes you ever earned – scaring fish like Wyatt.”

  Bubba Jack gave the deputy his patented hard sco
wl. “I give good value. All the Hammer man has to do is get me put in a cell with his target, and he knows I’ll do the rest. Works every time.”

  Almost wilting under Bubba Jack’s stare, the deputy was sure the con was right.

  Bubba Jack’s features suddenly lightened. “You ever see that lady partner of his?” he asked.

  The deputy gave a low wolf whistle in reply.

  “She’s what I call a real woman,” Bubba Jack said. “Capable of kicking your butt or screwing your brains out.”

  “I think we bit off almost more than we can chew,” Hammer said. They were back on the freeway in their plain detective sedan.

  “I certainly know we ended up with more than we bargained for when you reached out and touched Bubba Jack.” Rhonda felt excitement move inside of her. It was tied to a sexual urge. She delighted in turning Hammer on when there was nothing he could do about it. She loved to watch him fight to stay in control.

  “We both agreed there was something more to this case than meets the eye. All I expected was to put enough pressure on Darcy to get him to tell us about it,” Hammer said. “I never expected to be faced with this kind of proposition.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Rhonda said. “You might get it.”

  “And speaking of touching,” Hammer said.

  Rhonda laughed. She reached out and place her hand in his lap again. “You should have seen your face.”

  “Yeah. Well, what did you expect?”

  Rhonda’s hand began to wander. “A blue van,” she said, thinking. “What can we do with that clue? How could a slimeball like Darcy know anything about the JoJo Cullen case?”

  “Slime attracts slime. If we can figure it out, we won’t even have to consider doing a deal with him.”

  “I’ll do a deal with you,” Rhonda said.

  “What do you propose?”

  She had his zipper down and her favorite playmate exposed. “You drive, and I’ll take care of everything else.” In the dark interior of the car she leaned over and brought her mouth down to meet her hand.

  A short time later, she asked, “Does Mr. Happy like this?”

  “Silly question,” Hammer said, fighting hard to keep his concentration on the road.

  Rhonda continued to stroke him with her hand. She loved the way he felt. “Do you know why men always name their penises?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.” Hammer’s voice was hoarse.

  “It’s because they don’t want a stranger making all their decisions for them.” Laughing again, she took him back into her mouth to finish what she’d started.

  Chapter 45

  The music coming from the warehouse could be heard from a block away. It was after midnight and almost pitch black. All of the street lights in the area had been broken out at one time or another and not replaced. Venice Beach had been undergoing urban redevelopment for years. The Bohemian, eclectic culture that defined the area, however, was not going down without a fight. Yuppie developers may rule the daylight hours with mobile phones and Range Rovers, but the night still belonged to a beat generation born forty years too late.

  The glow from the loading bay of the condemned warehouse acted like a wrecker’s beacon in the fog, luring ships to destruction on a hostile shore. From inside, the pounding beat of a generic, angry anthem poured out into the night.

  “We’re a bit overdressed for this aren’t we?” Ash said as he took in the rag-tag clothing of the kids walking the cracked sidewalk toward the warehouse entrance.

  Fey was still wearing the burgundy jumpsuit, her gun and equipment hidden under the black brocade jacket. Ash was in cowboy boots, Wranglers, and a faded denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He carried a five shot Smith & Wesson .38 with a two inch barrel in his boot, and a two shot derringer tucked down by his scrotum. The derringer was of minor discomfort, but on two occasions it had saved his life. Ash figured discomfort was a small price to pay.

  Fey had the scent of blood in her nostrils. She could feel the pulse of the case quickening, and it had her in its grip. “My mamma always taught me,” she said, “that if you ever found you were underdressed, you copped an attitude and made out as if everyone else was overdressed. We just need to reverse the psychology.”

  A trio of girls in combat boots, heavy tights, plaid skirts and camisoles with holes cut out over their nipples, half skipped and half ran past Fey and Ash. Their hair was a punked out mish-mash of unnatural colors. They were obviously high.

  “Cute butt,” one of them said, and patted Ash on his posterior as she cruised by. “For an old guy.”

  “Charming,” Ash said.

  “Actually, I thought she was pretty observant.” Fey waggled her eyebrows.

  “You’re embarrassing me,” Ash said.

  “You’re about as embarrassed as a peacock in a petting zoo.”

  Fey watched the girls enter the warehouse. Actually, their appearance had somewhat startled her. “I didn’t realize body piercing and tattoos were still the rage,” she said.

  “I’m sure we can get you hip in a hurry,” Ash said.

  “No thanks. I think I’ll pass. Being plain old white bread might be boring, but at least it isn’t painful.”

  Two back-lit bodies took up a defensive position in the warehouse doorway.

  “I think we’ve been made,” Ash said.

  “Now that’s the height of cool,” Fey said. “Using female body builders as bouncers. This could end up being more fun than we figured.”

  Ash could feel his pulse quicken. A year ago, he’d have been ready for any physical confrontation. Now, he was having trouble simply keeping up with Fey as she stepped up her stride. He mentally girded himself for the effort ahead. Getting into a tussle with a pair of female steroid freaks was not particularly high on his agenda, but Fey was already taking the lead.

  “Hello, girls,” Fey said, as she stepped onto the loading dock.

  The women stood with their muscular arms crossed over tee-shirts that fit as tight as second skins. Above the right breast the tee-shirts bore their wearer’s names. The taller and wider of the two was Alice. The other, a smaller scale model of the first, was Trixie.

  “I don’t think this is quite your scene, grandma,” Alice said. She had stepped forward to bar the warehouse entrance. Behind her, Ash and Fey could see a line of kids waiting to pay the entrance fee that would get them past a line of oil drums. The music emanating from inside was louder in the entrance. It sounded like the wail of a screeching cat laid down over a jackhammer back-beat.

  “Grandma is it?” Fey was immediately getting her dander up. “You just had to use the G word up front and piss me off.”

  Alice looked a little surprised at Fey’s aggressive attitude. Ash doubted the female bouncer got much back talk from anyone who wasn’t drunk or high.

  Trixie stepped up into the space next to her partner. “If you’re here to look for a runaway kid, you’re out of your depth.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. The roles of the two bodybuilders was clear – the intimidator and the peacemaker.

  “Let me get this right,” Fey said. “You’re running a quasi-legal, movable nightclub in a condemned building with no liquor license, no business license, no health department permits, and more designer drugs than a Timothy Leary reunion, and to top things off you call me grandma. I know somebody is out of their depth here, but it sure isn’t me.”

  Alice unfolded her arms and took a step forward. Fey shuffled her feet into a balanced stance. Trixie moved wide to flank the action.

  “Ladies, ladies, please,” Ash said, sliding between the potential combatants. “You’re testosterone is showing. The next thing you know, all of you will be sprouting mustaches and Elvis sideburns.” With Fey behind him, he had his hands held out palm up. “There’s no need for any of this.”

  “Yes there is,” Fey said. “She called me grandma.”

  Ash didn’t need this. “Cool your jets, will ya, Fey? I’m trying to make nice here.”
>
  “I tell you what, grandma,” Alice said to reassert herself. “Any time you want to rock n’ roll, you just let me know.”

  Ash looked at Trixie who smiled at him and shrugged. “Sounds as if they’re auditioning for the World Wrestling Foundation, doesn’t it?” she said.

  “Pay per view,” Ash agreed. “I guess there’s just no reasoning with some people.”

  “Shall we let them duke it out?”

  “I have this feeling,” Ash said. “That you are expecting trouble tonight, but not from someone like us.”

  As Ash and Trixie conversed, the tension between Fey and Alice had eased.

  “Could be,” Trixie said.

  “Want to tell us about it?”

  “You’re cops?”

  “Even grandmas have to make a living,” Fey said.

  There was movement in the entrance.

  “What are you doing here?” a voice asked, somewhat amazed.

  “Hello, Tommy,” Fey said to her brother.

  Tommy Croaker wore torn jeans over combat boots, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. His thinning hair was tied back in a ponytail with a leather thong, and a shower of decorative moons and stars hung from the earring in his right lobe. He looked older than Fey remembered, his face weathered from years of substance abuse and physical neglect. He had put on weight, however, since Fey had last see him, and she took that as a good sign.

  But even though he was her younger brother, he looked older. A lot older. And a lot more shop worn. Fey had been around the block once or twice, but Tommy’s odometer was turning over for at least the third time. He was over forty and still living on the edge of society. Drugs and rock n’ roll were all he knew. Fey felt an ache in her heart for him, but knew she couldn’t let it show in her face or her attitude. Tommy had to make it on his own. Fey couldn’t help him any more – unless he asked her.

  Behind Tommy were two more bouncers, a Mutt and Jeff male team this time.

  “I thought the whole idea of a rave was that if the guests got rowdy and tore the joint apart it didn’t matter,” Fey said. She almost had to shout to overcome the sound of the band that had enthusiastically ripped into a new sequence.