Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

The cops were stupid, Kenny thought. Didn’t they know he was the one that choked under pressure. Not Jim. Jim only choked when there was a rope around his neck.

  One death invariably leads to another. This was a law of nature that Kenny quickly discovered. Kenny thought that things would be different with Jim gone, but Dad just got more and more into pushing JoJo.

  Kenny became nothing more than another training aid to help JoJo excel. Kenny resented it. He resented that the next year JoJo was offered scholarship’s everywhere. All of Kenny’s special training had been for nothing.

  Kenny hated JoJo, but he hid it well. Couldn’t do anything about it, because dad would never forgive him. Kenny still just wanted his dad to love him and approve of him, but he had never been good enough. He always choked.

  Then Kenny’s mind got another twisted idea. If dad wasn’t around anymore, Kenny could play whatever game he wanted with JoJo. Make it bad. Put JoJo under pressure. Make JoJo choke.

  It was another three years before Kenny matched up both nerve and opportunity. Kenny was no longer living at home. He visited occasionally, but he’d already become a drifter, working odd jobs and hustling basketball.

  Kenny had come home to be with his dad while watching JoJo and UCLA play in the Final Four tournament. For whatever reason, that night was almost too much for Kenny to take.

  His dad’s fanaticism in urging JoJo and his team to win was crushing. And when UCLA lost, watching his dad’s tears tore Kenny up. His dad had never felt that way about him, but he felt that way about a little nigger kid he’d taken in off the street.

  Biding his time, Kenny waited and watched until he was sure dad was going to have one of his private sex sessions. Kenny had watched him secretly before – put the mask on, tie the rope to the door, put it around his neck, lean forward and choked himself while he choked his monkey. This time, though, Kenny was there to add that bit of extra pressure. And what do you know? Dad choked, big time.

  When the body was discovered, Kenny knew the police were really stupid because they said the death was an accident. Yeah, his dad had an accident alright. But if that’s what the cops wanted to believe, it was okay with Kenny.

  Kenny realized then that murder was pretty easy. If he took his time and planned, savored every minute of it, he could also get to JoJo. He wanted to get to JoJo, wanted to make him suffer for being better than he was, for taking his father away, for all the special training sessions that never made a difference.

  Apparently, however, not all cops were stupid. Kenny thought he’d planned the murders to frame JoJo real well. He’d had fun taunting his adopted brother, sending him photos of the victims. Victims that Kenny had allowed JoJo to choose himself through his own perversions.

  Kenny enjoyed looking through the photos he had taken of the victims. He liked listening over and over to the tapes of them dying. None of them could stand up to the special training sessions as he had. He was better than they were. He didn’t choke.

  He listened to the tapes and looked at the pictures while he masturbated. He thought about sending JoJo to prison. Maybe JoJo would hang himself. Now, wouldn’t that be the coolest. The images of all of it gave him such intensity in his sexual completion he felt he could die.

  Now Kenny could see that it was all unraveling.

  Who was this cop who was hunting him? he wondered. Turning the pages of the newspaper, Kenny found the article with the transcript of the cop’s shrink session. He read it through several times.

  This cop, this Detective Fey Croaker, she was trying to make him choke. What she was really doing was making him mad. Maybe she could figure out who he was, but Kenny wasn’t going to choke. He didn’t choke under pressure anymore. Dad had taught him not to choke under pressure. He was better at not choking than anybody.

  He felt the pressure rising up in his throat. He could smell the dirt of the shallow graves from which his father had made him crawl out. He felt like his head would implode from the pressure. No time left on the clock. The other team is one point ahead. Kenny could see himself at the free throw line. One for two. Make the first free throw. Tie the game. Make the second free throw. Win the game. Choke and miss the first shot and it’s all over.

  Kenny set the newspaper aside and went back to playing basketball. It helped him think. He threw up one free throw after another into his makeshift basket. Each one swished through the net. Somewhere in the mesmerizing activity, Kenny realized he knew what to do next.

  Detective Fey Croaker wasn’t going to make him choke. He was going to make her choke.

  Chapter 59

  There was no blaring of sirens or flashing lights from the detective cars as they pulled into the front and back parking lots of the Fratelli Pizza franchise on La Cienega Boulevard.

  La Cienega Boulevard cut like a knife across the city, forming a natural border between West Los Angeles Area and Wilshire Area. On the West Los Angeles side of the boulevard, decrepit apartment houses bent in toward each other like rotting teeth. On the Wilshire side, no-tell motels, dilapidated gas stations, liquor stores, and lower end businesses lived off the welfare checks of the local residents.

  The drug dealers, thieves, robbers, and gang members crossed the unmarked police department border without even knowing it existed.

  Fratelli Pizza was located in a medium-sized strip mall on the West Los Angeles side. Montgomery Ward department store, Circuit City, Thrifty Drug, Payless Shoes, Wherehouse Records and Tapes, Woolworth, and several other smaller businesses all battled for customers along the L-shaped design. Most of them had been looted empty during the ‘92 riots, but somehow found a way to come back, and the most robbed bank in West Los Angeles stood alone on the diagonal corner of the mall.

  Fey, Ash, and Monk pulled into a parking spot well away from the front windows of Fratelli Pizza. All three were wearing bullet-proof vests under dark blue raid jackets with POLICE emblazoned across the back and a silk screened LAPD badge on the front.

  In two cars, Hammer and Nails and Alphabet and Brindle had pulled in to the rear of the eatery.

  “8W613 to 8W619,” Hammer reported over his hand-held rover radio. “No blue van back here.”

  The rovers were set on simplex to allow the detectives to communicate with each other without interfering with the normal flow of radio traffic.

  “8W619, roger,” Fey acknowledged. “No blue van out front either. We’re going to go in and talk to the owner. You stay on the perimeter as discussed.”

  “8W613, roger,” Hammer acknowledged.

  Making sure her gun and handcuffs were easily accessible, Fey entered the pizza joint followed by Ash. Monk took up a position of advantage outside the front door.

  “Just sit anywhere,” A young female waitress said.

  “Is the manager or the owner here?” Fey asked.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Fey hated when secretaries or other minions tried to run interference for their self-important bosses.

  “Not if the owner or manager is here,” she replied, proud of herself for not snapping the waitress’s head off.

  “I’ll see,” the young girl said. She moved toward a set of swinging doors that led back to the kitchen.

  Standing in the entrance, Fey could see that the restaurant was fairly clean with long tables and bench seating for customers. Several big screen televisions were broadcasting different sporting events with the sound turned down. There were advertisements for numerous types of beer scattered everywhere.

  A short, fat man with a large, black mustache came out through the swinging doors followed by the waitress. He stepped up to Fey.

  “I’m Hank Norman,” he said. “I’m the owner.”

  The waitress stood looking at the gathering, giving no indication of moving away about her business.

  “Detective Croaker, LAPD,” Fey introduced herself briefly. “And this is Special Agent Ash, FBI. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Norman led the way back to a small office. Th
e waitress stayed behind.

  “Is this about Darcy Wyatt again?” Norman asked.

  “In a roundabout way,” Fey told him. “Do you have another employee by the name of Kenny Kingston?”

  “Yeah. He used to be a cook here.’

  “Used to be?”

  “Yeah. Few weeks back – right after your people arrested Darcy – he just didn’t show up. Screwed me over, I can tell you. I had to cook two whole Saturday night shifts myself.”

  “Have you heard from him since?”

  “Nope. He picked up his paycheck on Friday and on Saturday he didn’t show.”

  “Is he owed any money?”

  Norman shook his head. “Nah. Paid up to date on the Friday, like I said.”

  “Do you know where he cashes his checks?”

  “Right here. I give him cash for it after closing.”

  “You have an employment application for him.”

  Norman turned to a filing cabinet and rustled around inside. After a moment, he pulled out a manila file folder with Kenny Kingston’s name on it. “I have to tell you that I don’t think this will do you much good.” He handed the folder over to Fey. “He turned up on a day when I needed help. He worked out pretty good while he was here, so I never needed to check out any of the stuff that’s in there.”

  Fey opened the folder and looked at the job application. It was sparse. For his address Kenny had put down the same San Diego P.O. box number that had been on his van registration. Fey knew that was a dead end she didn’t want to be chasing right now. There was no phone number, and Fey could tell by looking at it that the Social Security number wasn’t correct. There were no references or emergency numbers listed.

  When she placed the job application back in the folder, she was delighted to see a Polaroid photo of Kenny clipped to the back cover. She pulled it free.

  “Did you take this?” she asked Norman.

  He snorted. “Yeah. It’s a con job. Sometimes if you take a picture, they think twice before they rip you off.”

  “Kenny ever rip you off?”

  “Nah. He got free food on his shift and he never worked the register. Couple of times I had to jump on him for not showing up for a shift, but he always had some kind of an excuse. I figured that’s what happened when he didn’t show up that Saturday, but he never came back.” Norman stroked his mustache in a habitual manner. “Overall, he was better than a lot of guys that have worked here. I don’t run a delivery van like the other Fratelli Pizza franchises – the insurance is too high around here – so the delivery guys have to provide their own ride. When I had to use Darcy Wyatt as a fill-in driver, Kenny was pretty good about letting Darcy Wyatt use his van since he didn’t have wheels of his own. They seemed to become pretty good friends – drank together when they got off and stuff. Sometimes they would come to work together.”

  “How long did Kenny work for you?”

  Norman shrugged. “A couple of months.”

  “Can I keep this?” Fey asked holding up the photo.

  “Sure.”

  Fey handed Norman her business card. “If Kenny turns up here would you call 911 right away? It’s important.”

  Norman took the card. “What did the guy do? Murder somebody?”

  Fey smiled at Norman. “Poisoned some customers at a restaurant where he worked before starting to work for you.”

  Norman blanched.

  “The civil suits are going to be horrendous. I’d make sure you call us right away if he shows up.”

  “Absolutely,” Norman said, his voice rising an octave.

  “Thanks for your help,” Fey said. “And keep watching your newspapers and television for further developments.”

  Chapter 60

  “Poisoned customers at another restaurant?” Ash questioned Fey incredulously when they exited the pizza palace. He laughed. “You’re too much.”

  “I wanted to make sure he’d call us if Kenny showed up.”

  “I think he’ll call alright,” Ash said as they climbed back into Fey’s detective sedan. “Probably won’t stop sweating about potential law suits for the next week.”

  Fey keyed her rover. “8W619 to 8W613. There’s a code-4 here. Suspect hasn’t been around for a couple of weeks. Let’s head back to the station and do some more digging.”

  “8W619, roger,” came the reply from Hammersmith’s rearguard position.

  Ash reached down to touch the pager that was vibrating on his belt. He pulled it off and checked the number.

  “Recognize it?” Fey asked, referring to the pager’s LED readout.

  Ash shook his head. “May be a misdial.”

  “Use my cellular,” Fey said, digging it out from her purse.

  Ash flipped the phone open and dialed. When the phone was picked up, he immediately recognized the voice that answered.

  “What do you want?” Ash said nastily.

  “Don’t hang up!” Zelman Tucker’s voice was filled with urgency.

  “You don’t have anything to say that I want to hear.”

  “Wait! Give me a chance to redeem myself here. I’ve got some solid info. It’s going to blow your socks off.”

  “Tucker if you’re blowing more smoke up my ass, I’m gonna have the Vermont Vampire released into my custody. We’re gonna find you and I’m gonna let Vampy-baby suck you dry.”

  “Hey, man!” Tucker sounded offended. “They’re right when they say no good deed goes unpunished. I was only trying to do the right thing down in San Diego. So, it didn’t pan out. What’s the big deal? Are you such a crackerjack detective that you’ve never followed a dead-end clue before?”

  Ash rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

  “You still there?” Tucker asked when Ash didn’t respond.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “You want this information or not?”

  “Yeah. What have you got?”

  “I spent some time doing some more digging in the Department of Social Services records down here. Etta Carson still has a number of friends down there who gave me access.”

  “The power of the all mighty dollar,” Ash said.

  “Don’t knock it. I’m making you look good.”

  “Don’t press your luck, Tucker. You’re still under my skin.”

  “And you’re still deep in the heart of me,” Tucker sang. “So deep, you’re really a part of me. I’ve got you under –”

  “Quit screwing around,” Ash said gutturally, his voice straining between clenched teeth. “I’m not paying cell phone rates to listen to your bad Sinatra impersonation. Do you have anything for me, or not?”

  “I do, monster man. Seems that there might be some squalid skeletons in the closet of the Kingston family who adopted JoJo.”

  “We’re ahead of you there, pal. We already know about daddy Kingston’s kinky death – which is probably more than you do – and we know about brother Jim who did a Houdini without a curtain call.”

  “How about momma Kingston telling tales out of school about brother Kenny and daddy playing little games?”

  “We know about Kenny. In fact, as we speak we’re hot on his trail.”

  “Man, I knew you were good.”

  “You tracked momma down?”

  “If truth be told, she came to me.”

  “Isn’t that special.”

  Tucker ignored the jibe. “Apparently, her originally accepted story for leaving home was she that couldn’t take the family’s basketball obsession.”

  “But you found out different?”

  “It cost a bundle, but we’re ready to spill the story on American Inquirer Tonight – that’s the syndicated, tabloid news show sponsored by AI – “

  “I’ve seen it. A piece of dreck.”

  “But everyone watches,” Tucker said. “The demographics are through the roof.”

  “Who cares?” Ash said. “What’s momma going to break down and say?”

  “She’s admitted to running out
on the family because Richard Kingston threatened to track her down and kill her.”

  “Why?” Ash asked.

  “Young Kenny was caught hanging cats and dogs in the neighborhood. He told a shrink that he did it because daddy played kinky little games with him that involved sex and suffocating.”

  “Auto-erotica,” Ash confirmed.

  “There’s a fancy term for everything, isn’t there?”

  “What did momma do about it?” Ash asked.

  “Not much. Nobody believed the kid’s story. Richard Kingston was too much of a local celebrity for something like that to be believed. Momma, knew differently. She was well aware that her sex life with daddy was a big zero. At first she figured he had something on the side, but when the kid talked to the shrink, she realized there was something else going on.”

  “And she didn’t try to do anything about it?”

  “She snooped around and caught them at it one day. However, daddy saw her watching and gave her hell. Beat the crap out of her and then wouldn’t let her leave the house until the bruises healed.” Tucker’s voice had taken on a weary tinge.

  “An old story,” Ash said. “I take it she was so terrorized that she just split and left daddy and the kids to their fate?”

  “Some mother, huh?”

  “I’m beyond passing judgment in those situations,” Ash said. “Nobody knows what that decision has cost her since.”

  “It’s like the old joke,” Tucker said. “What do fifty-thousand battered women in LA have in common? They just won’t listen.”

  Ash didn’t laugh. “Anybody ever tell you you’re butt hair, Tucker.”

  “I’m gonna have it carved on my gravestone.”

  “It’s not something to be proud about.”

  Tucker’s voice suddenly brightend. “This is going to make great television,” he said. “Crying jags, screamed admissions, pain and suffering. The ratings will skyrocket. A story like this could get me moved from the pages of AI to a regular anchor spot on the show.”

  “Big whoop.”

  “Give me a break. I’m giving you this first. If Kenny doesn’t already know you’re after him he will by the time the show runs.”