by Paul Bishop
Putting the revolver in the pocket of her robe, she held the shotgun in one hand and picked up the phone with the other. Raised on B-movies as a form of escapist entertainment, she half expected the phone line to be dead and the house lights to be cut any second, but the dial tone buzzed reassuringly.
Fey didn't know how Isaac Cordell had made the switch from county jail to Wayside. It was something to worry about later. Right now there were more important considerations. She punched the phone's speed-dial button for LAPD's Devonshire station.
A voice picked up on the third ring. “Los Angeles Police Department, Officer Stokes. Can I help you?”
“This is Detective Fey Croaker. I need to speak to the watch commander immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” The excitement in Stokes' voice betrayed his rookie stature.
Fey had called the watch commander’s office direct. If she’d dialed 911, chances were she'd get a recording saying all emergency lines were busy.
Another, more mature voice came on the phone line. “Fey? Gene Mallet. What's up?”
Fey was relieved. She and Mallet had ridden in a patrol car together.
“I've got a problem at my house.” Fey gave him the address. “Can you get a patrol car here code three?”
“On its way. Tell me all about it later?”
“Promise.” She hung up, blessing Gene Mallet not wasting time with questions. Mallet would immediately use the ACC control center to send the closest unit racing to her location. She figured backup would be there within five to six minutes.
Moving quickly, she threw off her robe and slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt. She stepped into tennis shoes, and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. The shotgun was never out of her immediate reach.
When she was ready, she hit another of the phone’s speed-dial buttons. The phone rang five times before a sleepy voice answered.
“Hello.”
“Jake, wake up.”
“Fey? What's the matter?” Jake's voice came instantly awake.
“Isaac Cordell left a nasty message on my answering machine. I don't know how, but it seems he's managed to escape. Claims he's on his way here.”
“Get out, now!”
“A unit is on the way. I'm staying armed to the teeth until it gets here. Then I'm going to the station.”
“Come to my place.”
“Later. I've got to find out what's going on. For all I know, Cordell is outside
waiting to follow me some place I feel safe putting down my guard.”
“Which station—Devonshire or West L.A.?”
“West L.A.”
“I'll meet you there in forty minutes.”
“Thanks.”
As Fey hung up, she could hear a wailing police siren coming down her street.
Eventually, six police units pulled up outside Fey's house. Four of them were black-and-white patrol units. The other two were unmarked cars used by the division's special problems unit. Fey knew two of the patrol cops and quickly filled them in.
She was grateful for the quick response, even if the noise and lights woke most of her neighbors, bringing them into the street to see what was happening.
Within a few minutes, two of the patrol units and the two unmarked units returned to their duties. The other units waited as Fey threw a change of clothes and overnight necessities into a suitcase and locked up the house.
Fey had been hoping Peter Dent would have been roused by the noise, but she hadn't seen him. She tried calling, but was only able to leave a message requesting he continue caring for her animals. She apologized, promising to make it up to him.
Before leaving the house, she searched everywhere for Brentwood. The cat was not to be found. With no more time to waste, Fey put down fresh water and refilled the dry cat food dish.
Throwin her shotgun on the front seat of her car, she headed for West Los Angeles Division. One of the police units followed her to the freeway, making sure her tail was clean. The other pulled back into a secluded spot near her house in case Cordell had the audacity to turn up.
Fey realized the phone call had simply been a terror tactic, but she refused to speculate on the circumstances of the call. She was almost positive Cordell wouldn't turn up at her house.
If he had really been coming, he wouldn’t have called. By announcing his intentions, he had short-circuited his chances. Fey figured Cordell was either delighting in a game of cat and mouse, or he had something else in mind entirely.
The morning watch desk officers were not surprised to see Fey. Homicide detectives showed up at all hours due to the nature of their work. She nodded to them then turned to go up the stairs to the squadroom.
Automatically, she turned on lights and set coffee brewing. She felt safe in the deserted room. The station becomes an extension of cop’s lives, a place they spend more time in than their homes. It becomes a haven, a place filled with a large, squabbling, loving cop family. Ties ran deep.
With a cup of coffee, Fey took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Driving to the station, she had plotted a course of action beyond her initial self-protection reflexes. She had no idea if Cordell was on the loose, or if some jailhouse hophead had given him enough information to play out a sick joke.
Before she sounded the alarm, she needed to verify her information. It wouldn't look good if she had everyone spinning their wheels while Cordell was snug in his bunk.
Her call to county jail was picked up on the first ring. She asked for Intake and Detention Control. She identified herself to the deputy, confirming Isaac Cordell, booking number 3194788, was in custody according to the computer.
“Can you do a visual check?” Fey asked.
“Why?” The deputy's voice had a nasal whine. “If he's in the computer, he's locked down in his cell.”
Fey tried to keep her exasperation in check. She knew she would run into this kind of resistance. “Are you saying your computer never makes mistakes?”
“Not since I've been here.”
“How long? Two months? Three?”
“Six.”
“I'm sure you think you've seen everything after six months of working custody, but you’ve never seen me pissed off.” Fey made her voice rock-hard. “I am a homicide supervisor. I started on this job when you were an itch in your daddy's pants. If I drive down there to do my own visual check, and he's not where he should be, your rapidly spreading butt is going to become a piece of raw meat. Are you going to do a visual check, or do I start sharpening my incisors?”
“I'll check.” The voice was subdued. “But it will take a while. Do you want to call back?”
“Not on your life, cowboy. I'll hold.”
The phone line muted in her ear. Fey took a long swallow of coffee. She played with a pencil on her desk, turning it over and over, finally doodling little moons and stars on scrap paper. Her heart was pounding harder than normal. The acid in her stomach was an Atlantic storm. Fatigue and an overdose of caffeine were working their combined demonic magic.
A noise from the stairwell made her jump. She pulled the short-barreled .38 from her waistband.
“Easy,” said Jake Travers, identifying the movement. “I'm one of the good guys.”
Fey held her hand up as the custody deputy came back on the line.
“You still there?” the deputy asked. His voice held a cocky note.
“I'm still here.”
“Well, so is Cordell. Sleeping like a baby.”
“You checked his wristband?”
“Yep.”
Fey felt a relief run through her. She didn't have an explanation for the phone call yet, but it would come later.
“Is everyone in county jail still as innocent and pure as the driven snow?” she asked, attempting through ritual humor to lighten her relationship with the deputy.
“Everyone except the deputies,” he replied easily enough.
“Thanks for checking. I appreciate it. I'm sorry for getting uppity.”
“No
problem. These skinny hypes all look alike. I'm sure mistakes get made occasionally.”
Fey's heart rate went ballistic. “Did you say Cordell is a skinny hype?”
“Yeah. Mexican guy with a droopy mustache.”
Fey hung her head down.
“Satan wept,” she said softly.
Chapter 22
Tommy Croaker sat on a hard-back chair in the middle of an interrogation room otherwise empty of furniture. Fey stood behind him, arms crossed, leaning against the white rubberized wall. She was wearing a wine-colored blouse over black slacks and sensible flats. Her shoulder holster was empty, her gun placed in a lockbox before she entered Wayside Honor Rancho's security area.
Colby was resplendent in a new blazer and pleated wool slacks. Fey thought he was pushing his fashion statement too far when she caught a flash of bare ankles above another beautiful pair of calfskin moccasins.
He was also leaning against an interrogation room wall. He had the good sense to keep his mouth shut while Fey interrogated her brother.
After verifying Isaac Cordell had escaped from county jail, Fey put out an all-points bulletin. She then contacted Wayside to check on Tommy.
At first appeared Tommy had also escaped from Wayside. However, an enterprising deputy found Tommy in a clump of bushes outside the minimum security barracks—doped to the eyeballs.
There was no sign of Cordell.
The sequence of events was eventually established. Cordell had managed to switch wristbands with the Mexican hype, Manny Sesteros, on the prison bus. Manny was later found in the bunk assigned to Cordell at county jail. Manny had been on his way to Wayside to serve another ninety-day stretch. He hadn't seen any reason not to screw with the system. It had screwed him long enough.
At county jail, Booker and Taggert had turned their charges over to two other deputies to process. The two new deputies didn't question the wristband switch, not recognizing Isaac Cordell as Booker had done. Through bureaucratic faith in the infallibility of the wristband system, Manny had been left at county jail, and Cordell transported to Wayside in his place.
As an extra bonus, Cordell had a hit of tar heroin hidden behind his upper lip. The small, brown lump was covered with plastic cling-wrap, a gift from Manny—who was found to have a whole string hidden in his mouth.
The final destination of Cordell’s tar heroin stash was the veins of Tommy Croaker. But only after an exchange of valuable information. As Manny Sesteros, Cordell been placed in Wayside's minimum-security compound. He located Tommy during the recreation hour. Gaining the information he needed in exchange for the dope was easy. The only thing easier was walking away from Wayside’s minimum security.
A car was reported stolen close to Wayside. It was recovered near Devonshire Division station, which served the area where Fey lived. Fey didn’t doubt Cordell used the car until he found something better.
While this information was being discovered, Fey notified Lieutenant Cahill of the situation. She then woke up Colby and arranged to meet him at Wayside at noon. She then let Jake Travers to take her home and put her to bed. With the sheets covering her naked form, and Jake's arms tightly around her, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
When Fey awoke to the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon, she didn’t want to disturb the happy bachelor routine going on in the kitchen.
She stretched on the bed, realizing how much she liked Jake's bedroom. It was part of a small, two-story house along one of the canals running through the Venice beach area. Jake had renovated it along with the residences on either side, which he also owned. Using the middle of the three houses gave Jake the luxury of choosing his neighbors. The residents working through a realty company, had no idea Jake was their landlord. Another plus in Jake's estimation.
Jake's first wife had fleeced him for a chunk of change, but he had enough family money to live in Beverly Hills or any of the ritzy areas of L.A. Jake, however, preferred the Bohemian lifestyle of Venice Beach—gangs, hippies, and homeless aside.
Jake had decorated the house himself, using dark tones and rough-textured fabrics to distance him from female influences. His ornaments, pictures, and knickknacks reflected his interests in maps and architecture. His books filled several wall-to-wall fixtures, spilling onto other scattered surfaces with random abandon. The titles were a mix of law books, Golden Age detective stories, with a selection of sailing and nonfiction adventure titles.
Jake appeared in the bedroom doorway wearing a smile and an apron. He held a glass of orange juice in one hand and the morning paper in the other.
Fey burst out laughing. “You look a butler in a French film farce,” she said through a fit of giggles.
“I thought it had a rather macho appeal,” he said, with a mock pout. Thick black hair grew rampant across his chest and arms, covering a wiry musculature. His stomach was flat and hard, and Fey always thought he had a nice butt.
“You thought wrong,” she told him.
“Aren’t you a bright ray of sunshine this morning?”
He put the orange juice on the bedside table. “Come on, lazybones,” he said. “Breakfast in five minutes.” He turned his back and twitched his butt as he went through the doorway.
Fey threw a pillow at him, still chuckling.
The healing power of sleep had worked. Fey sat at the breakfast table wearing one of Jake's white work shirts. She ate ravenously through pancakes, bacon, and fluffy scrambled eggs.
“If I'd known a pig would be snuffling through the trough this morning,” Jake said, sipping coffee as he watched her, “I would have stocked the larder higher.”
“Shut up,” Fey said, scooping a dribble of syrup from her chin. “It's not often I have a man around who cooks for me. I'm showing appreciation by eating everything on my plate.”
“And mine,” said Jake, as Fey snatched a half-eaten rasher of bacon and popped it in her mouth.
“What's the agenda?” he asked.
Fey swallowed a last bite of pancake and pushed her plate away. She made a face. “I'm meeting Colby at Wayside to speak to Tommy at noon.”
“Gonna be a load of chuckles.”
“It has to be done. I doubt he can tell us anything about Cordell, but I have to cover the bases.”
“And afterward?”
Fey shrugged. “I see if I can plan a way to track Cordell. I can't be constantly looking over my shoulder. I also need to go back to square one with this investigation. The pieces seem to fit together, but the picture is bizarre. I'm missing something.” She drained her coffee cup and poured a refill. “How about you?” she asked.
Jake raised his eyebrows. “The day's regular contingent of filings and problems. I don't have anything in court for a few days, so I'll dig into the double jeopardy question.”
“Can Ryder really use it as a defense? Especially now Cordell's an escaped felon.”
“The escape isn’t going to have any bearing. If Ryder can pull off the double jeopardy defense, the murder charge will be dropped,. Then the escape and resisting-arrest charges are going to become moot. Vanderwald is not going to want the press turning this into a Les Misérables situation, which what I would expect Janice Ryder to pursue.”
Fey nodded her reluctant agreement. Janice Ryder wouldn't let an opportunity to exploit public outcry. Jake's boss, Simon Vanderwald, was a savvy political animal. Janice Ryder would scare him like a force-ten gale. There would be no support from him.
Fey wondered how far Jake would push the case. Jake had a great chance of ousting Simon Vanderwald in the next election. His backers wouldn't want him to jeopardize their interests by taking chances.
Fey gave a mental shrug, glancing at the digital clock on Jake's microwave. She still had time.
“Come here,” she said to Jake.
He had changed out of his apron into a short kimono robe. He looked at her in surprise, recognizing her tone of voice. One eyebrow crawled up his forehead in a questioning gesture.
“Don't go coy on me
,” she said.
“Are you accusing me of being shy?”
“Until you to prove differently.”
Jake pushed his chair back, took two steps to Fey's side of the large kitchen table, and pulled her to her feet. He put his arms around her and kissed her gently, very aware of the livid line of bruises on her face. Most of the swelling was gone, but the kaleidoscope of colors was still evident.
“Mmmmm...nice,” Fey said. She kissed him back, wrapping a bare leg around him.
“Are you sure?” he asked, concerned for her aches and pains.
She pushed a hand between their bodies and inside his kimono. She grasped him with her fingers and kissed him again, excited by his heat “Does this answer your question?”
Jake kissed her, their tongues inflamed serpents, and made to move toward the bedroom.
“Uh-uh,” Fey said, stopping him with a seductive smile. “I want it right here, right now.” She turned from him and quickly pushed the dirty dishes to one side.
“You're joking,” Jake said. His voice had thickened. His robe hung open, exposing his excitement.
Fey perched her naked backside on the edge of the table. She leaned back on her arms, Jake's shirt riding high on her hips. She pulled her knees back and opened herself to him.
There weren't any other answers or questions needed.
Colby had been waiting when Fey arrived at Wayside at twelve-thirty.
“You're late,” he said.
“A master of the obvious,” Fey replied.
“What were you doing? Catch up on your beauty sleep?”
“I was boinking my brains out,” Fey told him nonchalantly. “I'd do it to you, but it's obvious somebody beat me to it.”
“You should be so lucky.”
Fey shook her head. “Not even if you were the last man on the planet.”
“Proves my theory about you being a lesbian.”
“Eat your heart out,” Fey said, twitching her hips as she moved toward the security building.
