by Paul Bishop
At the conclusion of most successful investigations, a detective should be able to look back and see where the trainload of clues, hunches, and information crested the mountain and began the steep descent toward the final destination of arrest and conviction.
On the downward slope, however, the final destination was not guaranteed. A detective had to hang on, doing everything possible not to let the whole thing derail in a spectacular crash leaving dismembered alibis, broken laws, and bloodied witnesses strewn along the tracks for defense lawyers to pick through like so many scavengers.
As she left Rhino's with a stack of interesting prints in her pocket, Fey knew she should go directly back to the station and confront Mike Cahill. It would be the right thing to do—she could have immediately cleared up the doubts about her contact with Miranda Goodwinter and been officially put back in charge of the murder investigation—but it wasn't what Fey was going to do.
She was tired of playing by the book, tired of relying on other people who had her back only when it was convenient, politically correct, or in their best interest. There was a good chance, even after clearing herself of having had previous contact with the victim, Mike Cahill, or someone above him, would feel putting her back on the case would still be a conflict of interest.
Internal Affairs could also raise objections, dragging their feet before eventually clearing her of any wrongdoing. IA hated to be wrong. They would mess about, picking at nits, leaving a cloud over Fey's head, while the case got cold and finally found its way to the unsolved-inactive file—for which Fey would be blamed because she was officially the supervisor of the unit.
The possibility the case may be solved by another detective was something Fey never considered. The ugly little idea becoming stronger and stronger in her mind left her no doubt she was the only cop who had a chance of bringing the guilty to justice. It wasn't a matter of conceit, but rather a matter of being the only detective in a position to see the trees instead of the forest.
Because of her suspension, Fey was forced to reevaluate everything she'd seen and heard since the beginning of the investigation. This second look had been taken with the desperation of personal perspective. It had cleared away the clouds of subterfuge, allowing the truth to surface.
The method of the attempt on her life, coupled with other small clues, solidified the vague rumblings Fey was originally reluctant to consider. Her problem now wasn't whodunit, but how to prove it. When she did, it would be a thunder and a satisfaction she wasn't going to allow anyone to steal.
She drove the dozen blocks from Rhino's back room to the central branch of the Los Angeles Public Library with no conscious memory of how she arrived there. Her mind was busy ticking off the numerous threads she needed to gather. She didn't care if IA found out she wasn't at home as ordered. She'd deal with it later. Right now her train was running down the track at speed, and nothing was going to stop it.
Finding an empty spot at the curb, Fey parked, fed the meter, and made her way into the library building. Within fifteen minutes, she'd secured a private booth and access to a Lexus-Nexus machine. Lexus-Nexus was a computer system giving instant access to the files of over five hundred newspapers and one thousand magazines nationwide.
The department had access to two Lexus-Nexus terminals situated in Parker Center, one under lock and key in the Antiterrorist Division, and the other slightly more accessible through the Organized Crime and Intelligence Division. Neither were open to Fey, so she was shelling out her own cash to access the library's terminal.
After thirty minutes, she came up with good value for her money.
The IRS agent Kyle Craven had given Fey the first pieces of the puzzle. Monk Lawson had filled in background with the information he provided on Janice Ryder.
Fey had fit some of those pieces together revealing Janice Ryder's father—Peter Fletcher—was one of Miranda Goodwinter's first victims. It gave Ryder a great motive for murder. It also gave her a strong reason for unleashing Isaac Cordell to either do her dirty work for her or take the blame for her own murderous actions. It looked good, but Fey still wanted more information before she went anywhere with it.
The Lexus-Nexus machine gave it to her.
Although the computer system gave access to the files of many newspapers, the system's files on the Los Angeles Times were more extensive than most of the others, going back thirty-years. Fey's first Lexus-Nexus inquiry produced the obituary for Peter Fletcher. Most of the information was a rehash of what Kyle Craven already shared. The obit did, however, pinpoint the location of the drunk-driving accident in which Fletcher had been killed—a particularly nasty section of Mulholland Drive.
After uncovering this nugget of information, Fey spun her wheels trying to track down further information Miranda Goodwinter's other identities. She came across a few possible tidbits, but nothing to make her blood rush.
She was running out of ideas when she thought about the scam Miranda Goodwinter ran on Isaac Cordell. It was the one time in her murderous career Miranda Goodwinter varied her usual method of operation. It was also the first time she had involved somebody else in her scheme—Adam Roark, Cordell’s business partner.
Fey keyed Roark's name into the Lexus-Nexus machine, focusing the search date to a two-year period after Cordell was sent to jail. Kyle Craven had followed up on Roark, but only to confirm Roark hadn't filed any further tax returns after taking off with the proceeds from the insurance policy, which had sealed Cordell’s fate.
After thirty seconds, the Lexus-Nexus terminal indicated fifty possible articles related to Adam Roark. Fey scanned the entries, finding most dealt with a popular architect also named Adam Roark. However, Fey came across several mentions in about the right Adam Roark.
There was a particular article in The Los Angeles Times, which made her whole effort worthwhile. It was a short piece—filler on a slow news day—a few lines of type detailing another drunken-driving death. The name of the deceased was Adam Roark, late of San Francisco. His car skidded over the edge on Mulholland Drive. Fey was had no doubt it was the same nasty section of Mulholland Drive where Peter Fletcher died.
In the criminal mind, what works once should work again. Lady M couldn't keep coming up with new and innovative ways to kill lovers and husbands. Somewhere along the line, she would have to go back to tried-and-true methods, which had worked before. Sticking a drunk body in a car, pointing the car wheels toward the edge of a cliff, and jamming the accelerator down was simple, but effective.
It was a lot of years since Peter Fletcher went over the edge on Mulholland Drive. Since then, there had been numerous other legitimate accidental deaths on the treacherous road, which ran through the Santa Monica Mountains to the beach.
Who was going to notice one more?
Fey had noticed—and she believed Janice Ryder had as well.
Ryder had done an inspired job tracking down the stepmother who murdered her father and abandoned Ryder. She had done a better job than even Kyle Craven. But then Craven had lots of other distractions, while Janice Ryder had single-minded vendetta to pursue. Cordell's case must have appeared made-to-order, and she pursued her plan with a hatred fueled by the pure white heat of vengeance.
Fey had another of the keys to break the case wide open—but there was still a hidden killer to catch. Her train was on track, but there were a lot of twists and curves to come.
Isaac Cordell came out of hiding early enough in the morning to watch Fey leave her house. He gave her a few minutes to make sure she wasn't coming back before jimmying the lock on her back door.
Half-starved, he ravenously ate a sandwich with items from Fey's fridge. He even made several cups of instant coffee, being careful to clear up and leave no sign of his presence.
Ever since Fey took him down in the back alley, he had burned with an obsession to strike back at her. Destroying her would strike back at everything and everyone who had ever turned against him. In a dark, still partially civilized recess of his
mind, he knew prison turned him into an animal.
In order to survive, he’d been forced to unleash the primitive savage at the very base of every human's nature. It had been explained to him by the prison psychiatrist, and he accepted the information on face value. But it did nothing to change or control the monster he had become.
The chain of psychiatrists, psychologists, and priests who had taken up his cause all told him he could change. But they failed to realize he did not want to change. He was delighted with what he had become. For the first time in his life, he was in charge of his actions. The cause behind the pains in his head freed him to embrace his angers. No more did he have to bow down to the whims of an overbearing mother or a manipulative wife. Others bowed down to him now. If they didn't, he broke them into tiny pieces. He had the power and he had to use it while he could.
The only way to keep the power was to crush everyone who challenged you, tried to take the power away from you.
Fey Croaker had challenged his power. She had not bowed down before him. She had to be crushed. Isaac would enjoy the crushing.
His hunger satiated, Isaac set about the work he had come to perform. Finding Fey's toolbox in her garage, he removed a hammer and chisel then returned to the house. Without much problem, he found the shotgun Fey had been carrying with her the night before. With a slight struggle due to unfamiliarity, the shotgun was eventually stripped down. Isaac took the chisel to the firing pin. When he was satisfied the gun would never fire, he reassembled the parts and put it back where he found it.
He put the hammer and chisel back in the garage and returned to the kitchen. Hungry again, he removed several cans of fruit and a box of stale crackers from Fey's pantry. The items would be enough to hold him until it was time for the next move in the game.
Chapter 37
Brentwood startled Fey when he leaped at her from behind the living room couch. Fey had come home early in the afternoon, her head full of the information she had gleaned from the library and other sources. Dumping her huge purse containing her gun on the couch cushion, she was totally unprepared for the screeching cat who flung himself at her and attacked her shoes.
Fey's heart rate took off for the stratosphere in the split second it took her to recognize the cat. Surprised and off balance, she almost fell over as the cat completed his hit-and-run attack. Twisting, Fey managed to flop onto the couch, pluck one of the decorative pillows from the end, and throw it in the direction of Brentwood's departing backside. The cat sauntered away unconcerned.
“You, too,” Fey yelled at the animal. “You disappear whenever you feel like it, scare the hell out of me, and then expect dinner.”
Brentwood twitched his tail at her in response.
Fey flopped back on the couch, her heart still pounding. “I swear cats are worse than men!”
A stray thought entered Fey's head as she stared at the ceiling. Talking aloud to Brentwood, she realized her animals were like her children. The thought set her wondering about Miranda Goodwinter's relationship with her cat. Fey believed the woman would feel the same way about her animal as most pet owners did.
Fey wondered how long and through how many identities Miranda Goodwinter had kept her cat with her. Had she discarded an animal or pet with every identity change, or had Brentwood been a long-term companion? Thinking about the question, the more Fey favored the latter response. It could explain a nagging point in her whodunit theory.
Earlier in the afternoon, Fey abandoned her library research in favor of a pay phone and a pile of quarters in the corner of a downtown greasy spoon where she knew the owner, Max Monroe, and his wife. Their specialty of the house was a Polish sausage and egg sandwich coupled with gallons of hot coffee. While Fey's order sizzled on the grill, she took her first cup of the strong, black coffee and muscled the local bookie away from the phone.
Her first call pulled coroner Harry Carter away from a late autopsy.
“This better be important,” Harry said in greeting. “I'm already late for a lunch date, and I'm only half done with a stinker from last night.”
“It is important, Harry. The stinker will still be there after lunch. I know you have a cast-iron stomach.”
Harry blew a raspberry down the line.
“I love you, too,” Fey said. “But I don't have time for phone sex at the moment.”
“What's on your mind, if it isn't my libido?”
“Do you remember telling me your original assessment of the murder weapon in the Goodwinter case might be wrong—rather than a screwdriver, it might be some other type of tool with a thin, flat edge?”
“I remember,” Harry said. “I also remember you said you had the murder weapon in custody and it was a screwdriver.”
“I've had second thoughts.”
“Sounds as if you've had third and fourth thoughts.”
“Yeah, them, too.”
“What are you thinking?”
Fey put her thoughts into words for Carter to consider.
“Sounds reasonable,” Harry said when she finished. “You come up with one, and I'll do my best to match it to the wound.”
“Do me a favor, Harry, and keep quiet until I get back to you.”
“You think I got nothing better to do than run around blabbing to folks about your off-the-wall theories? I got more stiffs hanging out down here than a whorehouse during a Brotherhood of the Weasel convention.” Harry broke the connection.
Max Monroe pulled a table close to Fey and placed her sandwich on the corner nearest to her. Fey smiled at him as she used a second quarter and dialed a number from memory. She set her half-empty mug next to the sandwich plate.
“Eat it while it's hot,” Max said, gesturing with a pair of bouncing eyebrows.
“Okay, Mom,” Fey said, taking a quick bite and then having to swallow it almost whole as somebody answered the phone.
“Is Annie Thaw there?” she asked, choking down sizzling hot sausage and bread crumbs.
“I’ll put you through,” said the Scientific Investigation Division receptionist.
Fey waited, sipping coffee to clear her throat and burning the roof of her mouth in the process.
Almost two minutes passed before Fey's fingerprint expert friend came on the line. “This is Annie.”
“Hi, Annie. It's Fey.”
“What's cooking, sister?”
Fey noticed she'd dribbled egg on her blouse. “My lips and the roof of my mouth at the moment,” she said in distraction, rubbing the stain.
“What?”
“Forget it,” Fey said, focusing her attention. “Those unidentified prints from the Goodwinter crime scene…”
“The one on the door handle and the one in the blood smear?”
“Yeah. I have some comparisons I want you to make.”
“You got suspects? Let me grab a pencil…okay, shoot.”
Fey told Annie the names of the people she wanted checked.
“Anything on file locally for comparison?”
“Two of them may have something,” Fey said, “but you'll probably have to get on to DC for a service record for the last one.”
“It'll take time.”
“I don't have time. Get DC to fax you a set.”
“You'll be pushing your luck for a positive ID. Prints aren't always real clear on a fax.”
“Give it a shot, Annie. I trust you. Do the fax comparison and give me your best bet. We'll worry about proof positive for court later.”
“I thought you were out of the loop on this thing. Someone said you were in the ringer big time.”
“Since when did you worry about protocol? This is important, Annie. You wouldn't let a sister down, would you?” Fey cringed at her own cheap shot.
“Jeez, Fey. A low blow, even for you.”
“You'll do it?”
“Of course. What do you want me to do when I get a result?”
“Call my beeper. I'll get back to you,” Fey said. She gave Annie the number.
�
��Hang tough, babe,” Annie said to her friend.
“I am woman, hear me snore,” Fey said, and hung up.
Having set wheels in motion, Fey finished her sandwich and headed for home. She was unsure what direction to take next in the case. She wasn't ready to confront Mike Cahill or Internal Affairs with the information she had gathered. The time would come when she had everything tied up tight, so they couldn't deny the scenario.
She gave brief thought to Isaac Cordell, but his situation was partially beyond her control. Her phone calls early in the morning before leaving the house had brought positive responses, but the whole issue was a waiting game at best. Cordell would take a run at her, Fey had no doubt. But he had the advantage of choosing the time and place. All Fey could do was wait patiently and be prepared.
Back at home, however, her thoughts about Miranda Cordell's relationship with her cat opened up a course of action. Fey rooted through her purse for her a notebook containing the entries she made while talking to Kyle Craven and the bank manager.
The account Miranda Cordell established at the bank was in the name of Monica Blake. Fey had copied down Monica Blake's details, including the address she listed as her residence in Beverly Hills.
Gathering up her purse, Fey hit the road again. Within an hour, her efforts returned a jackpot of information.
Monica Blake, aka: Miranda Goodwinter, had lived in the penthouse of an upscale apartment complex with a doormen, car jockeys, maintenance staff, managers, assistant managers, flunkies, and assistant flunkies. Fey knew the price range for typical penthouses in the area was between four and five grand a month. Killing spouses and collecting insurance policies was a lucrative profession.
Fey tracked down the complex manager, Hector Ibarra. He was a small man with a sense of self-importance and a scraggly gunfighter's mustache nowhere near as impressive as he thought it was.
“Ms. Blake had been with us for six months before she suddenly left us,” Ibarra told Fey, after she identified herself.
