Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

“I want that boy arrested.”

  “If detective . . .”

  “I don’t care about no goddamn detective,” she said interrupting Josie. Her eyes were filled with hate. “I want that devil’s spawn and that whore to pay for what they did to my baby.”

  She was shouting now. The adjutant got up from his desk in the outer office and came to the doorway, but Josie waved him away. She sat on the couch beside the older woman and touched her hand. The gesture seemed to jolt Mrs. Dennis back to the present.

  “I know God’s gonna punish them to burn in hell for what they done, but I need some peace of mind,” Mrs. Dennis whined, looking up at the ceiling and squeezing Josie’s hand.

  She blushed as if she had revealed too much, stood, thanked Josie for her time and left. As soon as the door to the lobby closed, Jones was out of his chair and back in the captain’s office.

  “Scary old woman,” he said.

  “Her kid’s dead. That’ll make you scary.” Josie had never worked juvenile or family crimes, but even she recognized a dysfunctional family. Hillary might’ve had good reason to find a life away from her mother.

  “Bureau called. ‘Not So’ wants to see you as soon as you’re available,” the adjutant said, grinning.

  “I told you not to call him that,” Josie said, trying to sound serious. She wasn’t fond of Deputy Chief Eric Bright and knew the officers had given him the nickname ‘Not So,’ but she insisted they at least respect the man’s rank. Police officers were intuitive and quick to label. They didn’t trust a leader who lacked experience or failed to demonstrate he or she could make sound decisions. They had decided Deputy Chief Bright fit that description.

  Josie wondered if she was the only commanding officer who worried what her officers said about her in the locker rooms or in the privacy of their patrol cars. She knew command wasn’t a popularity contest, but she needed their respect and understood in this volatile police world how little it took—a misspoken word, a moment of indecision—to lose their esteem forever.

  It was nearly noon, but Josie called the bureau and was told Bright was eating lunch at his desk today. She drove across the Westside to the Wilshire area where West bureau was located. The prospect of dealing with Bright today wasn’t pleasant, but it had to be done. As one of West bureau’s four division captains, Josie had to report to Deputy Chief Bright every day. Josie thought he ran West bureau like a preschool. She didn’t need or want his assistance or constant input. She knew how to run Hollywood, and her stats confirmed she did a good job, but Bright insisted she report daily on every routine activity. With a high profile homicide, Josie knew the deputy chief’s interference would become intolerable.

  The bureau had newer offices adjacent to the Wilshire police station. Unlike Josie, the Wilshire captain spent as much time as possible hanging around the bureau. He and Bright had lunch together several times a week. Josie was certain if she could make Ibarra appear competent, the Wilshire captain would steal him, and the bureau would bless the deal. Josie would pretend to be outraged, but she already had transfer papers in her desk for a highly respected, talented lieutenant who wanted to move to Hollywood detectives as soon as Ibarra was gone.

  Bright’s adjutant Art Perry was a tall, handsome sergeant who looked better in uniform than anyone Josie had ever seen. She didn’t know how successful he’d been as a field supervisor, but she didn’t like him. He was smug, condescending and often acted as if he were speaking for himself rather than his boss, the first cardinal sin of adjutants.

  “Morning, Art,” she said, walking past him into Eric Bright’s office. The sergeant mumbled something.

  The chief’s office was smaller than Josie’s at Hollywood. It had room for a desk and a few nearly empty bookshelves. The primary reason she never wanted to promote higher than captain was beautifully demonstrated in this office. Any rank above captain had nothing important to do except create meaningless projects and audits, or find other ways to annoy cops with real jobs.

  “Here’s all we have on the Hillary Dennis homicide and a copy of the press release,” Josie said, placing a folder on his nearly empty desk as she sat on the only other chair.

  “Sergeant Perry,” Bright shouted to his adjutant. Perry popped into the doorway. “Get the daily logs for Hollywood,” he said, ignoring Josie. She was about the same age as Chief Bright, but Josie had to admit he looked younger. He had a passion for exercise and weight training and spent a good part of his day at the Police Academy gym. He was shorter than her but wore shoes with lifts to appear taller. He couldn’t compensate, however, for a lack of command presence—that strong personality and inner strength signaling to everyone you’re in charge.

  “You need anything else?” Josie asked, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  “I finished your performance rating report,” Bright said. “But my secretary isn’t done typing it, so you’ll have to come back.”

  “No problem,” Josie said, but they both knew it was an inconvenience.

  “So, give me a briefing on this Dennis case.”

  “There’s nothing more than what’s in the report, Eric,” Josie said, pointing at the folder. She noticed him cringe a little when she used his first name instead of chief, but they were alone and she didn’t see how it could be disrespectful. They’d known each other most of their careers. They weren’t friends, but at that moment formality seemed stupid.

  “I don’t have time to go through that.”

  Josie almost laughed. How could someone who had nothing to do, not have time. She recited the morning’s events, regurgitating every detail from memory including the contents of the press release.

  “I want you to notify me before you talk to the councilman’s son or pick him up.”

  “Okay,” Josie said and almost asked why, but she knew. Councilman Goldman was Bright’s friend and mentor in city politics. Their kids went to the same school and their families lived in the same neighborhood. “Anything else?”

  “I’m not going to sign the commendation for your detectives in the bowling alley murder.”

  “Why?” Josie asked, trying to stay calm. She had written the commendation for two of Behan’s detectives who’d worked three days without sleep to arrest the killer of a young business owner. It was extraordinary police work. A bureau commendation would have given them the recognition they deserved.

  “It was, of course, a good investigation.” Bright hesitated and added, “but really doesn’t rise to the level of a bureau commendation.”

  “You’re joking,” Josie said, sarcastically. “What level is that?”

  “It’s difficult to explain, but I know it when I see it.” There was the slightest nervous break in his voice. He wasn’t comfortable being challenged.

  She wanted to argue but didn’t. It was a waste of time trying to change Bright’s mind. The man had no sense of proportion. He lived within artificial boundaries and rules he’d created because he could. It would be more productive to find another way to honor the detectives.

  “Fine,” she said, standing. “Let me know when you want me to come back.”

  She didn’t ask if Bright had anything else to discuss. She didn’t care, and wanted to leave before she made her usual mistake of saying what she was thinking. Eric Bright was her boss, and Josie knew she had to work with him. Her only hope was that the chief of police, with his penchant for playing command staff musical chairs, would shift Deputy Chief Bright somewhere away from Hollywood and out of her life.

  Bright’s adjutant was talking with the secretary and didn’t bother to acknowledge Josie when she left. She knew Sergeant Perry was the kind of guy that, if he worked for her, would be falling all over himself kissing her butt, trying to impress her. She couldn’t affect his career at the moment, so he felt comfortable being rude.

  Josie fought traffic on her way back to Hollywood station. Before she turned off LaBrea onto Sunset Boulevard, she caught a glimpse of Red’s city car parked behind the
Gables restaurant and bar, but kept driving. Drinking on duty was a major transgression, but Behan would never be stupid enough to allow her to smell alcohol on his breath or do anything that would prove he’d been drinking. He was old school and followed the code, “never make the boss clean up your mess.” Besides, he did some of his most creative thinking leaning on the Gables’ bar.

  The traffic wasn’t getting better, so she took a circuitous route back to the office in an attempt to clear her mind after the annoying meeting at the bureau. She worked her way up to Hollywood Boulevard where she parked in front of the Roosevelt Hotel, and got out when she spotted two footbeat officers struggling with a belligerent drunk. After a brief scuffle, they got him safely handcuffed and sitting on the curb. A dose of police action, even this routine stuff, always brought some balance to her life. After a taste of reality, she was ready to go back to the paperwork and deal with all the administrative bullshit.

  She walked into the Hollywood division lobby less than two hours after leaving the bureau, and was surprised to see Councilman Goldman and Chief Bright standing at the front counter. It was an unannounced visit by a boss who rarely set foot inside her station. Josie figured Goldman wanted to meet with her and had dragged Bright along for support.

  Although it would’ve only delayed the inevitable, Josie regretted her last-minute decision not to use the back entrance as soon as she saw them. Now Bright was standing in front of the security door that led to the captain’s office, waiting for the uniformed desk officer to buzz it open. The deputy chief wasn’t in uniform and never wore his identification card so the young probationary officer ignored him. Josie knew it would never occur to her boss that not every officer in the department knew who he was, so she leaned over the desk and hit the buzzer to unlock the door, allowing him to enter.

  “Deputy Chief,” Josie whispered to the young man behind the desk. He blushed and was embarrassed, but that was okay. Even if it wasn’t his fault, she wanted to keep him on his toes until he knew what he was doing. When baby cops relaxed, they got killed.

  She followed Bright and the councilman into her office. Goldman was quiet and serious. He sat on the couch and waited for the deputy chief to begin the conversation.

  “You know why we’re here,” Bright said, perusing the photos on her office wall. They weren’t the usual management décor, no certificates and college degrees, although Josie had plenty of those in a box at home. Her walls were covered with pictures of the different enforcement units she’d worked, and her favorite autographed photo was of LAPD’s last civil service chief of police in his class-A uniform. All the police chiefs after him—including the current one—had been political appointments, so displaying his image was a quiet act of rebellion, mostly because it annoyed Bright.

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Josie said, glancing at the councilman.

  “My boy had nothing to do with that business this morning,” Goldman said.

  Josie noticed he wouldn’t make eye contact with her.

  “Nevertheless, he’s a potential witness, possibly a suspect, and we’ll have to talk to him,” she said, pretending not to notice Bright’s frown.

  “I won’t have him dragged in here like a common criminal,” Goldman said. His tone raised up a few octaves. He was a tall man, but sickly pale and thin with long frizzy grey hair, a throwback to the “Sixties.” His council voting record made it clear he didn’t like the police department, and “more oversight” was his mantra, but he seemed to realize he wasn’t in any position to make demands in this situation and his conciliatory voice kicked in. “I understand you have a job to do. My son will of course cooperate, but I’d prefer that my lawyer escort him in.”

  Josie knew she’d have to be careful. Goldman seldom said what he meant and never did anything that might interfere with his political future, but he could be ruthless if he considered someone his enemy or couldn’t get his way. There was no right or wrong in his world; getting what he wanted was all that mattered.

  “Detective Behan will call and set up an interview,” Josie said. “He’ll be discreet.”

  Bright planted himself behind Josie’s desk and leaned back in her comfortable leather chair. “I’m thinking the detectives should go to your house, Eli, and avoid having your son come to a police station,” he said, looking pleased. “With all the studios around here the news media watches this station like a hawk.”

  “I’ll leave that up to Detective Behan,” she said, with a thin smile. Bright wouldn’t agree, but he wouldn’t challenge her either. He didn’t like public confrontations, but based on past experience he’d find another way to get Josie to do what he wanted. She had grown up with two older brothers and didn’t back down easily when she thought she was right. Josie knew that little personality trait really annoyed the deputy chief, because he saw any disagreement as defying his authority.

  “I warned Cory hanging around with that crowd would get him in trouble,” Goldman mumbled to no one in particular.

  “What crowd is that?” she asked, relieved to change the subject.

  The councilman looked confused as if he hadn’t intended to say what he’d been thinking.

  “You know,” Goldman said, shrugging.

  “No, don’t think I do,” Josie persisted. “Who are you talking about?”

  Bright got up and moved toward the door.

  “He and his so-called friends party all night, drink too much. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some drugs involved. He swears he doesn’t use anything now, but he’s got no ambition, no real job . . . no future, plays on that damn computer all day . . . wasted talent.” Goldman’s voice trailed off. He slid off the couch with a groan. “I’m tired of worrying about him. I’ve got a city to run and he’s twenty-two years old. It’s about time my son grew up.”

  When they left, she watched the two men walk toward the back door, whispering like a couple of delinquents who just escaped the principal’s office unscathed. They passed two uniformed officers coming the other way, but didn’t bother to acknowledge their greetings. One of the officers waited a few seconds and then dropped to his knees and bowed, touching the floor with both hands several times. A couple of clerks and the secretaries in the administrative office laughed. When Bright turned around to see what was so funny, the officer pretended to be looking under a desk for something.

  “You two get in here,” Josie ordered, and watched while Officer Donnie Fricke got off his knees. He grinned at her, and his partner Frank Butler shook his head and followed Fricke into the captain’s office. Fricke was a twelve-year veteran who was one of her most productive patrol officers, but he couldn’t manage to stay out of trouble. His partner Frank Butler was younger and a good policeman who was slowly evolving into another Fricke. One of their frustrated sergeants had coined the term “Fricked up” for when things went wrong with them, which was frequently.

  Fricke was a human bloodhound for finding bad guys and narcotics. As Hollywood’s only “hype car,” he and Butler were responsible for catching heroin addicts. They averaged thirty arrests a month and had become a legend on the seedier streets of Hollywood. The addicts referred to the two officers as Batman and Robin, and not only feared but respected them. Josie wasn’t certain the two men always played strictly by the rules, but she never got complaints from citizens and even arrestees gave them grudging respect. Fricke’s problems developed because he was fearless, always putting himself in the middle of everything and reacting immediately if not properly. He had one gear, forward, but more often than not he did the right thing or at least tried to. Butler was quiet and steady and would work twenty-four hours straight if Josie let him. A former marine, Butler was big and muscular but rarely swore or raised his voice, and had the patience of Job with his partner.

  “Get in here,” Josie said again as they slipped past her.

  Fricke pretended to be contrite, grinning as he sat in the chair in front of her desk.

  “You know Officer Butler to
ld me to do that, ma’am, or I never woulda done it,” Fricke said. Frank Butler shook his head. He’d given up a long time ago trying to straighten out his partner’s stories and lies.

  “You hear about this Hillary Dennis homicide?” Josie asked, ignoring Fricke.

  “Yeah, Red asked us to squeeze a couple a snitches,” Fricke said. “Excuse me, Detective Behan asked us,” he added, correcting himself. Josie had chided Fricke in the past for ignoring rank, but she knew it didn’t mean anything to him. Everybody was his equal except her. She was always ‘captain or ma’am.’ Any rank above or below her didn’t exist in his world. “Everybody says she was strictly a party girl, liked booze and rich old men.”

  “What about this Goldman kid?” she asked.

  Fricke whistled and rolled his eyes back.

  “The guy’s freaky. Got that whole Gothic thing going with the black outfits all tattooed and pierced up, head shaved,” Fricke said. “But he’s into boys.”

  “Pedophile?”

  Butler shook his head and said, “No, ma’am, big boys, occasionally girls. I checked his rap sheet, nothing but the three ‘d’s’—disorderly, drunk and drugs.”

  “What’s Detective Behan think?” Josie knew as soon as she asked she should’ve saved that question for Behan.

  “He ain’t saying,” Fricke said.

  She chatted with the two officers for a few more minutes. Fricke was brutally honest, and after twelve years on the force remained in the lowest rank of police officer, insisting he didn’t care as long as “he could keep putting assholes in jail.” Josie always wondered why she liked this man so much considering all his imperfections, and finally decided it was because in a lot of ways he was her twenty years ago without the survival instincts.

  “We’re gonna shake some bushes out there tonight, Cap’, and see what we can get for Red,” Fricke said on his way out. Butler silently tagged along, staring at the floor until he was in the hallway where he playfully slapped Fricke on the back of his head.

  Her intercom buzzed. It was Behan.