Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  By the time Josie arrived at Hollywood station, the coffee was gone, crumbs and powdered sugar covered her lap, and she was on a caffeine-sugar high and primed to start her day.

  Lieutenant Ibarra informed her Behan was in the middle of the Dennis autopsy at the morgue, so she called him on his cell phone and told him what David had disclosed about the victim’s drug use.

  “Do I need to interview your kid?” Behan asked.

  “We’ll talk when you get back,” she said and hung up. Stupid question, she thought. Of course he would, but she didn’t like it. Knowing Behan, she figured he asked just to annoy her.

  “Hey, Captain,” Donnie Fricke said, leaning into her office from the doorway. “Got a minute?”

  “Come in,” she said, relaxing. At last, a touch of controlled insanity.

  Officer Fricke came in without Frank Butler trailing a step behind him.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “I got here early. Figured I’d let him sleep in. Me and Frankie, we turned over a lot a rocks last night.”

  “How many arrests you make?” she asked. Josie loved the way Fricke talked. He sounded like a Chicago gangster, but was born and raised in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley. She was a little uneasy about the way he made his own work schedule. She’d been lenient with him because of the special detail and his incredible productivity, but she was about to assign an immediate supervisor to his narcotics car. He and Butler were supposed to report to the lieutenant watch commander at night, but Fricke had a habit of frequently coming to work early or late depending on his target for the night.

  “It was a slow night, Cap’. We only hooked up six.”

  They both knew that number was an incredible amount of work for two officers, but Fricke had perfected an assembly-line process for booking heroin addicts.

  “You solve the Dennis murder, yet?”

  Now Fricke laughed. “No, ma’am, but we got this snitch that says she knows where Hillary copped her drugs.”

  “You tell Behan?”

  “Ain’t seen him this morning. Want us to drop her name on the guys at RHD.”

  “Give it to Behan, let him deal with downtown,” she said. “What did you promise her?”

  Fricke glanced at the floor and said, “Fifty, but we don’t gotta sweat it. The dope guys got a package on her. They’ll front the money.”

  He lingered in her office for half an hour. Fricke knew all the gossip in the division and couldn’t keep anything to himself. She listened, and in some cases was surprised by the actions of a few officers she thought she knew better. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Most cops were very intelligent with a highly developed sense of mischief. They could get themselves into some jaw-dropping adventures all in the name of fun. She figured their high jinks were a kind of pressure release valve, and tried to stay out of it unless their actions harmed someone or affected their work. Josie knew Fricke told her everything because he trusted her not to overreact. She listened to Fricke because the things she couldn’t do anything about he kept to himself.

  Fricke was barely out of the office when Sergeant Jones stepped in and said, “Chief Bright called. He wants you back at the bureau when you get a chance.”

  Josie felt a pain between her eyes as if she’d just swallowed a big chunk of ice. She had better things to do than bounce back and forth between the bureau and Hollywood station just to give ‘Not So’ something to occupy his time.

  “Call his adjutant and set something up for tomorrow morning. I’ll stop by on my way to the office.”

  The adjutant was leaving, but moved aside to let Behan enter. The big redhead didn’t acknowledge him and dropped wearily onto the chair in front of Josie’s desk. He pulled a yellow legal notepad out of his briefcase and put it on his lap.

  “Coffee?” Josie asked, grabbing her cup and waving it at the detective. Behan shook his head and thumbed through several pages in the notepad. She filled her cup from a pot in the admin office and came back.

  “When’s that guy gonna get a real job?” Behan asked, not looking up.

  “What guy?” she asked.

  “Your adjutant.”

  “He’s only been here four months. What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

  “Too salty for a sergeant with one hash mark.”

  “Five years is a lot these days, Red,” she said, closing the door. “Still too cocky . . . needs to get knocked on his ass a few times.”

  Josie recognized the crankiness that came when Behan had more alcohol than sleep, and opted to change the subject.

  “RHD object to you sitting in on the post?”

  “I trained both those guys. Besides they’re pissed off; they don’t want this loser case any more than you do. They said their boss is trying to find a way to give it back.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “Won’t know much until the labs come back, but she was shot at close range, probably with the nine millimeter we recovered near the body. No ballistics yet, and no residue on her hands. Gun’s stolen, six months ago in a burglary on Yucca, from the Palms—that dirtbag apartment building Fricke’s always rousting.”

  “Any marks?”

  “Your kid had it right. They found fresh puncture wounds on her feet and in the groin area. Looks like she might’ve tried the needle once or twice in her arm, too.”

  “Until she got smart enough to hide it.” Josie had worked narcotics for a lot of years and knew how ingenious heroin addicts could be.

  Behan flipped through the yellow notepad, searching for anything he might’ve missed. She watched him and thought he looked more haggard and stressed-out than usual. He shifted his big frame trying to get comfortable, and his hands trembled slightly as he slipped the notepad back into his briefcase.

  “RHD figures we dumped this stinker on them,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I explained how that decision got made in the rarified air staff guys breathe, not by us lowly worker bees.”

  “I want you to talk to Fricke’s snitch before we give her up to RHD.”

  Behan said, “I already told him to bring her to me as soon as he digs her up again. Wanna listen in?”

  “Maybe, but first I’m taking you to breakfast.”

  “I ate.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. I had a hamburger.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday, I guess; I’m not hungry,” he said, irritated with her interrogation.

  “Either we eat or you go home. You look like hammered shit.”

  They argued another ten minutes about where to eat, and finally Josie told him they were going to Murray’s, a hole-in-thewall coffee shop on Santa Monica Boulevard that had the best breakfast in the city. It was owned by a retired boxer from England and his gay son. Sammy, the ex-boxer, was in his late seventies and had a touch of dementia. He was a great cook, but sometimes you got your meal twice.

  It was an off-hour so they found one of the four tables empty. Josie loved the food, but hated the environment. The place was stuck on a corner surrounded by the film industry’s dreary postproduction houses where homeless bums fought teenage male prostitutes for standing room. The graffiti was crafted by mindless taggers, not rival gangs, but it looked just as ugly. Occasionally, some of the street people would wander inside, and Sammy would feed them. If they smelled too bad, he made them take their food to the plastic tables outside.

  On other days, she’d see an actor or some other celebrity sitting at the counter devouring one of Sammy’s omelets. Today, she spotted Councilwoman Susan Fletcher who, like Eli Goldman, represented sections of Hollywood. She was sitting at the far end of the counter with one of her community organizer aides. Fletcher was grossly overweight and balanced precariously on a wobbly stool. Josie glanced down and pretended not to notice her. She actually liked Fletcher, but wasn’t in the mood to talk politics.

  The smell of sautéed onions must’ve affected Behan. He ordered a sausage and cheese omelet, hash browns, sour
dough toast, and a side of pancakes. Josie drank coffee and watched him, wondering what Red ate when he was hungry. By the time he wiped his plate with the last piece of toast and drank half a pot of coffee, the color had returned to his face and his hands were steady. He sat back and opened a notch on his belt.

  Josie wanted to ask Behan what was happening to him, but knew he wouldn’t tell her. His life was a mess, but he was too proud to whine about it.

  “Thanks,” he said, finally. “Guess I needed that.”

  She smiled but didn’t ask the question she was aching to spring on him: What the hell’s wrong with you? Unfortunately, before he could open that door or volunteer any personal information, Councilwoman Fletcher was off her stool and hovering over their table.

  “Captain Corsino,” Fletcher said, and held out her chubby hand to Josie. “Thanks, Sammy,” she bellowed, waving her other hand at the cook standing across the room. The old guy ignored her and slipped into the back room. Fletcher was probably in her forties, but had an old lady appearance with her henna-colored hair cut just below her ears and curled under at the ends, and her dark matronly business suit.

  “Councilwoman,” Josie said, smiling. “Detective Behan, my homicide supervisor,” she added, pointing at Behan.

  Fletcher reached down and grabbed the detective’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said. “How’s the Dennis investigation going?” she asked, and pulled an empty chair from the table behind them. She moved it beside Behan and settled her considerable bulk without an invitation. Her preppie-looking aide, who never did get an introduction, stood, clipboard in hand, leaning against the counter. “I know Eli Goldman is terrified his son might be involved,” Fletcher said. She tried to sound concerned, but Josie caught just the slightest trace of a smile cross the woman’s plump face.

  Before her election, Fletcher was a vocal left-wing liberal; but during her first year on the council, she’d proven to be one of Josie’s strongest supporters . . . most of the time. It wasn’t friendship, but Josie and the councilwoman had a solid and respectful working relationship.

  “It’s not my investigation anymore,” Behan said.

  Fletcher turned to Josie. “Why not? I thought the girl died in Hollywood.”

  “Deputy Chief Bright gave the case to RHD,” Behan said, before Josie could think of an answer that would offer her boss some protection. She didn’t like Bright, but generally felt an obligation to shield the rank above her.

  Josie glared at Behan. She knew what he was doing. It was common knowledge Eli Goldman and Fletcher didn’t get along. They never fought in public, but behind the scenes there were rumors of threats and backstabbing recriminations. Behan was a master at pushing people’s buttons. He had to know Fletcher would suspect Goldman’s hand in the investigation’s abrupt transfer to RHD, a move which meant greater oversight and control by the chief of police, who also happened to be Eli Goldman’s good friend.

  The aide whispered something in Fletcher’s ear; she nodded, and he faded back to the counter.

  “I’ve got a meeting,” Fletcher said, grunting as she used everything within reach to get herself back on her feet. “I am not pleased with this. It doesn’t pass the smell test.” She turned to leave, stopped, came back and challenged Josie. “Did you agree with the decision to pass this investigation to RHD?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  Damn you, Behan, Josie thought, and said, “Actually, I wasn’t given a vote or I would’ve kept it.”

  They were gone, the councilwoman and her Sancho Panza on a mission to the civic center to hack down a few political windmills in the City of the Angels.

  After several seconds of painful silence, Behan put his hand over his mouth and said, “Oops.”

  “I should’ve let you starve to death,” Josie whispered.

  “Come on, I want the case back; you want it back; RHD wants to give it back, so everybody’s happy.”

  “Everybody except that deputy chief guy who can transfer my ass to Jail division for the rest of my career.”

  “They’re not gonna know it was you.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Josie said, tossing twenty dollars on the table. “It was my big-mouthed, conniving D-III.” She actually wasn’t all that angry, which surprised her. There would be some questions, but she hadn’t initiated anything. Councilwoman Fletcher would do all the dirty work, ask embarrassing questions and make accusations until the chief either gave in and returned the investigation to Hollywood, or got angry and went after the culprit who’d talked to Fletcher. It was a crap shoot, but Josie knew the chief of police was too smart to make Susan Fletcher an enemy.

  It didn’t take long to find out. Behan was driving them back to Hollywood station when Josie got a message on her Blackberry from Bright’s adjutant to go code-three, emergency speed, to West bureau. If she were in a more charitable mood, Josie might’ve had Behan drop her at the station, and she would’ve gone alone, but somehow it seemed appropriate that he face the firing squad with her.

  “Are you okay?” she asked after several minutes of watching Behan drive too slowly without a word of conversation.

  “I hate the bureau.”

  “You know what I mean. Something’s going on with you. Can I help?”

  “You can stop asking me if I’m okay.”

  “I’m not going to do that. What else?”

  “Pay my alimony and child support.”

  “Why do you keep marrying these women? Why don’t you just live with them like everybody else? That way when you break up you don’t have to support them and their kids for the rest of your life. She takes the wide-screen TV; you get the dog, and it’s over.”

  “I’m Irish Catholic. That’s what we do.”

  “You need money?”

  “Yeah, but not from you. Don’t worry about it. I got a plan.”

  Now Josie was worried. “Am I gonna start getting reports of some big, grumpy, red-headed bank robber?”

  “Better. I know this very rich, very old widow who’s about to become the next Mrs. Phillip Behan.”

  Josie slumped back in the passenger seat and stared out the window. The man was hopeless. She was grateful they’d reached the bureau before she got details about the bride or the pending marriage. Behan straightened his tie as he got out of the car and looked somewhat presentable. He always seemed to patch his life together when he was married or had decided to get married again.

  They walked past Sergeant Perry and the secretary and into Bright’s office. The chief was reading and didn’t bother to acknowledge them until he finished. When Bright saw them standing on either side of the only other chair in the room, he shouted for Perry to bring in another one. The adjutant responded immediately, arranged the furniture so everyone faced the chief and left. Josie pictured Perry kissing Bright’s ass and twirling out of the room. She smiled at the mental image.

  “Something funny, Captain?” Bright asked her. He wasn’t pleased.

  “No,” Josie said, trying not to look at Behan. “Guess I’m just in a good mood.”

  “Enjoy it. It won’t last,” Bright said.

  “Why’s that?” Josie asked as innocently as she could. “You’re getting the Dennis investigation back.”

  “I thought RHD had it,” she said, giving Behan a look that warned him not to say a word. This was her show.

  “The chief wants your people to handle it.”

  Josie turned toward Behan and asked, “How’s your workload?”

  Before Behan could respond, Bright said, “This isn’t negotiable. It’s yours.” He was visibly irritated.

  “We’ll pick up the homicide book and start today,” Josie said with a forced smile.

  Bright reached into the side desk drawer, handed a large binder to Behan and said, “Just remember, I’m really in charge of this investigation. I want to be informed on every move you make. I don’t want any blunders on this one.”

  Josie could feel herself blushing and knew it was frustration. She knew bet
ter than to let anything Bright said bother her, but this did. The man knew nothing about criminal investigations. He was a careerist who hadn’t worked at anything for years except his next promotion, and he certainly didn’t know how to manage a homicide case. She didn’t say anything but heard Behan, always the loyal soldier, respond.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Anything else?” Josie asked, standing.

  “Rating report,” he said, removing a folder from his desk drawer, then immediately tossed it back. “Just remembered, I can’t do that now . . . got to leave early. Have Sandy put you on my calendar for early tomorrow morning,” he said to Josie.

  She nodded and left his office, stopped at the secretary’s desk and got penciled in for the next morning. Behan was chatting with one of the young record clerks, but Josie wanted to leave and said she’d wait for him by the car. She could feel the anger and disappointment simmering inside her, and it wasn’t just the investigation. Josie never expected or wanted to promote higher than area captain, but she wanted a fair evaluation of her work. She’d labored too hard to have someone like ‘Not So’ assess her performance.

  She leaned against Behan’s vehicle. The fresh air and a light breeze cleared her head. Maybe she was making too much of something that really wasn’t all that important. If the rating wasn’t fair, she’d fight it. She gazed at the black and white patrol cars returning to the division’s parking lot one by one until they were lined up by the back door of Wilshire station. It was a change of watch. The returning officers cleaned out their cars, joked or shared information with the men and women who would work the p.m. watch, some of the dodgiest hours to patrol L.A.’s streets. Josie always marveled at how nonchalant and relaxed they could be about such a dangerous job. She liked watching them; it put the world back into perspective.