Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  “I want to apologize for dragging you out here. I know you’re both busy,” Lange said after they declined anything to drink. “You can understand how disturbing it would be to have something like this happen in your home.”

  “I see you’ve added some security,” Josie said.

  “It was either that or sell the place,” he said, but those words didn’t fit the man. Josie couldn’t picture him as the sort of guy who’d run from trouble. Actually, she thought something didn’t feel right about him. He was trying too hard to be nice.

  “Do you have a new address or phone number for the former caretaker?” Behan asked.

  “Sorry no, I just wanted him out of here. Despite his denials I can’t believe he didn’t help arrange the whole party thing.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” Josie asked, beginning to wonder why he wanted them there.

  “I need to know who did this and why they picked my house. I saw you today at the Rotary,” he said, as an afterthought. For some reason, Josie blushed as if she’d been caught doing something bad. He continued, “I confronted Goldman there because I believe his son is involved, but you saw how he reacted. He denied Cory knew anything. I don’t believe that. Do you?”

  “We haven’t eliminated him as a suspect,” Behan said. “But there’s really nothing that puts him in your house that night.”

  “I know,” Lange said, running his fingers through his thick hair. “But it’s frustrating. I want you to know I’m willing to do whatever’s necessary to help solve this terrible thing. I didn’t know the girl, but no one deserves to die like that.”

  “Thank you. We appreciate your offer,” Josie said, not having a clue about what he thought he could do. In her suspicious mind, she wondered if he was attempting to redirect her attention away from the odd confrontation she’d seen between him and Goldman that afternoon.

  “Do you represent specific entertainers?” Behan asked, changing the subject.

  “Yes, but not actors, mostly musicians.”

  “Anyone on the West Coast?”

  “Of course,” Lange said. “I have a number of clients here.”

  “Any reason one of your clients might think he or she could borrow your home for the night?” Behan asked.

  Lange folded his arms and exhaled. “Surely you don’t believe I’m involved in this business except to the extent that someone broke into my home,” he said.

  Lange turned toward Josie. She didn’t want to answer for Behan, but her detective wasn’t responding so she didn’t have much choice.

  “Absolutely not,” she said, thinking that’s what he expected to hear. She believed he was as much a suspect as anyone else, but had no intention of telling him that. “We appreciate your offer of assistance, and of course we’ll keep you informed about anything that concerns you or your property.”

  “Thank you,” he said and seemed to relax. “I appreciate that. What happened here was shocking. I want to stay in L.A. and keep my businesses here, but like I told the mayor, my decision depends on how this investigation is handled.”

  After the veiled threat, he offered to show them around the property. Josie wasn’t interested. She’d had enough of Peter Lange, but Behan jumped at the invitation. The house was approximately three thousand square feet and every room was professionally decorated. She thought Behan would start drooling when they arrived in the game room where a full-sized pool table and bar were prominently displayed. From there, French doors led to the backyard which featured a small lap pool and a huge canyon view.

  When the tour was over, Lange escorted them to the front gate.

  “Is Corsino your married name?” he asked, before she could get into Behan’s car. She nodded, and he said, “Too bad, I thought we might be paisans.”

  “Change your name?” she asked.

  “My dad Giovanni Langella became Johnny Lange at Ellis Island.”

  “Pastore was my maiden name, but my dad split when I was a kid and on my mom’s side they were all hard-drinking Irish.”

  “Buono,” Lange said, laughing and hugging her. “Sorry,” he said stepping back almost as quickly. “For a second there I forgot you were a cop.”

  She looked down at her uniform. “I can see how you’d make that mistake.”

  Peter Lange stood by his front gate and watched as they drove away.

  “I’d say you smoothed his feathers,” Behan said, grinning and looking intently at the road. “How’re your feathers doing there, boss?”

  SIX

  There were two events Josie had promised to attend that evening. The first was a homeowners’ association meeting at a residence in the Hills where she assured a group of about fifty, mostly older, wealthy men and women that there wasn’t a crazed serial killer skulking in their backyards, waiting in the heavy undergrowth until they closed their eyes so he could butcher them in their sleep. She didn’t know that for a fact, but believed it was a logical deduction from the known facts in the Dennis murder.

  The meeting was down the street from Lange’s home, but he didn’t attend. His neighbors were grateful Josie came and thanked her profusely for the meager information she’d provided about the case. They had as many questions about Lange as they had about the murder in his house, wanting to know what he did for a living and describing all the strange-looking characters he entertained almost every night. Josie didn’t have any answers, but she learned from the old woman who lived next door that a police cruiser had been routinely making nightly visits before the murder.

  Josie drank a respectable amount of coffee and ate too many cookies before leaving. She was sorry she had another meeting that night because she was enjoying their company and probably would’ve stayed longer. As she got older, she was finding successful old people were fascinating, and eventually one of them always opened an expensive bottle of wine which made bullshitting sessions a lot more enjoyable. Unfortunately, many of them were easily frightened. They didn’t seem to fear death as much as departing the world at a time when they had so much of life figured out.

  Her misgivings about leaving the Hills were reinforced as soon as she arrived at the second meeting. A group of Hollywood nightclub owners had asked to get together with her about the manner in which her vice unit was enforcing ordinances in their establishments. They felt the detectives were being too heavy-handed. So that night Josie invited ten of them to come to Hollywood station and talk about it.

  It was ten p.m., the middle of the work day for these people, and the roll call room would be empty until the next patrol watch started in about an hour and a half. Josie intentionally scheduled the meeting with built-in time restrictions in a space where the seats weren’t all that comfortable. She didn’t want the gathering transforming into a bitch session. If there were real problems, the owners would be forced to address those first. Besides, she didn’t want to stay up all night listening to these guys complain when she had no intention of reining in her vice officers.

  Harry Walsh had agreed to attend, and when Josie arrived at the roll call room he was already there along with most of the owners. She knew the deputy city attorney could explain most of the convoluted ordinances better than she could, and the two of them generally made a good team.

  “Thanks for staying up so late,” she said, cornering Harry behind the rows of wooden chairs.

  “Did you invite Vince Milano?” he asked, nervously stroking his thinning hair.

  “He’s got the biggest club in Hollywood with the biggest problems.”

  “I know, but he’s such a sleazebag,” Harry whispered.

  Josie laughed. That was harsh language for the mild-mannered attorney.

  “That’s the world we work in, Harry. Frankly, this whole thing was Milano’s idea. He wants me to give him the bottom-line ground rules.”

  “Why, so he can keep ignoring them? You know Avanti’s is where most of the underage drinking goes on. That’s where Hillary Dennis and her crowd hung out.”

  Josi
e hadn’t heard that. “How do you know?”

  “Citations come through my office. They’re licensed with the city, too.”

  “If they’re that bad, why are they still open?” she asked, and when Harry smirked, she added, “Never mind.” The clubs were a rich source of tax and fee revenue for the city. Their owners contributed generously to political campaigns and pet projects.

  Minutes later, Josie joined Harry behind the desk on a raised platform where the watch commander usually sat. She looked out at the odd collection of owners, and for the first time noticed Peter Lange sitting beside Vince Milano in the second row. That explained Lange’s absence from the neighborhood meeting.

  Milano was short and stocky. He wore an expensive dark suit, but looked very uncomfortable squeezed into the tight space between his bolted seat and the immoveable roll call table. Otherwise, he and Lange could’ve been a couple of affluent bankers. The rest of the owners were a mix of cheap suits and casual work clothes.

  When Josie finished her opening remarks, the only female popped up and complained that the frequent bar checks by vice detectives were chasing away her customers. Harry politely interrupted and recounted the exact number of checks, which weren’t excessive, and noted how many of them had produced numerous violations in her club. The barrage of complaints continued for a few minutes until Milano shouted down his colleagues.

  “This is stupid,” he said to no one in particular when the room was quiet. “We need some kind of checklist of the most frequent violations so we can police ourselves. Then when the officers come, we’ll be in compliance.”

  Josie stared at him for a few seconds . . . the voice of reason. Where did that come from? When Lange reached over and jotted something on Milano’s notes, and they exchanged whispers, she surmised the lawyer had coached him.

  “I’ll have my detectives put something together for you,” she said, glancing at Peter Lange whose expression displayed just a trace of satisfaction. He had prepared his client well.

  “I also figured we might put some kinda warning in the clubs about the danger of these kids drinking and using drugs,” Milano said in his most serious, concerned citizen voice. He tried to straighten his suit, but it was pushed tight against his substantial belly and the table and wouldn’t move.

  Josie jotted down a note to herself to check with Behan if the pictures he had of Hillary and Cory Goldman were taken at Avanti’s. She knew Milano’s gesture was primarily intended to placate her and take pressure off his establishment, but it wasn’t a bad idea.

  The discussion continued until the first morning-watch uniformed officer opened the door. He peeked in and closed it as soon as he realized the room was being used. Everyone got the hint and the meeting was over. Josie thanked them and promised to have the list of the most frequently violated ordinances available in a few days. Milano volunteered to have the “don’t drink and don’t use drugs” sign designed. He agreed to show it to Josie before printing and posting it in all the clubs.

  Peter Lange waited until most of the owners were gone before approaching Josie and Harry in the hallway outside the roll call room.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said, smiling at Lange.

  “Actually, it was Vince’s idea. Maybe I helped organize his thoughts,” Lange said.

  “How long have you worked for Milano?” Harry asked.

  “Not long,” Lange said, still looking at Josie. “He’s smarter than most of them and knows he can’t continue to flaunt the law or he’ll lose his business. I think you’ll find he’s a strong ally.”

  “What does he expect in return?” Harry asked, forcing a smile, but Josie knew he was dead serious. Harry believed most of the nightclubs were fronts for organized crime. She didn’t think she agreed, but trusted Harry’s instincts enough to keep an open mind.

  Lange was unfazed. “He wants to make money. Cops in Avanti’s all the time is bad for business. Are you guys done for the night?”

  “I hope so,” Josie said.

  “Can I buy both of you a drink across the street?” Lange asked. “That restaurant has a decent bar.”

  Harry and Josie exchanged a look that said, “Is this guy serious?”

  “I’m too tired to drink. Think I’ll just go home, but thanks,” Josie said.

  “Me too,” Harry chimed in, already moving in the direction of the stairs.

  If Lange was disappointed he didn’t show it. He thanked Josie for her hospitality, apologized for missing the community meeting, and followed Harry down the stairs and out the back door.

  Josie couldn’t believe how much she wanted that drink, but knew it wasn’t going to happen. Lange was handsome and trying to be charming. He was openly flirting with her, and although she was in a sort of marriage limbo, she wasn’t going to play in the muck. Not only was he Vince Milano’s lawyer, but despite his efforts to hide it she sensed a coldhearted meanness in the man.

  She changed out of her uniform and into her jeans and sweater and drove to Pasadena. There weren’t any cars in her driveway as she approached the house and none of the lights were on inside. Jake and David were doing whatever it was they did without her. She parked in the garage, closed the door, and stood in the driveway. The neighborhood was dead quiet.

  The whole day had been packed with other people’s problems. She was tired, but this was her time, and she didn’t want to spend it alone in that house. She threw her keys in her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder. The weight of the semi-auto almost made her take the weapon out and hide it under the driver’s seat of the city car, but she decided it wouldn’t do much good under there if she needed it on her stroll to the Carriage Inn and back.

  It was midnight. Two good hours left for sipping wine and people-watching at the bar before she had to come back to an empty house.

  The Inn was respectably crowded, but she found several empty booths in the back. The waitress who looked to be barely twenty-one took her order and brought her wine and a basket of small cheese-filled puffs. Josie tried one. Garlic and onions were mixed into the mild cheese. The little hors d’oeuvres made the wine taste so much better. She’d nearly finished her second glass of Cabernet and the tasty appetizer when she spotted her son standing at the bar. He was at least a head taller than everyone else who clustered there, trying to catch the lone bartender’s attention. Josie was about to slide out of the booth and surprise him when she noticed he wasn’t alone. Sitting on the stool beside David was a skinny young man with a shaved head. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt revealing a variety of tattoos covering his arms and neck. Both ears were pierced with diamond studs. Hoping David didn’t have too many friends who looked like that, she guessed his companion was Cory Goldman. Her first reaction was disappointment. She knew her kid hardly ever listened to her, but still hoped he was smart enough to heed a sensible warning and stay away from the councilman’s son.

  Her second reaction was curiosity about Cory Goldman. She wondered what this strange-looking kid was all about. It didn’t take long to find out. When the crowd thinned, David, sitting with his back leaning against the bar, noticed Josie. She smiled, and he waved at her. He slapped Cory on the arm and must’ve told him to follow, because they both came to her booth carrying their drinks. David bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Mom, this is Cory,” he said, and slid into the seat across from her. He moved over for his friend to get in.

  Cory hesitated and seemed uncomfortable. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he said, standing near the table.

  “It’s fine. Get in,” Josie ordered, thinking it was a great opportunity. If the wine hadn’t muddled her brain too much, she might actually get some idea of what this kid was about.

  “Thanks,” Cory mumbled, but couldn’t conceal the fact that he would rather be anywhere but in that booth.

  “What are you two doing in my part of the world? I thought Hollywood was more to your taste,” she said, looking at Cory.

  “The house was
dark; I thought you’d be asleep,” David said.

  “Nope, just got home . . . had a meeting with some of the club owners. You guys spend any time in Avanti’s?”

  “Sure,” David said. “That’s the hottest place on the west side.”

  Cory glanced down at the table. He nervously rubbed a black spider tattooed on the back of his hand and scratched at his left arm.

  “You know Vince Milano?” she asked.

  “Who’s he?” David asked.

  Cory stared into his drink.

  “You know him, Cory?” she asked, tilting her head a little in an attempt to make eye contact.

  “He owns Avanti’s,” Cory said, in a tone that asked ‘how stupid can you be?’ but he didn’t volunteer more information.

  “Are you a musician, too?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, finally looking at her. His eyes were big blue empty pools with that impenetrable gaze usually reserved for con men or serial killers.

  “What do you do?” she asked him, and was tempted to add ‘besides lying around all day getting high,’ but didn’t. Her David was a smart young man. She couldn’t understand why he’d waste his time with this loser.

  “Nothing much,” Cory said, clearly not enjoying himself.

  “He’s a terrific artist,” David said.

  “How would you know,” Cory shot back. He appeared to be angry at the compliment.

  “Don’t have to be Picasso to recognize good stuff,” David said, unfazed.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Josie said, looking at David. She didn’t know why, but felt compelled to defend her son’s talent.

  Cory gulped down the remainder of his drink and mumbled, “I gotta split.” Without another word the young man was out of the booth and gone.

  “Don’t think he likes me,” Josie said when she and her son were alone.

  “Actually, he told me he’s pretty impressed with you being a police captain and all. It’s me he’s pissed at.”