Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  “Really,” she said and sat back. She’d used one of those words that made people either tell you everything or change the subject. She was too tired to be clever.

  David parroted her. “Really,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. He was definitely her kid. “Doesn’t get it when somebody’s trying to help. The guy’s a mess.”

  “I guessed as much,” she said.

  “His dad’s a jerk; mom’s gone; he’s got zero self-esteem and a shit-pot full of talent he has no idea how to use. That’s why Hillary glommed on to him. He’s so insecure he’d do anything she said.”

  “Thought he dumped her.”

  “He did, but not before she did serious damage. He’s still confused by all that.”

  “Enough to kill her.”

  David shook his head. “He’d kill himself first. That’s why I won’t walk out on him.”

  “How good an artist is he?” she asked. “As good as you?”

  “Hundred times better. His dad sent him to some art school in Italy when he was in high school. They thought he was the second coming of Michelangelo, but as soon as he started getting some attention he ran away. His dad hired a private detective who found him snorting coke, living on the streets in Venice, and dragged him home.”

  “I know you feel sorry for him, but don’t let Cory drag you into something you can’t handle.”

  David sighed and got up wearily. “Don’t know why I try. In a million years, somebody like you couldn’t understand a guy like Cory.” He gently hugged her, said “night, Mom” and was gone.

  Within seconds of his departure, the bar lights flashed. Josie left half a glass of wine on the table and stepped outside to a welcome blast of cold air that splashed against her face, reviving her long enough to make the short walk home.

  No cars in the driveway. She went inside the house and turned on all the downstairs lights. Dark rooms depressed her. The words ‘somebody like you’ kept replaying in her mind. Who did David think she was, Josie wondered. Her biggest fear was David wasn’t somebody like her.

  She went upstairs and fell into bed. She’d intended to get up in a few minutes, put on her nightgown and brush her teeth. None of that happened. Josie woke at seven a.m., fully rested, still wearing her jeans with her purse tucked under her arm.

  After a few minutes of lounging in bed, she got up and took a shower. It felt great, but she couldn’t stop thinking about her son’s comment. Following the tirades of his teenage years, she should’ve been way beyond feeling hurt over anything he said, but at his age he should know better. It bothered Josie that he was willing to forgive Cory just about anything, but wouldn’t cut her any slack.

  Downstairs all the lights were still on from last night. She went from room to room switching them off. She’d already decided to send all the utility bills to Jake as soon as she got an address for him. Keeping the lights on was the least he could do until he found himself.

  She wanted to talk with Behan but knew she’d better stop at the bureau first. Her appointment to review her rating with Bright was at nine. The handsome Sergeant Perry wasn’t at his desk, but Bright’s secretary greeted her with an invitation to sit in the conference room where there was a fresh pot of coffee and muffins. Josie found a clean coffee mug and filled it. She rummaged through the muffins and found a big blueberry one that she’d half-finished when Bright walked in.

  “Morning, Chief,” she said, before stuffing another large chunk of muffin in her mouth.

  “How do you stay so thin eating like that?” he asked, looking disgusted. She knew he ran a couple of miles every morning, but still had a respectable potbelly.

  “Nervous energy, it burns calories.”

  He put a red folder in front of her. “I’ll give you a few minutes to review this,” Bright said, moving toward the door. “Then we’ll discuss it.”

  As soon as he left, Josie opened the folder and started reading. Overall, it wasn’t a bad rating. It wasn’t great either, and noted several areas that needed improvement such as working with the bureau. In so many words, the rating said she wasn’t satisfactorily promoting the department’s goals. She closed the folder, sat back and waited for his return.

  A few months ago, Bright had made the mistake of putting together a binder on the crime stats, overtime hours, response times, filing rates, etc., comparing his four West bureau divisions. Hollywood had excelled in every category.

  As soon as Bright sat down, Josie started quoting the report. She asked him to explain what he based his evaluation on if these numbers were correct. He didn’t know.

  “We believe you’re too close to the officers,” he said weakly, concentrating on twisting a paper clip.

  “Who’s we, and what does that mean?” she asked.

  “You’re too lenient with discipline.”

  She demanded he produce a single case where she hadn’t given the appropriate penalty for misconduct. He couldn’t.

  Josie confronted him on every item that wasn’t rated correctly or high enough, and he backed down. It was obvious to her that he couldn’t defend it. Finally, after nearly an hour, he took the evaluation from her hands and shoved it back into the folder.

  “This needs work. My secretary will call you when it’s ready,” he said, clearly irritated, and left her in the conference room. He’d lost the battle and wasn’t happy.

  She filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and took another muffin. Bright’s secretary smiled at her when she came out of the conference room.

  “Have a nice day, Captain,” the secretary said, with a broad smile.

  Josie grinned and said, “I am.”

  SHE ENTERED the back door of Hollywood station and went directly to Behan’s desk. They discussed Lange’s association with Vince Milano and agreed the attorney now seemed more interesting than he had appeared at first. Josie was telling him about the neighbor’s statement about the police car at Lange’s house and her chance meeting with Cory Goldman in Pasadena, when Lieutenant Ibarra sauntered across the room.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Chief Bright,” he said, standing behind Behan and attempting to read paperwork on the big detective’s desk. “Anything new for the briefing?”

  Ibarra considered himself a ladies’ man, and Josie could smell his heavy cologne or aftershave from the other side of the desk. His shirt was tailored and fit his slender frame like a latex glove. She had to admit he was a friendly, usually likeable guy, but she needed a better manager. If he knew how to do his job, she could put up with his little idiosyncrasies.

  “Can’t find the bum living behind the bar and Fricke’s snitch has disappeared,” Behan said. “Bright’s heard everything else at least twice.”

  “That’s something,” Ibarra said and asked, “What about the councilman’s kid, nothing new on him?”

  “No,” Josie said before Behan could respond. At the right time, she would tell Bright about her son’s connection to Cory Goldman. That revelation wasn’t something she’d entrust to Ibarra. Besides, she wasn’t certain what David’s role was in all of this other than his friendship with the councilman’s son. She was beginning to think she might never understand her son’s world, where young adults didn’t plan their lives beyond the moment. She knew her son wasn’t like that, but for some reason he didn’t reject those people either.

  “You haven’t told the bureau about your kid,” Behan said, when Ibarra had returned to his office.

  “Have you interviewed David?”

  “He’s coming in this afternoon. I’m not expecting much.”

  “Don’t tell me about it. Just do what you’ve got to do.”

  Josie got up. She would talk to Bright tomorrow. At least now she could tell her boss that David had known both victims, but he’d been interviewed like any other witness. To demonstrate her determination not to interfere, Josie would tell Bright he’d have to get details of David’s interview from Ibarra or Behan to prevent a conflict of interest since she would have heard none of it.
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  Josie was annoyed. She hated being on the defensive, but her son’s actions had put her in a bad position, possibly tainted her reputation. She wouldn’t believe he’d intended to hurt her, but nevertheless, here she was having to explain his flaky lifestyle.

  THE CHIEF of police had scheduled a meeting for all department captains that afternoon at the Police Administration Building downtown. He was a numbers guy and was happy as long as crime was going down. Josie firmly believed the police department had very little to do with crime trends. However, she’d been a manager in the LAPD long enough to know if you wanted to survive, you played the game, so she regurgitated her stats and claimed victory over the evildoers in Hollywood.

  She left the police building and drove away from downtown L.A. in heavy rush-hour traffic thinking there were so many important things she could’ve been doing with that time.

  By the time she got off the freeway, it was dark. She drove straight down Cahuenga and past the police station. She’d scheduled a meeting with Councilwoman Fletcher for Monday morning and wanted some firsthand information about the needle exchange center on Santa Monica Boulevard. Fletcher was reluctant to support her, but the needle exchange had become a spawning ground for drug-induced crime in that area, and Josie wanted it shut down. Burglaries and car break-ins were rampant, and Fricke complained conditions were getting worse. Josie figured as long as she was out, she’d see if it was as bad as he said.

  According to her officers, employees at the exchange were handing out bundles of needles to anyone who asked. They were supposed to take a dirty needle and give a clean one in return. Some customers were given ten or twenty needles, and they turned around and sold those needles to addicts who were either afraid or too lazy to go to the exchange, or too stupid to realize they could get one for nothing.

  The center was situated in an RV parked on an empty lot on Santa Monica Boulevard near Western. A light was on inside and a couple of dozen shady-looking characters were scattered around the lot. Josie parked a block away and watched. A streetlight was directly over the vehicle, and two tripods with floodlights had been placed near the RV door. There was plenty of activity in the parking lot, but no one approached the vehicle. After half an hour, a woman wearing a white oversized lab coat came out of the RV and stood on the top step. She lit a cigarette and leaned against a flimsy railing. With her binoculars, Josie could identify the woman’s familiar symptoms—slow deliberate movements, droopy eyelids, scratching her arms and face, the head nodding. It would be difficult for Josie not to recognize a fullblown heroin addict after all her years as a dope cop. This wasn’t what she’d expected to see, but it would do and should help get this place closed down. She tried to see the name tag on the lab coat, but it was covered by folds of material. She memorized the woman’s description: thin, bad complexion, stringy brown hair, black-rimmed glasses, and average height. Normally, she would’ve had a narcotics detective arrest her for being under the influence, but the political ramifications would be horrendous. Councilwoman Fletcher had decreed the needle exchange off-limits for law enforcement. Any arrests within a block of the RV would be heavily criticized. Josie was savvy enough to pick her fights. There might come a time when she would be willing to fight that battle, but not yet.

  She started the car and was about to back up when someone else came out of the RV. She quickly put the car in park and picked up the binoculars again. It was a smaller woman who maneuvered around the mellow addict and stepped down to the parking lot. Josie immediately recognized the vine tattoo that ran from her ankle to the top of her very short shorts. Mouse carried a brown paper bag that she stuffed into her purse as she scampered across the parking lot, and was out of sight before Josie could pick up her radio. She finally managed to get Fricke on the air and asked him to meet her several blocks from the needle exchange in a Starbucks parking lot.

  Josie had barely arrived when the black and white police vehicle pulled in beside her car. She explained what she’d seen at the needle exchange, but cautioned Fricke and his partner not to stake out the center, explaining she didn’t want to deal with the repercussions if they made an arrest anywhere near it.

  “Mouse is back in the area. I want you to take some time and find out what she’s up to. Maybe she’ll take you to Little Joe,” she said, as they stood near her car drinking the coffee she bought. “My guess is that paper bag was full of syringes.”

  “Makes a few bucks, supports her habit,” Fricke said. “Hypes sell anything that ain’t nailed down.”

  Donnie Fricke wasn’t his usual animated self tonight, and his partner kicked at the police car’s back tire while staring out over the boulevard. They looked like a married couple that just had a fight, but were obliged to put on a good face for the relatives. Josie knew having the right partner was more critical than being married to the right person. Partners depended on each other to stay alive, and if they weren’t clicking it was a recipe for a “Fricke-up” of the worst kind.

  “You guys okay?” she asked.

  “You know, ma’am, this guy’s like a rock around my neck,” Fricke said with a forced grin. “Gotta carry him all night. It’s a burden.”

  Frank Butler didn’t react, but behaved as if he hadn’t heard the remark and remained focused on the street. Fricke was joking as usual, but Butler wasn’t responding the way he normally did.

  “I’m thinking of splitting you two up,” Josie said, trying to sound serious and getting the expected reaction.

  “What!” they shouted in unison. Frank straightened up and stood beside Fricke. He definitely heard that. They both moved closer to her, agitated and clearly unnerved.

  “Just kidding,” Josie said, raising her hands and backing away. “What are you fighting about?”

  “Nothing, it wasn’t nothing, ma’am,” Fricke mumbled, still shaken by the prospect of losing his partner. It wasn’t easy for Fricke to find someone who’d work with him every night. He was intense, and his big personality seemed to wear on everyone except Josie and Butler.

  “I want the squad to grow, train more hype cops, and get a full-time sergeant so we can make more arrests and cover longer hours. Knucklehead here thinks it’s fine the way it is, thinks we’re the only guys in the world that can do this the right way,” Frank said. “It’s too much. I’m tired. We need help.”

  He crossed his arms and stared at Fricke. Josie was stunned. She’d never heard Butler say more than a couple of words, or challenge Fricke, but she knew he had a valid point since she’d been contemplating doing what he was suggesting for several weeks. Judging by the number of arrests they made, there was enough work for a squad and supervisor.

  Josie wondered why Fricke objected to the help . . . enough to fight with his partner. Maybe he didn’t. She worried his real objection was answering to a supervisor. Fricke pretty much did what he wanted now. The constant scrutiny of a sergeant would definitely cramp his style.

  “Knucklehead?” Fricke asked, with a hurt expression. “I ain’t the one that lost my car keys tonight.”

  Josie left them outside the coffee shop arguing in their usual way, and knew everything was back to normal between them. She admired and trusted Fricke, but realized with some sadness she wasn’t as concerned about locating Mouse as she was nervous about those bad vibes growing around one of her officers.

  SEVEN

  Criminals didn’t take days off, so weekends, holidays, kids’ birthdays, and special occasions meant business as usual for most cops. Sometimes they got lucky and were given the time off, but Josie had never counted on it. She went to the office every day. Her staff didn’t come in on the weekends, but it was quiet so she usually got caught up on a week’s worth of paperwork. The bureau rarely worked on weekends, meaning there were no annoying phone calls or worthless trips to the Wilshire offices.

  The adjutant’s desk was clean, which meant Bobby Jones had dumped everything back on hers. Her adjutant was a good worker. Josie didn’t understand why Behan disliked t
he guy so much, but chalked it up to the veteran detective’s irritable disposition.

  She’d almost forgotten Behan was in Las Vegas getting married this weekend. Josie couldn’t wait to see the bride. She pictured this cranky white-haired old woman with a cane, stuffing stale wedding cake into the big grouchy redhead’s mouth. The image was so bizarre she forced herself to stop thinking about it.

  Most of the paperwork was finished and stacked on her secretary’s desk or shifted to her computer before noon. Josie straightened up her office and went upstairs to see if her vice lieutenant was working. The office was empty except for Lieutenant Marge Bailey, hunched over a computer keyboard arranging an assortment of booking photos on the monitor.

  Marge supervised the biggest vice unit in the city with a major portion of her efforts and personnel dedicated to prostitution enforcement. Hollywood had more than its share of working ladies who’d come to tinseltown by the truckload looking for fame and fortune, and when they got hungry enough settled for a dime bag and the price of a room.

  This lieutenant seemed to be the most unlikely person to run an operation as unwieldy and gritty as this one. Marge was beautyqueen gorgeous, tall, with a swimsuit-model figure and long, naturally blond hair. She was in her thirties but looked twenty, and became something of a legend in undercover vice lore as a young officer when she dressed as a hooker and tried to catch unsuspecting johns on Sunset Boulevard. This gorgeous blond stopped traffic for hours and drew an unruly crowd of admirers, causing a mini-riot. But, anyone who mistook her for anything but a dead serious cop was in for an eye-opening experience. She was an expert shot, studied martial arts and swore like a longshoreman. Josie considered her a friend, probably the only female friend she had in the department.

  “What’s up?” Marge said, still fixated on her keyboard. “You busy?”

  “Fuck, yes.”