Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  She let the man finish his briefing, then directed him back to detectives, knowing Behan would be in her office as soon as the guy left the building. Her detective wasn’t fond of I.A., and she was certain this particular I.A. sergeant wouldn’t impress the cranky redhead. In less than an hour Behan was standing in front of her desk.

  “This is never gonna work,” Behan said before she could speak.

  “Not with the whole world knowing about it,” she said, gesturing for him to sit.

  “Fricke’s too smart. He’ll figure it out before they start. It’s a waste of time.”

  “We need to find this Little Joe. Put everybody you can spare on it; use the narcotics squad. Get him in here before he disappears too,” she said. “Better yet, ask Marge Bailey to use her people.”

  “She’s already got some of her guys following Mouse.”

  “It’s all connected. We’ve got to find him while he’s still breathing. I don’t want Donnie Fricke taking the fall because we’re too inept to catch the real killer.”

  Behan looked uncomfortable. He ran his hand over his unruly mop of hair.

  “I know you like him, but don’t be too quick to exonerate Fricke,” Behan said, staring at his hands. “I’ve seen better cops than him do some pretty stupid things.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Red. You and I both know the difference between someone like Fricke and a bad cop.”

  “I’m just saying sometimes guys like Fricke stop knowing the difference.”

  She knew he was right, but hated the idea she could be so wrong about someone she trusted.

  “What the fuck is that smell?” Behan shouted, jumping up, covering his mouth and nose with both hands.

  Josie stared at him for a few seconds until the odor reached her. A stink worse than decomposing bodies suddenly polluted the air. She heard a chorus of groaning, angry voices from her administrative staff before Behan opened her door, and the full impact of the disgusting stench hit her.

  “We opened all the doors and put some fans in the hallway. They’re gonna stick him in the showers and give him some clothes from the bin,” the uniformed watch commander said, talking through a paper towel covering his nose and mouth.

  “What the hell is he?” Behan asked, coughing.

  “Some homeless guy. The officers said they picked him up for you . . . Roy something,” the lieutenant said, lifting the paper a little to test the air.

  Josie left them in the watch commander’s office and joined most of the division’s personnel in the parking lot. She’d been around a lot of bums, but Roy Mitchell was without a doubt the most wretched-smelling human being who was still breathing. Standing in the clean air, she took several long, deep breaths in an attempt to get the man’s body odor out of her nostrils. Her stomach was churning, and she was grateful she hadn’t eaten enough to vomit.

  Thirty minutes later the faint odor of Roy Mitchell still lingered in the station, but the homeless man was sitting in the interview room with dripping wet clean hair and his leathery skin scrubbed almost clean by the hard antiseptic jail soap. His hands and nails and the tiny crevices in his stubbled face still had traces of caked dirt, but the horrible smell was gone. Josie watched as Behan sat across the table from Mitchell, who readily admitted living in the box in the alley behind the bar where Misty Skylar was killed.

  “I seen the lady and two guys come outta the bar,” Mitchell said, sucking on his lip as he spoke. Two of his upper teeth were missing, and he had a nervous, annoying habit of drawing his lip into the vacuum.

  “Had you seen any of them before?” Behan asked.

  “Nope, but nobody ’cept the bar lady hardly never comes out that way. I was tryin’ to sleep, but they’re yellin’ an’ I start to crawl outta my box to tell ’em to get the fuck outta my alley when I sees this lady on her knees, an’ next thing there’s this bang and she falls over . . .”

  “Hold on,” Behan said, interrupting. “Not so fast. Take your time so you don’t skip anything.”

  Mitchell was getting increasingly anxious as he told his story, tugging at his hair and leaning on the table until he could nearly touch Behan.

  “Bad dudes,” Mitchell mumbled. He slumped back and scratched his head. Josie and Behan both backed away. Red was probably thinking the same thing she was. The man had head lice. Even the potent jail soap couldn’t kill those little critters.

  Behan coaxed as many details as he could from the homeless man. Mitchell had seen two men arguing with Misty Skylar. He wasn’t always coherent. At first, he couldn’t identify them, and then a few minutes later maybe he could and remembered the shooter was a big man, at least a foot taller than Misty. The shooter took the gun from what looked like a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. The men dragged the dead woman from where she died and propped her against the back wall of the bar. They were laughing as they arranged the body and tossed her shoes and purse in the dumpster.

  “The big one he spots my box, an’ come over where I’m laying. I act dead drunk . . . fucker kicks me in the stomach anyhow . . . hurt real bad, but I don’t scream or nothing, don’t do nothing.”

  “He left you there?” Josie asked.

  “Yeah, laughs, got a ugly laugh, says I must be dead ’cuz no live man stinks so bad, like a pile a dog shit, he says.”

  “Can you remember anything about him or the other guy? You see a car or unique jewelry? Did they talk funny, have an accent or anything? Were they black or white?” Behan asked. Josie could hear the frustration in his voice, the need for precious details.

  “Both of ’em white dudes, I think. Other one’s kinda pretty though, like a big woman, but sounded like a guy,” Mitchell said. “The way they talk I kinda figured they might be cops.”

  He avoided direct eye contact with Behan and nervously rubbed the back of his arm as his lip-sucking accelerated. Clearly, Josie thought, he believed the men were cops, and it was difficult for him to talk about it.

  “What do you mean?” Behan asked, looking up at Josie. “

  Dunno,” he mumbled. “Just kinda figured they was cops, the way you guys move and stuff . . . him having the gun under his coat ’n’ all.”

  Now Mitchell rocked a bit back and forth, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. He was scared, and it had probably taken every remnant of courage he possessed to reveal that last piece of information. Josie didn’t know what her detective thought, but she believed the man. Street people had an uncanny talent for knowing the police.

  They tried to get the bum’s wine-soaked brain to remember more, but it was futile. Roy Mitchell said he hadn’t returned to his box in the alley because he was afraid those men would come back and kill him. He hadn’t gone to the police station because he was afraid if the killers were cops, other cops would kill him.

  “So why talk to us now?” Josie asked.

  “I kin see you ain’t no badass, lady. There’s some . . .” He stopped and rubbed his face with both hands. “No matter,” he said relaxing a little.

  “If we find you a safe place, will you stay there? We’ll need you to identify these guys if we ever catch them,” Josie said.

  Mitchell wiggled and stood, almost knocking over the chair. “No, can’t sleep inside, can’t breathe. Jus’ let me be . . . can’t help no more than what I done.”

  “If they think you’re a witness, those guys might hunt you down and kill you the next time,” she said, trying to scare him.

  “Gotta find me first,” Mitchell said with a toothless grin.

  Behan escorted the homeless man back to the jail, where they rummaged through the unclaimed clothes pile and found him a heavy parka and a change of clothes, including a decent pair of boots. Josie watched Mitchell leave the police building with a bundle tucked under his arm. His new wardrobe also included leather gloves and a wool cap. Behan stood on the sidewalk a few moments until Mitchell wandered across Sunset Boulevard, and then he came back into the station shaking his head and stopped near the front counter where Jo
sie was waiting.

  “Nobody should live that way,” Behan said with a sour expression, and Josie sensed he might’ve glimpsed one possible outcome of his own life. She also guessed he’d be especially attentive to the new Mrs. Behan that night.

  They went back to her office where they could talk in private. Even Josie couldn’t deny the growing likelihood that a couple of rogue cops or cop impersonators were operating within the confines of Hollywood division. As soon as Behan left, Josie called Marge Bailey who was in the captain’s office in less than a minute.

  “How’d you get here so fast . . . you loitering in the hallway?”

  “It sounded urgent,” Marge said, searching in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet where Josie kept her stash of chocolates. She found a Hershey bar. “Lunch,” she said, unwrapping it. “What’s up?”

  “Close the door,” Josie said, and saw a hint of apprehension on Marge’s face. “I’m expanding the number of officers on the hype car and giving it to you . . . with another supervisor.”

  Marge chewed slowly and swallowed the chocolate. She didn’t speak but stopped eating and dropped onto the couch.

  “It’s a joke right?” she asked, after several seconds.

  “No, I want them reporting directly to you, start and end of watch.”

  “If that’s what you want, you know I’ll do it, but wouldn’t it make more sense to give that mess to the narcotics team?”

  “I trust you more than narco. Besides, they’ve got something else to do for Behan.”

  “Okay,” she said. “So, how’d Donnie Fricke fuck up this time?”

  “I’ll tell you, but only because the bureau knows, which means by now everybody knows.” Josie told Marge what the I.A. sergeant had revealed that afternoon about the investigation on Fricke and decided to give her everything Behan had learned from Roy Mitchell and Mouse.

  “So we got a couple of bad cops or assholes pretending to be cops,” Marge said when Josie had finished. “I’ll ride herd on Fricke’s ass, no problem. What about Frank Butler?”

  “Same,” Josie said.

  “Too bad, I like him . . . actually offered him a job when he gets tired of cleaning up after Fricke.”

  Marge said she would coordinate with Behan and the I.A. sergeant on Fricke’s surveillance, and continue to keep watch on Mouse who rarely wandered from the Melrose apartment these days.

  Behan peeked around the file cabinet but left quickly when he saw Marge was talking to Josie.

  “I’m outta here,” Marge said, snatching another chocolate bar from the filing cabinet. “I liked Red better when he was fuckedup. He’s so goddamn happy lately it’s nauseating.”

  Josie grinned. “Keep in touch.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry ’bout me, boss—you just see if you can come up with a few more ways to fuck up my life,” Marge said, saluting as she left.

  When Josie got up, she saw Marge had cornered Behan in the outer admin office. They were huddled away from the staff, whispering, but it was a heated discussion. Finally, Marge stomped off and Behan came into Josie’s office.

  “What was that about?” Josie asked. She didn’t understand why two good cops couldn’t get along. Their bickering was becoming an irritating distraction.

  Behan seemed reluctant to talk about it, but when he realized Josie wasn’t going to let it go, he said, “Marge thinks I need to take a closer look at Lange and Milano for the Dennis and Skylar homicides. I got nothing that points to either one of them, but little Miss Potty Mouth’s convinced they’re dirty. That woman’s like a pit bull locked on your balls when she thinks she’s right.”

  “They’re probably dirty for lots of things,” Josie said. “I can’t see how we can connect them to those murders, but I’m not ready to write them off yet either—and I’d still like to know more about both of them. I asked Marge to get some background info.” She stood and stretched. Her back and neck were aching from a lack of exercise. Jake had a treadmill and stationary bike in the spare bedroom. She vowed to use them before dinner that night and immediately dismissed the thought. She’d ignored that resolution at least three times a week.

  “That wasn’t the reason I wanted to see you,” Behan said. “I’m going to interview Carlton Buck tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Buck, the retired sergeant that runs the security firm where half your division works off-duty.”

  “Before you interview Howard Owens?”

  “Like I said, Buck’s got nothing to lose. As long as we don’t threaten his P.I. ticket, I think he’ll cooperate. Howard’s got his lieutenant job to protect. Besides, Howard’s not working tonight, and I’d like to know more about this arrangement before I confront him.”

  “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

  “Because of the personnel thing, I don’t want any of my guys involved,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Truth is I’m not sure how many of them are unofficially on Buck’s payroll. I could ask that I.A. sergeant to tag along, but I think his tight ass would just complicate everything. I don’t think I should do it alone, and Lieutenant Ibarra can’t make it. Did you want to come?”

  “Where’s Ibarra?”

  “Don’t know . . . took a couple of days off.”

  Josie felt her face flush. Ibarra hadn’t bothered to ask or even notify her that he’d be gone. This was over the line even for him. She told Behan she’d go with him but made no secret of the fact she was angry. The big redhead retreated back to detectives and Josie told her adjutant to track down Ibarra. She’d been avoiding the situation up to now, but obviously needed to have a serious come-to-Jesus moment with her detective lieutenant.

  NINE

  Ibarra called within a few minutes and apologized. He explained how he thought he had notified her in an email about his days off, and claimed he’d left the supervisor on the robbery table in charge of detectives until his return at the end of the week and had expected him to tell her.

  “Why not Behan?” Josie asked. They both knew the homicide supervisor usually stepped in when Ibarra was gone.

  “I figured he’s got enough on his plate,” Ibarra said and quickly added, “Look I’m sorry if you didn’t get my email, but I’m taking vacation time. It’s only a few days.” His attitude made it clear he thought she was overreacting. “I’ll come back if you really need me.”

  “No,” Josie said, thinking if it were possible she’d rather have him somewhere else most of the time. “Next time tell me face-to-face when you take off, so I don’t hear it for the first time from one of your subordinates. We’ll discuss this when you get back. Where are you?”

  Ibarra stuttered, searching for the right words, and finally said, “I’ve got some personal stuff I have to take care of.”

  He apologized again, and she ended the conversation. She was positive if she asked the robbery supervisor, he’d say he didn’t know he was in charge until a few minutes before Ibarra called her, and the email she didn’t get was never sent. When Ibarra came back from vacation she’d tell him to look for another job. She was done with him and couldn’t wait any longer for the Wilshire captain to work up the gumption to steal him.

  It was early evening before Behan could arrange a meeting with Carlton Buck. The P.I. invited them to his office on the top floor of a building on Sawtelle Avenue in West L.A. Josie knew from the address it was only a few blocks from the West L.A. police station.

  Buck’s building was a modern granite and glass structure, six stories high, which covered most of the corner lot where it was located. From the outside, Josie could see the lights were on in the top floor windows, but most of the other offices on the lower floors were dark. There was a sign out front advertising office space for lease, and the large underground parking garage had two cars, both parked near the elevator in spaces marked for Buck, Inc. One of them was a new Porsche Carrera 911 similar to Jake’s.

  The lobby had a fresh coat of paint and a new carpet smell. The hall was empty when Josie and
Behan got off the elevator on the sixth floor. A tasteful bronze plaque with the words “Carlton Buck, Inc.” was mounted on the wall between the two elevator doors, and his name was stenciled on the glass doors leading to the receptionist’s desk. Behan entered a code Buck had given him earlier into the keypad on the wall near the doors. Once inside, they noticed there was no one at the front desk, and a large room with several cubicles was also unoccupied.

  They walked around the empty space and through a hallway with pictures of several downtown and Hollywood locations. Josie thought everything looked expensive and more to a lawyer’s taste than a private investigator. Eventually they arrived at a door with Buck’s name engraved in the wood. His secretary’s desk was empty so Behan knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a man’s voice shouted from inside.

  They entered and were greeted by a well-dressed, stocky bald man with wire-rimmed glasses. When he reached out to shake hands his suit jacket opened a little, and Josie could see he was not only a little overweight but carried a semi-auto handgun. His office was spacious, decorated with mahogany furniture and walnut shelves well-stocked with an assortment of law books and boxed files. His desk was covered with file folders and paperwork, but he had a long glass table in front of the floor to ceiling windows. Josie pulled out a leather chair and sat facing the view which was magnificent—the Century City skyline and, in the distance, the lights of downtown L.A.

  Buck invited them to help themselves to an assortment of small crackers and cheese stacked in a tray at the center of the table, and he poured three glasses of sparkling water without asking.

  “Sorry I didn’t meet you out front,” he said, dropping into the chair beside Josie. “I couldn’t get a client off the phone. But I figured being cops you’d find your way back here.”