Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  There were a lot of uncertainties in her life, but the one thing Josie knew absolutely was she had no intention of walking away from police work . . . not now, not for a very long time. So, she’d have to ride out Jake’s middle-age Gandhi transformation and hope he could find his way back to her when he tuned into the real world again.

  THE NEXT morning, she was up at sunrise. Despite consuming way too much wine the prior night, she was clearheaded and eager to work. There were tiny scratches on the side of her face and on her hands, but barely visible. It pretty much looked like a light rash.

  She made a cheese omelet, hash browns and toast, ate, took a shower, called the watch commander for a black and white taxi with a uniformed driver, and was in her office at Hollywood station before any of the administrative staff arrived. The pile of paperwork on her desk and the emails on her computer had been whittled down considerably by the time her adjutant peeked around her file cabinet.

  “You look great,” he said, taking a big step into her office. “Sleep here last night?”

  “Is Behan in yet?” she asked.

  “I saw him back in detectives.” He stepped closer and stared at her face. “It’s hardly noticeable. You feel okay?”

  “Fine, thanks. Tell Behan I need to talk to him.” Last night was done and she wasn’t in the mood to rehash the details. Unless the conversation involved identifying the shooter, she wasn’t interested in talking about it.

  A few minutes later, Behan lumbered into her office looking like how she felt yesterday. Her first impression when he sat on the couch was the guy’s homeless again. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair uncombed, and he had a full-sized set of luggage under his eyes.

  “Cory Goldman’s gonna be here in half an hour,” Behan said. “What’d the old lady tell you?” he asked, but before she could answer he added, “By the way, it was idiotic to go there alone.”

  “So I’ve been told . . . many times.” She recounted everything Mrs. Dennis told her and reviewed the chain of events concluding with the shooting.

  “You get any rounds off?”

  “Never saw him.”

  “Too bad. You figure they were out to kill you or just scare you?”

  “Kill, I’d say, from the location of the hits.”

  “The only thing she told you that’s halfway interesting was Mouse coming back for something. That’s probably not enough to get shot up over.”

  “Marge’s got her people looking for Mouse. If we’re lucky we’ll find her first and get back what she took from the house.”

  “Roy Mitchell checked in. He’s still breathing.”

  “Who?”

  “Our smelly homeless witness to Misty Skylar’s demise,” Behan said.

  “He hit you up for more money?”

  Behan gave her a dirty look. He didn’t think anybody knew he’d been supporting the alley dweller, but she’d seen him in the parking lot give the bum new clothes and an envelope with cash on two occasions while she was at the gas pumps. Knowing Behan, she figured there were other handouts she hadn’t seen.

  “We need to keep him alive,” Behan said.

  “Which reminds me, did you ever show him a six-pack with photos of Fricke and Butler?”

  “He couldn’t ID either one of them.”

  Good, she thought. “Is Cory coming alone?” she asked.

  “What do you think?”

  She knew the young man would at least bring his lawyer, but Behan told her Councilman Goldman wanted to be there, too.

  “I’m surprised Bright isn’t coming,” she said, sarcastically.

  “It’s still early.”

  “You look like you spent the night in that alley under Roy Mitchell’s box. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he said as he stood up. “Your windshield’s fixed and your car’s clean and parked out back. I gotta take a shower. See you in a few minutes.”

  Behan was gone and had managed to avoid answering her question. It wasn’t necessary. Josie had seen the scenario of his crumbling marriages too many times. Last night, he’d most likely crashed somewhere other than home because either he was too drunk to drive home, or Miss Vicky’d had enough and tossed him out on his sorry ass. Josie felt bad. This had probably been his last chance to put together a decent life and have a reason and means to survive after retirement. In a lot of ways, Behan was that despondent guy standing on a ledge of a high-rise determined to jump, and she didn’t have the right words to make him change his mind. She would, of course, ask him to go to the department shrink—again—but knew even with treatment a cop’s selfdestructive behavior wasn’t easily deterred.

  By the time Josie got to the interview room, Cory, his father, and Peter Lange were sitting on one side of the room with their backs to the two-way mirror. They probably figured they were being clever, but the video camera could pick them up anywhere in the room and the mirror was actually just a mirror.

  She wasn’t surprised to see Lange. The attorney kept popping up all over this investigation like an annoying jack-in-the-box.

  “You’re representing Cory Goldman?” she asked. Not too long ago he supposedly believed Cory was involved in Hillary Dennis’s murder.

  “Mr. Lange now knows my son had nothing to do with Miss Dennis’s death and he’s agreed to represent him,” Councilman Goldman said.

  “Really . . . I’m curious, how do you know that Mr. Lange?” Josie asked.

  “I believe him, and I don’t want to see the kid get railroaded for something he didn’t do,” Lange said.

  “That’s nice,” Josie said, fighting a sarcastic remark. She guessed he was trying to get some sort of reaction from her. She faked a smile, and then, with her foot, pushed a chair out from under the table for Behan who’d just arrived. His hair was still damp, but he wore a clean dress shirt with a tie and khaki pants.

  “You’re going to have to leave,” Behan told Eli Goldman as soon as the councilman stood to shake hands. The surprised man seemed frozen in place after Behan’s pronouncement, and then turned stiffly toward Lange who cleared his throat and responded for him.

  “His son has asked him to be here.”

  “I appreciate that,” Behan said without altering his tone. “But he’s a witness in this case, and his son’s an adult, so he’ll have to leave.”

  “What if I say there won’t be an interview unless his father stays,” Lange said.

  “If Cory’s afraid to talk to us alone, then I guess you’d better take him and go home, because I’m telling you his daddy can’t be here when I talk to him. You’re his lawyer. You can stay and hold his hand, but all other extraneous support has to get out.” Behan wasn’t backing down.

  While they argued, Josie remained quiet and watched Cory. The young man was at a simmering point, clenching the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles were white. His lips were tight, and his face and shaved head were turning slightly pink. Behan was clever and had given this some thought. Cory clearly resented being treated like a child and told what to do.

  “Let’s go,” Lange said, getting up after Behan unleashed a series of polite, albeit snide remarks about Cory’s inability to think or act for himself.

  “I got a better idea. Why don’t the two of you get the hell out a here and let me talk to this dude,” Cory said, staring at the floor.

  “I don’t recommend that,” Lange said. Now he was upset. “Don’t let this cop con you into doing something stupid.”

  “Fuck off,” Cory said, not looking at the lawyer or his father.

  Josie and the councilman watched the tense scene as spectators, and at the right moment, Behan sat down and let the young man do his work for him. After several seconds of impassioned pleas from Lange, Cory stopped arguing and glared defiantly at his attorney, refusing to speak any longer.

  The elder Goldman moved hesitantly toward the door, at the same time reminding Josie that Chief Bright had agreed to let him be present for his son’s interrogation. She apologized and explained this
wasn’t going to be an interrogation. Behan simply wanted to talk “man to man” with Cory, and the young man was free to leave anytime he wanted.

  “It’s up to you, Cory. You want your dad to take you home?” Josie asked as condescendingly as she could.

  “Just go,” Cory said, turning his back to his father. Lange was already standing outside the interview room, but before departing, he stopped and glared at Josie. She could see there was substantial hate in those handsome eyes, causing her to wonder why the pricey lawyer had worked up so much passion over a goofy kid he supposedly barely knew.

  When the door closed and the three of them were alone, Cory moved closer to the table and looked directly at Josie.

  “Ten minutes and I’m fuckin’ outta here,” Cory said.

  “Good, I don’t like to waste time either,” Behan said. “Hillary’s mother wasn’t lying was she? You did threaten to kill her daughter.”

  “Yeah, so what? I didn’t do it.”

  “Why’d you threaten her?”

  “She pissed me off . . . wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  “It wasn’t sex, so what’d she want from you?”

  Cory sat back. He seemed surprised Behan knew that much about their relationship.

  “Different shit,” Cory mumbled.

  Behan banged his fist on the table. Cory jumped, surprised by the sudden loud noise. Josie wasn’t expecting it and was startled too.

  “Grow up,” Behan shouted. “Stop being such a whiny baby. You knew what she was up to. It involved your father and made you mad enough to threaten her. Somebody killed her because of it, so what was she doing?”

  Cory rubbed his arms under his baggy sweatshirt, and nervously pushed up the sleeves revealing numerous tattoos. Although the dark ink drawings were intended to cover them, Josie noticed scars on both his wrists—hesitation marks, unsuccessful suicide attempts done more for attention than a serious death wish. He had more tattoos around his neck, and studs in his ears and in one nostril. Her first reaction was, why does this kid hate himself? She saw all his body art, puncturing, and head-shaving as a kind of self-loathing. There was nothing scientific about her observation, but it seemed obvious to her that anyone with a modicum of self-esteem wouldn’t intentionally and permanently deface his body even a little bit, and this was some major mutilation . . . graffiti to protest what?

  “The bitch knew stuff about people . . . important people.” Cory spit out the words, and his mouth twisted like someone had just fed him dog shit.

  Josie sensed he wanted to talk about this. Every muscle in his body seemed to be struggling against the words, but they poured out. Nothing kept him in that room. He wasn’t being forced to say anything. His struggle was entirely internal. She didn’t say a word, afraid to change the tenuous chemistry of the interview. Behan must’ve felt the same way. He sat quietly watching, waiting for the young man to continue on his own.

  “Misty couldn’t make money in the business anymore. No major studio dude in his right mind trusted her. Her contracts were shit; all her clients were fucked-up speeders, freaks and losers.”

  Josie was aching to ask about David, but didn’t. His name hadn’t come up. She wouldn’t be the one to open that door.

  Cory crossed his arms and leaned on the table again, speaking directly to Behan. “Hilly and her so-called agent pissed away every dollar they made,” he said and hesitated, studying Behan, sizing him up. He sighed and sat back. “They knew the movie stuff was fucked, but Hilly still got plenty a cash fucking old rich guys. So, that’s it. They did all right whoring.”

  “Whores don’t usually get their brains blown out. Who wanted them dead?” Behan asked.

  Cory nervously scratched his shaved head with both hands. “The guy’s a fucking psycho,” he blurted out. He glanced up at Josie and then Behan. They weren’t asking, just waiting. “Bruno Faldi,” he said. “He works for Milano, that guy from Avanti’s you were asking me about the other night,” Cory said, looking at Josie. “Faldi and Misty were half-assed partners. The dude found kiddie whores and lined up a bunch a rich geezers. They made so much fucking money.”

  “Everybody’s getting rich. What’s the problem?” Josie asked. Her patience was wearing thin. She wanted the punch line.

  “Nobody can know I told you this,” he said, rubbing his left eye as if something was irritating it. “No fucking testifying, no signed shit, nothing. I know how you guys work and I’m not doing it.”

  “Okay,” Behan said.

  “Stupid bitches think they can go into business for themselves blackmailing rich suckers. Bruno he finds out and is fucking pissed.”

  “Blackmailing who?” Josie asked. This was something they didn’t know.

  “No way, man, I ain’t going there.”

  “Why not . . . because your father’s one of them? Is that why you threatened Hillary, to stop her from blackmailing your father?” Behan asked, but didn’t wait for a response, probably knowing he wouldn’t get one, and asked instead, “Anyone besides the two women and Bruno running the prostitution business? Was Milano involved?”

  The remarks about his father had shaken Cory, and his brain seemed to flicker off-line for a moment. He was anxious now and had trouble sitting still.

  “I told you all the shit I know. I can’t do any more.”

  “What about Hillary’s diary?” Josie asked, and Cory’s face blanched. “What do you and Mouse plan to do with it?”

  Cory stood. He was a little wobbly. “My dad didn’t do anything. You can’t tell him I said he did.” The young man wasn’t talking to them any longer. His words were a plea to anyone who would listen. He bumped into a chair, knocking it over as he scrambled out of the interview room.

  He’d told them a lot without actually revealing much, but Josie felt a little uneasy about his agitated state when he fled. According to everything she’d heard and seen, the boy was unstable at best, but this was different. She had to admit they’d taken advantage of him and clearly he had exposed himself way beyond his comfort zone . . . but still he hadn’t really been pushed that hard.

  Behan told her not to worry about it, but she did.

  SEVENTEEN

  Josie had a healthy respect for fear. Uncontrolled, it infected the mind and altered a person’s life choices. But a reasonable amount of trepidation might’ve saved her skin once or twice—when she hesitated before jumping with both feet into the middle of a dangerous situation.

  However, when someone is consumed by fear it’s different. Instead of providing an opportunity to make better decisions, it paralyzes the brain and body.

  Josie recognized the unpleasant odor of a frightened man’s sweat lingering in the interview room long after Cory had gone. She’d worked in crowded hallways serving search warrants with dozens of nervous detectives when they didn’t know what danger waited for them on the other side of a barricaded door. They were scared, but it was a healthy fear, the kind that kept cops alive. When the moment came, most of them fought to be first through the door; but there were those who hung back a little, and when everything was over, they’d have that same stench of panicked fear on them.

  She’d surmised Cory Goldman was being eaten alive by his fears. He talked to Behan to spite his father and the pushy lawyer, but at some point he was going to think about what he’d said and regret his decision. That’s what guys like Cory did. They wasted their lives regretting or hiding. Josie had to admit she was feeling a bit guilty. The boy was damaged goods and she’d taken advantage of him, but she kept reminding herself it had been for an important reason.

  THE EXPECTED call from Bright didn’t come until the following day. The deputy chief was angry and demanded a full report on why his orders hadn’t been followed. Josie calmly explained that the decision had been Cory’s. The boy insisted on talking to them alone. Nevertheless, Bright’s tirade continued for several minutes until he ordered her to be in his office the next morning with a better explanation. Josie didn’t argue. She hoped by
tomorrow his invective would lose some steam. She would pretend to be contrite, and since he was a simple man, winning the argument was usually enough for him.

  There wasn’t a lot of time to worry about Bright’s threats. As soon as Josie hung up, Deputy City Attorney Harry Walsh was tapping on her open door. It was a pleasant surprise.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Harry said, taking a few tentative steps inside the room. “Is this a bad time?”

  “Actually, it’s the perfect time,” she said, getting up and shaking hands. Harry’s sharp mind and gentle nature were exactly what she needed at the moment. The conversation with Bright had been depressing. “I’ve had a miserable morning.”

  “Sorry, I can come back.”

  “I need your advice,” she said, and saw Harry’s expression change. He looked uncomfortable.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not a personal problem.”

  He immediately relaxed and smiled. “I’m not good at giving people advice, but I enjoy police predicaments. First, may I ask why I haven’t had any arrest reports from Fricke for the last couple of days?”

  “He’s dealing with some personnel matters,” she said.

  “Not again,” Harry said, looking disappointed. The deputy city attorney claimed every time Fricke got suspended for misconduct, there was a minor crime wave in Hollywood that persisted until he got back and restored order.

  Josie closed the door and gestured for Harry to sit at the table. She’d decided to trust him because her instincts were usually pretty good about people. It probably would’ve been smarter to wait and see which city employee names popped up in Hillary’s pay-to-play diary, but she couldn’t imagine Harry involved in high-priced prostitution. She was certain now Councilman Goldman was connected, and Chief Bright’s behavior was suspicious, but if other city leaders or high-ranking police personnel were involved, she was going to need someone for legal advice.