by Connie Dial
Josie carefully recounted the details of the two homicides and explained how Fricke had been implicated. She tried to cover all the complicated connections.
“So what it comes down to is, I’ve got a dead teenager who might’ve had a little black book or diary of some sort with the names of very important people who bought sex with her. She decides to blackmail a few of them for extra cash and gets herself and maybe her agent killed,” Josie said without taking a breath.
“I don’t believe Donnie Fricke helped that girl buy drugs or any of it,” Harry said when Josie paused for a moment. He was stuck on that part of the story.
“I don’t either, but the allegations are serious enough that I had to take him off the street, which I think is what they really wanted; but I didn’t have much choice.”
“So, you don’t have any idea who’s in that book.”
“Cory pretty much told me his father’s there, but the councilman might not be the only participant who had something to lose if word got out he was paying to have sex with a teenager. The fact that Lange wants the book tells me Milano thinks it’s worth something, or Lange’s got another client who’s afraid he might be outed.”
“Nothing Milano does surprises me, but blackmail’s a little subtle for him,” Harry said. “He’s more the kneecap-breaking type of guy.”
“Maybe there’s something in there about him or his nephew he doesn’t want the world to know. Problem is we’ll never know if Lange finds Mouse before we do.”
“You’re assuming it’s just you and Lange looking for her diary. What if there are other former . . . what’d you call them, participants, who want it?” Harry didn’t wait for an answer. “Regardless, you’re a long way from needing my kind of help. Of course, I’ll do whatever I can, but I think if you find the diary you’ll probably find who killed that girl. And maybe I can figure out a way to avoid publicly embarrassing a lot of weak men. With Hillary dead, most likely there won’t be enough evidence to prosecute anyone anyway.”
Josie wasn’t going to argue with him because she respected Harry; but if embarrassing those men was all she could do, then she’d do it. They were creeps who’d taken advantage of a vulnerable, unstable young woman. Josie would’ve preferred throwing their sorry butts in jail for statutory rape, but ruining them would be enough if that’s all she could manage.
Remembering that Harry seldom came to her office unless there was a problem, Josie asked, “Did you want to talk to me about something besides Fricke?”
“Mostly, I was curious about Fricke . . . but.” He exhaled. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Susan Fletcher’s been sniffing around my office trying to find out what you’re up to at the needle exchange.”
“Really,” Josie said, smirking.
“Claims she’s had complaints from constituents. Although, I’m not aware of many heroin addicts who vote.”
“It must be working.”
“I didn’t hear that. She can be very nasty, so I wouldn’t poke that sleeping bear if I were you. From what you’ve told me, there’s plenty on your plate right now without provoking her.”
“With Fricke at home, the hype car’s pretty much out of commission, so she should be pacified for a while.”
“Somebody’s arresting them. I’m getting a lot of under-theinfluence reports from different cops in the vicinity of the needle exchange, not as many as Fricke, but still quite a few. Sergeant Bailey’s signing as supervisor.”
They chatted a few more minutes about other gossip in Hollywood. The local community leaders considered Josie their chief of police and Harry Walsh their private prosecutor. In their minds, Hollywood was a sovereign city and the captain at the Hollywood police station worked for them. From Josie’s perspective that was a good thing. They were her power base. Anyone who tried to screw with her would get a big loud push back. Lately, she was counting on it.
SHE WASN’T surprised that Marge had tried to keep the hype car busy while Fricke and Butler were assigned home, but from what Harry had told her they were making too many quality arrests for neophytes still learning the ropes. Josie had intended to transfer the unit back to the narcotics supervisor—but hadn’t as yet—and was suspicious about who was training and advising them, because as far as she knew Marge had no narcotics expertise.
The vice office was empty, so Josie contacted Marge on the radio and asked if they could meet somewhere. Marge responded quickly with an address Josie recognized. It was Murray’s. Big surprise, Marge was eating again.
It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, so the place wasn’t crowded. They sat at the same table Josie and Behan had occupied about a week ago, and it started her worrying again about the unstable condition of her homicide detective’s life. These days, it was complicated to talk to Marge about Behan. If that little hand-touching scene in Nora’s the other night was what it appeared to be, they were involved; and Marge might’ve been the catalyst for what was looking like his latest marriage disaster.
Sammy took their order, came back a few minutes later to take it again, but never delivered it to the kitchen. The ex-boxer had that faraway stare reaching out to touch something only he in his world of dementia could see as he left the restaurant. They waited until his son came out of the kitchen, wiped his hands on his dirty apron, and jotted down the order a third time. He didn’t even attempt to apologize for the old man’s behavior. All the regulars knew about his father’s condition, and he didn’t seem to care much about the others.
The restaurant was nearly empty except for two men dressed in business suits sitting at a table in the corner. Dirty dishes were stacked on the counter, and the other tables hadn’t been cleared. A young woman walked in and casually removed debris from the table behind Josie, placed dirty dishes on the counter, and wiped the table with a damp rag that had been left on one of the stools before she sat down. The strong smell of sautéed onions and eggs filled the small restaurant making Josie hungry again.
“Harry Walsh’s telling me the hype car’s been staying pretty active,” Josie said, trying to keep her mind off that wonderful aroma and back on the business at hand.
They’d been friends a long time, and Josie always knew when Marge was uncomfortable and at the moment she was fidgeting. The pretty woman pulled nervously at the band around her long blond hair before saying anything.
“I’ve tried to keep them busy,” she said, brushing some leftover crumbs off the table.
“I’m curious who’s training them now that Fricke’s not around?”
“The guys at narcotics have been very helpful,” Marge said, and added quickly, “Donnie had given them an excellent foundation on the basics before he left.”
“They must be good. It took me years to learn to do schematics and write reports that well. Frankly, just locating that many hypes is amazing for guys with their limited experience.”
Marge sat back, folded her arms, and stared at Josie. “What the fuck’s this about,” she asked. “If you wanna ask me something, just fucking ask.”
“Who’s helping you?”
The omelettes oozing cheese and mushrooms were delivered to the table by Sammy’s son, but neither Josie nor Marge looked at the food or moved.
“Fricke isn’t the only cop in the city that knows how to do a hype schematic,” Marge said, finally picking up a fork.
“The schematic can be faked if you’ve got a decent one to copy, but finding that many heroin addicts every night takes a lot more expertise. As far as I know, narcotics hasn’t got anybody that can do what Fricke does and I know you can’t.”
“Well, I guess you’re wrong about that because we’re doing it,” she said, and shoved a big chunk of juicy eggs into her mouth.
They were quiet for the five or ten minutes it took to devour their omelettes and those thick slices of wheat bread Sammy’s kid brought on his next trip to their table. Sammy returned as soon as they finished eating, and cleaned up all the dirty dishes, wiped the tab
les and counter, and carried on a coherent conversation with the woman behind them before disappearing into the kitchen again.
“I’m going out with your talented guys tonight because I’d really like to see them work,” Josie said, wiping the remnants of toast off her face. She’d suspected Fricke was working with them and Marge’s reaction confirmed her suspicions. “That okay with you?”
“Why not? If you don’t trust me, you can do whatever you want. It’s your division. You’re the boss.”
“I’m also not an idiot.”
Marge bent forward and her face looked pained as she tightened her mouth, scrunched her eyes nearly closed and belched, not a faint, hand-over-your-mouth, ladylike burp, but a harddrinking, taco-eating truck driver’s bellow that echoed through the small restaurant, and caused the woman behind them and the two businessmen to laugh out loud.
“Excuse me,” Marge said, offering her best Miss America smile; then glancing around the room, obviously not embarrassed, she added, “My boss gives me indigestion,” gesturing toward Josie.
“Be as gross as you want; it’s not gonna work,” Josie said. She wasn’t embarrassed that easily either.
“You’re like a goddamn booger stuck on my finger. Can’t you give me a break and let this go. We’re doing what’s got to be done. What’s the fucking problem?”
“Fricke is assigned to home for a reason. You can’t have him out there doing police work.”
“He’s not actually doing anything. He’s a kind of . . . technical advisor. Look, you want us to find Mouse, right? Well she’s not at Cory’s apartment anymore or anywhere else we’ve looked. I needed Fricke to do his magic.”
Josie twisted in her chair. She didn’t like this. Having her subordinate do the sort of crazy unconventional thing she might’ve done made her uneasy. She suddenly realized what a nightmare it must be trying to supervise her, and almost felt a little sorry for Bright.
“You know I wanna find her. What’s that got to do with Fricke playing Russian roulette with his career?”
“He’s got a snitch we arrested last night who says she’ll take him to Mouse tonight in exchange for dropping her case.”
Josie knew she should order Fricke to stay home, but was fairly certain she wasn’t going to do that. Instead, she paid the bill, told Marge not to go without her and added, “After tonight Fricke’s done moonlighting and back to his living room watching CSI reruns or some other crap on television that’s got nothing to do with real police work.”
All the way back to the station, Josie kept reminding herself how stupid it was to allow Fricke to come anywhere near Hollywood, let alone out on the street. She finally stopped worrying about it by convincing herself it would be alright because if everything turned to shit, she’d do what she always did and swear she’d told him to be there.
More and more, it was becoming difficult to shrug off her nonconformist behavior because she knew Behan was right. By always taking responsibility for well-intentioned screwups, at some juncture in the hierarchy’s thinking, she was bound to become marginalized and irrelevant.
It was late afternoon by the time she drove into the station lot, and had just parked when Behan came out the back door of the building and walked directly toward her car.
“Better not go in there, boss,” he said as soon as he got within a few yards of her, and then turned and got into his car.
Josie knocked on his driver’s window until he opened it. She wasn’t in the mood to be ordered around especially by him. “What’s going on?” she asked, sounding how she felt, a little cranky.
He was quiet for a moment, then started to speak, but hesitated before saying, “Shit . . . Bright’s inside waiting for you. The Goldman kid’s dead.” Behan reached over the console and opened the passenger door. “I’m going out to the scene. Get in.”
She heard him, but didn’t react for several seconds before asking, “What happened?”
“Get in. We’ll talk on the way.”
Josie walked around the car. Instinctively, she knew the answer to her question but wanted to be wrong. They were quiet while she buckled her seat belt, and it wasn’t until he’d gone several blocks that she asked the question again.
“Ibarra’s saying suicide,” Behan said, not looking at her.
“Ibarra?” she asked, confused, thinking he’d taken a few days off before starting his new job at Wilshire division.
“Ibarra forgot to tell the watch commander to remove his number from the file so he got the call out. He knew you were shorthanded so he responded.”
“Great, just when you think things can’t get worse.” Josie meant to be sarcastic, but the words left a bad taste. Seems there were worse things in life than dealing with an inept lieutenant.
“He said he’d hold down the fort until I got there.”
Josie stared out the passenger window. She barely knew the boy, but the idea of him taking his own life unsettled her. The only time she’d ever felt like this was when she saw abused children or animals. She couldn’t stand the thought of helpless things getting hurt or mistreated. Cory wasn’t a child, but he was vulnerable in a lot of ways and she knew her uneasiness was guilt.
They had to drive across Melrose and almost into West Hollywood to reach Cory’s apartment. Rush-hour traffic was just beginning, but the east-west streets were already backing up as the studios and production houses emptied and tourists began their nightly quest for the ideal restaurant or theater. Life wasn’t always perfect but it could be entertaining with enough distractions, she thought, and never had understood suicide. Wasn’t it like stopping a movie before you knew how it ended? It seemed to her there were enough answers or rationalizations to get a person through each day. Maybe your luck would change, or a hero would appear to confront all those impossible problems and at least make life tolerable again.
“Don’t let them dump this on you,” Behan said. “That kid was fucked-up long before we talked to him.”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t help.”
“Maybe not, but nothing we said or did made him kill himself.”
Josie knew he was right, but it didn’t make her feel any better. The sun was setting and the warming rays penetrated her window. It was going to be a beautiful evening for most people.
THERE WERE black and white cruisers, an ambulance, and the coroner’s van parked within a block of the front entrance to Cory’s apartment building on Melrose. Josie relaxed a little when she was fairly certain her son’s dilapidated Jeep wasn’t anywhere in the immediate neighborhood. The troublesome thought of David’s negative reaction to all this had been nagging at her since she got into Behan’s car. Her son had warned her about Cory’s fragile psyche. In the future, he would no doubt remind her of that admonition at every opportunity. She could handle David’s accusations; however, it would be better if his outburst didn’t occur at this particular moment in this place. She felt bad enough right now without having to deal with him, too.
There were enough uniforms and detectives around the premises to tell Josie this must’ve been an unusual death. Some cops were fascinated with the macabre and had a morbid need to stop by the scene of every bizarre demise. She herded a few of them away from the building and back to their patrol duties, pulled the uniformed sergeant aside and told him to clear the street and building and to keep any unnecessary officers away. “You’re not paid to be a spectator,” Josie told the sergeant. She was disappointed that the guy was acting like a five-year policeman and not a supervisor. She probably overreacted but wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He had to learn his new status—and bigger paychecks came with responsibilities.
The sergeant followed her and Behan into the building, and cleared the hall and the doorway to Cory’s apartment. Josie got a faint whiff of putrefying flesh mixed with turpentine before they got inside and braced for the worst. One of the detectives had a small jar of Vick’s VapoRub and she dabbed a little under her nose to counteract the smell.
; The cramped space wasn’t what she’d expected. It was relatively clean but unbearably warm and stuffy, cluttered with magazines and books stacked in piles everywhere. A large coffee can full of turpentine and a few dozen artist brushes had tipped over onto the counter between the living room and tidy kitchen. The smelly solvent was dripping onto the linoleum.
Original oil paintings covered the walls and half-finished canvasses were stacked in all the corners. Most of the pictures were dark, isolated landscapes or portraits of a man who resembled Cory’s father.
The only other area was the bedroom, where she found Ibarra standing near the bed and the body of Cory Goldman. Behan had immediately pulled his detectives aside, and they were huddled in a corner of the bedroom with the medical examiner.
“How weird is this?” Ibarra said, moving closer to her.
Josie didn’t answer. She was fixated on the corpse. Cory was lying naked on his back on top of an emerald green comforter. Lividity had begun leaving a blotchy, purplish discoloration on his legs, arms, and buttocks. Probably every other part of his body was covered with tattoos—only his genitals had been spared. Josie could see the ink continued around the sides of his body and most likely decorated his entire backside under the postmortem staining. It was a permanent bodysuit, his ultimate work of art.
Cory had carefully positioned himself on the bed with his arms outstretched so viewers got the full effect of the drawings. A white substance had dripped from the corner of his mouth to around his jaw and onto the pillow where it dried like milky vomit; otherwise, the boy’s expression seemed more at peace than Josie had ever seen it when he was alive and—similar to Hillary’s corpse—he’d died with a faint smile.