Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  Behan pulled her off the cot and made her sit on one of the larger boxes.

  “How you doing, Sara Jean?” Fricke asked, using Mouse’s real name as he dragged another crate closer so he could sit facing her. He lifted her left arm, palm up, and rested it on his knee. She was limp and compliant. “Don’t even need my light for this one,” he said, pointing at an abscess on her forearm. Josie leaned over and could see that the puncture wound at the injection site was raised slightly on the ugly red boil, and was still oozing pinkish fluid. Mouse’s veins had collapsed from frequent injections, leaving long purplish scars from her wrist to her elbow. She was a classic hype—speaking slowly, scratching her face and hands, and her pupils were half the size of everyone else’s in the dimly lit shed. Fricke chatted with her as he continued to examine her arms, hands, neck, and legs. The little woman had deteriorated badly since the last time Josie had seen her. Her bleached hair was tangled and dried out with her natural dark brown roots extending four inches from her scalp. Dirt was caked under her chewed brittle-looking nails.

  “You’re going to jail, Sara Jean,” Fricke said, trying to rouse her from the heroin euphoria. When that didn’t get a reaction, he added, “Not that nice clean country club the sheriff’s got . . . I’m gonna book you in our city jail where we ain’t got all those nice drugs that’ll keep you from throwing up and shitting all over yourself when the junk stops working.”

  Her face-scratching accelerated and Mouse fidgeted on the box, fought the drug’s effects and tried to stay conscious and alert.

  “I can do something for you,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  “I don’t think so. We got enough junk left in that bag to file possession . . . we got your works,” Fricke said, gesturing toward the table with the needle and spoon. “It’d have to be something pretty fucking fantastic.”

  “Wh . . . what d’you want,” she stuttered, looking around at Josie, seeming confused and slowly shaking her head. But even in her stupor, Mouse knew which of them was in charge and controlled her fate.

  “Hillary’s book, the one you took from her mother’s house,” Josie said.

  Mouse wrapped her arms around her body as if she felt a sudden chill. Her head nodded forward, but she jerked it up again fighting to stay awake. The heroin had attacked her central nervous system and taken control of her body, but her survival instincts were strong and she fought to find a way to stay out of jail.

  “What book?” she mumbled.

  “I’m not in the mood for sixty questions. Give it to me now or I’ll have him take you to jail.”

  “Cory’s got it,” she said, slurring her words.

  “Cory’s dead.”

  Somewhere in the fog blanketing her mind Mouse seemed to understand. She slumped forward, rested her elbows on her knees and sighed.

  “Did they kill him?” she whispered.

  “Did who kill him?” Behan asked.

  “You know . . .” Her voice trailed off as her eyes closed.

  “Hey!” Fricke shouted, and her eyes opened again. “Did who kill him?” he repeated.

  “You know,” she said. “Big fucked-up dude.”

  “He wants the book. Give it to us; we’ll protect you,” Josie said, attempting another tactic.

  Mouse bit the corner of her lip and grimaced. “I’m not scared of that bald motherfucker.”

  “Good for you; where’s the fucking book so we can get the hell outta this fucking shithole?” Marge demanded, standing over her.

  Mouse turned to Josie for support, but looked despondent when it was clear she wasn’t going to get any.

  The little woman leaned too far forward attempting to stand, and would’ve fallen on her face if Fricke and Behan hadn’t grabbed her. They set her back on the crate.

  “Just tell us. We’ll get it,” Josie said. She was getting tired of dealing with the heroin stupor.

  Mouse pointed to her bed. “The pillow,” she mumbled.

  The pillow was made of worn filthy muslin with no pillowcase. Undaunted by the high probability of lice colonies, Fricke sliced the material with his pocket knife and tried to shake the contents loose. He pulled out a couple of handfuls of smelly deteriorating foam, and a black book fell onto the cot along with several used syringes and a dozen or more empty balloons that might contain just enough heroin residue for those days Mouse couldn’t come up with the cash for a dime bag.

  Josie took the book, thumbed through the pages crammed with names, home and email addresses, and phone numbers. Several scraps of paper and business cards were stuffed between the pages, with information hastily jotted on the backs of envelopes or torn magazine pages. Hillary Dennis’s name was embossed on the cover, with her email address and cell phone number on the inside. Their search was over.

  It wasn’t difficult to pack up the drug evidence, so Fricke did most of it, and had Mouse handcuffed and in the backseat of the car in less than twenty minutes. He and Behan sat with Mouse between them while Marge drove, and Josie in the passenger seat went through the pages of the book using the small flashlight Fricke kept in his jacket pocket. She’d looked at most of the business cards, when she recognized the design on one of them, and had a difficult time not swearing out loud. It was Jake’s. She held onto it, but kept turning over the other cards and loose pieces of paper until she’d examined every one of them. The card was the only thing that referred to her husband; and after a cursory search, she couldn’t find any calendar dates or diary entries with David’s name or personal information either. She checked all the places they might’ve been listed in the directory section but, again, didn’t find anything related to her son or husband. Josie rubbed the back of her neck and pretended to stretch those muscles, while looking around to see if anyone was watching her. Everyone seemed to be concentrating on the road or the passing scenery, so she quickly slipped the card into her pants pocket.

  She closed the book and sat back. She wasn’t sorry about taking the card. She needed time to think and find out why Hillary had it. Jake might’ve screwed up, but if she could help it he wasn’t going to take their whole family down. No one spoke on the ride back to Hollywood station, which suited her fine. Mouse appeared to be sleeping, but all of them knew hypes on the nod heard and remembered everything, so they weren’t about to discuss the case or anything important until she was booked and out of earshot.

  Aside from Jake’s card, Josie also found both father and son Goldman names had been entered in the book, as well as Bright’s; however, the contact information was Bright’s work number and email address. She knew that could be explained away. Hillary had written down the names of two more city councilmen that Josie recognized, with their cell phone numbers and email addresses.

  Josie decided they should go to her office and take as long as it took to thoroughly examine the book. Unfortunately, she’d already made one major mistake, two if she was honest with herself about confiscating Jake’s business card. Seems she might’ve been too hasty confiding in Harry Walsh. The city attorney’s name and contact information were on the last page of the book.

  NINETEEN

  As soon as they returned to the station, Josie admitted to Behan and Marge she’d not only talked to Harry Walsh but had given him most of the investigation. It was embarrassing and stupid because she knew better than to trust anybody in city government. Jake’s business card was another matter. She intended to hold onto it, knowing it was wrong, but at the moment necessary to protect her family. She was grateful none of Jake’s personal information had been written in the journal, which turned out to be more of an address book and calendar than a diary.

  In the weeks before her death, Hillary had ceased making daily entries on the calendar. Before that, she’d noted work schedules and social activities. Her last filming finished two months before she was killed. She had names, sometimes two or three names, scheduled every day up to four days before the party at the Hollywood house.

  “So, she stopped her entries about the
same time Faldi quit protecting her,” Behan said.

  They had the journal on Josie’s office table and the three of them were examining the contents. Josie had sent Fricke home after he finished the paperwork on Mouse’s arrest and she ordered him to stay there.

  “It would’ve been helpful if she used a few real names,” Josie said. Hillary had been careful to schedule her dates with descriptions such as Blue Eyes, Baldy, Lefty, or Big Dude rather than their true identities. “Wonder how they contacted her.”

  “We pulled all her phone records . . . minimal activity,” Behan said and added, “We’re checking her computer and text messages, but that’s not giving us much either.”

  “You’re the expert,” Josie said to Marge. “How’d she do it?”

  “Johns probably made arrangements with somebody else who passed the info on to her . . . harder to trace . . . like an ATM pimp,” Marge said, yawning. “I’m fucking beat. Let’s do this tomorrow.”

  The energy level was nearly depleted, so everyone agreed to book the journal as evidence in both homicide investigations and finish examining the contents in the morning. Marge assured them there was always a method to connect the nicknames to real people, but she needed sleep before she’d attempt it. By the time Josie got into her car, both Marge and Behan had gone. She sat there with the engine idling and dialed Jake’s cell phone number. Waiting until she got home wasn’t an option.

  It rang several times before he finally answered. His voice was hoarse and he sounded confused, not quite awake. She persisted in asking if he was fully conscious until she was satisfied he could understand.

  “Do you know what time it is?” he asked, and when he could focus on the clock said, “It’s four A.M..”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning . . . later in the morning.”

  “No, now.”

  “Why is everything always a crisis with you, woman?”

  “I’m not gonna discuss this on the phone, so tell me where you are or come to the house. I can be home in twenty minutes.”

  He groaned and complained he might as well get up because he probably couldn’t go back to sleep now anyway. He promised to be in Pasadena in an hour, but insisted because she’d ruined a good night’s sleep and most likely his ability to work all day, she’d better have coffee and something to eat when he got there.

  By the time Josie pulled into the driveway, sunlight was filtering over the San Gabriel foothills, splashing orange and grey shades of dawn over her house. She loved the valley on the rare mornings when she could actually see those mountains.

  The Jeep Wrangler was parked in the driveway with dew covering the windows and hood. “Damn,” she said as soon as she spotted it. Her son must’ve spent the night again, but she wasn’t in the mood to deal with him right now. A couple of old newspapers were thrown up on the front porch. She kicked them out of the way to open the door.

  The house was cold and smelled like a musty spare room desperately needing to be aired out. The place wasn’t really getting lived in like a home these days. Her family had fractured, and although they occasionally spent time passing each other on the way in or out, they didn’t belong there anymore. She turned on all the lights, set the thermostat higher and opened the drapes.

  Dirty dishes had been left in the sink, empty takeout containers in the garbage. David had eaten and gone to bed, and as usual expected her to clean up his mess. Josie filled the dishwasher, made coffee and started chopping onions for omelettes. She usually added mushrooms and avocados, but she hadn’t been to the market in a couple of weeks so the food supply was running low. The half loaf of bread had transformed into a Petri dish experiment so she unfroze a batch of biscuits, grated parmesan cheese into the omelette and put bacon on the grill.

  By the time Jake arrived, the odor of sizzling bacon filled all the rooms. The kitchen was warm and cozy. He hadn’t bothered to shave and wore his old jeans, tennis shoes, and a black pullover sweater Josie had given him ten years ago. His salt and pepper hair was greying more around the temples these days, but he’d lost a few pounds and despite her irritation with him, she noticed he looked handsome and better than she’d seen him in a long time.

  “You look terrible,” were his first words to her as he filled his coffee mug and took a piece of bacon from the greasy paper towel on the counter.

  She put two plates with the omelettes, a bowl of biscuits, and the rest of the bacon on the breakfast table.

  “Sit down,” she ordered, and realized the frenzied cooking had been pent-up anger. First David and now Jake—were they actually scheming to ruin her career and reputation or did their asinine bumbling just come naturally?

  Jake smiled faintly and gave her a sloppy salute. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Anything you say.”

  “Offhand I’d say you’re a moron.”

  He stopped smiling and said, “Okay that’s a start. Did you get me out of bed in the middle of the night because you needed somebody to yell at? It’s a nice breakfast but . . .”

  “What’s your business card doing in Hillary Dennis’s date book?”

  Jake shook his head, but his expression didn’t change. “I don’t know,” he said with his mouth full of biscuit.

  Josie put the card on the table in front of him. When she turned it over, there were numbers written in ink. “Looks like your private business number to me, with some kind of extension.”

  “You try calling the number?”

  “It’s disconnected.”

  He took a long drink of coffee, wiped his hands on his sweater and picked up the card, examining the numbers.

  “Hillary Dennis had this?” he asked, looking puzzled.

  “Why is your card in a dead teenage prostitute’s date book?”

  Jake sat back and repeatedly tapped the card on the table. He seemed to be struggling to remember something, until he glanced up and saw her expression. The insinuation in her words apparently penetrated his thought process, and he sighed.

  “Give me some credit, honey. I’ve got higher standards than a kiddie movie star,” he said, but probably read in her face she didn’t believe him and slowly emphasized each word, “I did not give Hillary Dennis the damn card.” He pointed at the written numbers. “You’re right these first ten digits are a phone number. It was the safe line for the D.A.’s witness protection program. That particular program doesn’t exist anymore, that’s why it’s disconnected. These last three digits are a code we used. It was the only way to identify the person. The card belonged to somebody, but not Hillary Dennis.”

  “Why not?”

  “The program was phased out nine or ten years ago. She would’ve been . . . what, about six years old?”

  “Is there a way to identify the person from that code?”

  “We didn’t have that many in the program; some stayed longer than others, but it was quite a while ago. All the files might’ve been destroyed by now or transferred to the feds when they took it over.”

  “Is there a way to ID the person who belonged to this number?” she repeated.

  “Can I finish my breakfast first?”

  “Eat faster,” she said, relaxing a little. This might actually turn out to be a good thing. The tough part would be explaining to Behan why she “borrowed” the card without telling him. There wasn’t much time to contemplate how that conversation might go because a disheveled David wearing pajama bottoms and a faded, stretched-out UCLA t-shirt quietly shuffled into the kitchen and zeroed in on the coffeepot.

  Josie’s stomach tightened. Her great breakfast instantly turned to indigestion at the thought of the inevitable confrontation. She and Jake sat at the table and watched him pour his coffee, drag his bare feet to the refrigerator and add cream to the mug, not speaking or acknowledging them in any way.

  “You hungry?” she asked. She hated mimes, especially in her kitchen.

  “No,” he said, curtly.

  The immediate smartass remark that
came to Josie’s mind was, “There’s a miracle,” but she caught herself.

  “Is there something I should know?” Jake asked, glancing from Josie to David and sensing the tension. He’d lived through enough wife-son skirmishes to know when a battle was imminent.

  “She didn’t tell you?” David asked, not able to hold the coffee mug steady in his shaky hand. He was on edge and primed for this argument.

  “There was no reason to tell him.” Josie knew she was tense from lack of sleep, and defensive. It wouldn’t take much to push her to the point of showing her son a side of herself she usually reserved for the job. He wouldn’t like it. “Cory Goldman killed himself after Red Behan and I interviewed him.”

  “Oh,” Jake said and seemed relieved, as if he were expecting something much worse and much closer to home. “Can’t say I’m that surprised, David. Cory had . . . issues.”

  “But you’d agree badgering a . . . a fragile guy like him wouldn’t be a decent thing to do . . . maybe even cruel.”

  “Give me a break,” Josie said, immediately ignoring her vow not to be sarcastic. “Nobody badgered him, and he’s the one who threw his father and lawyer out of the room.” David started to say something, but she interrupted. “I don’t know what this guy was to you, but I do know he was so seriously messed up, this would’ve happened someday even if he’d never met me.”

  “He tried suicide at least three times,” Jake said.

  David shook his head and corrected him. “No, once . . . and that was just to get his father’s attention. He wasn’t really trying to kill himself. Everybody knows that.”

  “Eli told me his son attempted suicide twice while he was in high school and once after he graduated . . . again when he studied in Italy. They pumped his stomach and had to put him in a mental facility a few years ago after he swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills. I used to play tennis with Eli Goldman every week. I’m positive that’s what he told me,” Jake said, shrugging at Josie.