Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  “But I don’t know anything . . . not for certain.”

  “Who cares,” Josie said, raising her voice in frustration. “The whole idea is to make him think you know more than you do. He’ll talk to us about sex with a minor if he thinks he’s suspected of being an accomplice to murder.”

  “I’m not certain I can or should do this.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Just tell him what I said and we’ll do the rest.”

  Another twenty minutes of reassuring Fletcher she was doing the right thing and Josie got her promise to confront Bright, pressure him to come forward and tell the truth about his relationship with Hillary.

  While Josie waited, Fletcher called West bureau and was told they expected Bright back in the office later that afternoon or early the next morning. She promised Josie she’d talk to him as soon as he arrived, and if he agreed, she’d call Josie with a time and place for the interview.

  “Frankly, I can’t find any real victims in this mess,” Fletcher said pensively, walking with Josie out to her car. “Blackmail, prostitution, organized crime . . . it’s difficult to feel sorry for any of them, even the dead ones.”

  She’d never liked Fletcher for a lot of reasons. The councilwoman was arrogant, oppressive and lacked scruples, but this morning Josie might’ve discovered the true root of her aversion. The woman was a cold, hard-hearted bitch.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When Josie returned to Hollywood station, Behan told her Art Perry hadn’t arrived and couldn’t be located. She almost expected that. He had to know any decent detective, especially one as tenacious as Behan, would eventually discover his culpability in accessing the D.A.’s file.

  Perry’s car was parked at his apartment, but he wasn’t there. Not a good sign, Josie thought, and dispatched a sergeant to West bureau to retrieve Perry’s personnel package from a reluctant clerk typist. It was only when Josie called and told the clerk she’d be booked and charged with interfering, that she agreed to let the sergeant have it.

  The contents of Perry’s personnel package were strewn over Josie’s conference table, but she and Behan were unable to find any local addresses or contacts. His only relative was a brother in Florida.

  “He only worked a couple of divisions besides the bureau,” Josie said, when they couldn’t think of any other way to find Perry. “But his most recent field time was in Hollywood . . . pull the time books and see who his partners were. Maybe they can tell us something.”

  “Skip Wilshire,” Behan said. “He was only there as a probationer. Most of his career was here and the majority of that was in vice.”

  Behan made several trips to the basement and brought back boxes full of time books. Each watch commander kept one with car assignments and days off. Perry had been with the department more than twenty years, including over a year in patrol at Wilshire division after the academy. He had several years in Hollywood patrol and vice, a few months back in Wilshire patrol when he got promoted to sergeant, and then he returned to Hollywood as a vice sergeant. He worked other divisions but never left Hollywood for long. The last few years he’d been in West bureau as Bright’s adjutant. Fortunately, Perry seemed to favor the graveyard shift so that simplified the search of his patrol time. The old vice logs were still in her squad room so Marge volunteered to go through those.

  It was a hunch, but while Josie waited for Behan and Marge to finish their tedious search, she decided to drive to Wilshire and look at the time book for Perry’s probationary year. The record clerks at that division weren’t as well-organized as Hollywood’s so it took nearly an hour to find the right one. Once she had it, Josie only needed a few minutes to find what she was looking for. In November 1989, Wilshire had been given two probationary officers on a transfer from the police academy. They were assigned to different watches. Perry went to the busy night watch and his classmate Bruno Faldi was on the graveyard shift.

  During their time at Wilshire, Perry and Faldi took the same days off, and before they wheeled out of that division as fullfledged officers, they worked in the same basic car with a senior training officer. Shortly before the end of their probationary period on several occasions, the two young officers were allowed to work together without a training officer.

  When Josie called Behan to tell him what she’d found, he informed her that he and Marge had uncovered a few interesting facts, too. After probation, Perry had transferred into Hollywood, and Faldi managed to follow him a short time later. They worked the same basic car on the graveyard shift and their watch commander was none other than Lieutenant Howard Owens. He sponsored both young men to be assigned to the prostitution enforcement detail in vice and later on assisted them in returning to Hollywood vice as sergeants.

  Behan saved the most interesting information until Josie got back to Hollywood.

  “Tony Ibarra was their sergeant when they first went to Hollywood vice, and when they came back as sergeants, Ibarra was in charge of the unit,” Marge said. She looked miserable and avoided eye contact with Behan. Apparently, the split with the big redhead hadn’t been as beneficial for her as it had been for him.

  “Owens neglected to reveal that bit of trivia when he was ranting on about Faldi. What patrol car did Perry and Faldi work on mornings?” Josie asked.

  “A49.”

  “The one bordering Rampart?” Josie asked.

  “Yeah, Sunset, Western, Hollywood Boulevard over to the freeway,” Marge responded. “But even more fucking coincidental is that the Plaza, Milano’s club before Avanti’s, was smack dab in the middle of A49’s area.”

  “I never heard of the Plaza,” Josie said, certain she knew every club and restaurant in her division.

  “That’s ’cuz we shut it down just before you got here,” Marge said. “For prostitution, drug dealing . . . all those fabulous things that keep me employed.”

  “So, Faldi’s patrolling all night with Perry in his uncle’s backyard to do what . . . keep the police away, protect Milano’s business interests?”

  “Probably with Lieutenant Owens’ blessing,” Behan mumbled. “We’ll pull Owens’ bank info for any large purchases or deposits during that time and see what we can come up with, same for Ibarra. You know Owens wouldn’t do it unless he was well-paid.”

  “When I took over the OIC spot in vice, I made Perry and Faldi find new jobs so I could bring in my own sergeants,” Marge said. “A few weeks later, Faldi quits the department and Perry gets a job in the bureau,” Marge said.

  Nobody spoke for several minutes. Josie figured they were all thinking the same thing. Organized crime had weaseled its way into Hollywood. Milano most likely paid off Owens and Ibarra, and had Faldi and Perry on the payroll doing his bidding. His businesses could run amok all night with no police interference. Milano probably tempted guys like Goldman and Bright with huge donations and pretty underage girls, then threatened to expose them if they interfered in his enterprises.

  Owens had procured lucrative movie and security jobs for his officers, assuring they’d protect him or look the other way while he operated his business on-duty. In return, Owens allowed them to do whatever they wanted and didn’t hold them accountable . . . the perfect formula for police corruption. No wonder he hated me, Josie thought. During her first few months in Hollywood, she’d watched and hounded him, made him answer for his shortcomings, and interfered with his business.

  “With Perry sitting in Bright’s office, Milano had firsthand knowledge of practically everything that happened in West bureau, including every vice task force,” Behan said.

  “Anyone who was here during Owens’ or Ibarra’s tenure has got to be scrutinized,” Josie said to no one in particular. She was making a mental checklist—off-hour and field inspections, mandatory watch rotations and much more. She knew what needed to be done to prevent corruption, but also was well aware that some serious damage had already happened.

  “That’s great boss,” Behan said. “But for the moment, we’ve gotta track down Perry
before Milano realizes how big a liability he is and makes him disappear forever. I don’t think a guy like Milano’s gonna risk Perry making a deal with us to save his own skin.”

  “Call the Wilshire captain,” Josie said. “If Ibarra’s there, have the C.O. sit on the little turd till we get there.”

  “Little turd?” Marge asked, grinning.

  “Just do it.”

  IN AN attempt to find Perry, Behan dispatched homicide detectives to all his known hangouts, but every lead drew a blank. He understood the criminal mind better than most cops, and knew Perry had smelled danger when he was asked to show up for a second interview and was probably hiding, planning his defense or escape. At the moment, the only provable crime was accessing the D.A. file, but Josie believed he might’ve been involved in Misty’s murder or knew something about it and that’s why he’d disappeared.

  “I’ve got a car out looking for Roy Mitchell,” Behan told her when they were driving back to Wilshire. “Marge has her people searching too. If she locates him, she’ll babysit till we get back.”

  “If he’s not belly-up in a dumpster somewhere,” Josie said. She knew Mitchell might be helpful, but wasn’t counting on the smelly bum being found alive for a lot of reasons—his whiskey-bloated liver was probably as yellow as ripe corn and the size of a bull elephant’s, and Behan had slipped him just enough cash to make him an attractive target for every scumbag on the boulevard.

  “Roy’s a survivor.”

  Josie let it pass.

  THE WILSHIRE captain had Ibarra waiting in his office when Josie and Behan got there. The nervous lieutenant was gaunt and looked wasted.

  “Good to see you, boss,” Ibarra said, jumping up and offering a slightly trembling hand. Josie ignored the gesture. He glanced at Behan, then turned and watched as the Wilshire captain left the room and closed the door. “What’s this about?” he said, making a pitiful attempt at bravado.

  “Sit down, Tony,” Behan ordered, pointing at the chair Ibarra had just vacated. She sat beside him and Behan leaned against the captain’s desk.

  “We know you’ve been working with Milano,” Josie said, hoping to catch him off-guard, but expecting outrage and denial. Instead, Ibarra covered his face with both hands for a moment, and then slumped back and sighed.

  “You’re not going to believe me,” he said, softly. “But it’s such a relief to finally have this out in the open.”

  Cops make such lousy criminals, Josie thought. They can’t help themselves. They usually have an overdeveloped conscience and can’t wait to confess.

  “Start at the beginning. How did you get hooked?” Behan said and looked away, giving Josie a quick wink.

  “I didn’t know what was going on for a long time. They fooled me into thinking they were hard-charging ass-kickers. I should’ve never listened to Owens.”

  “Who’re we talking about?” Josie asked.

  “Art Perry and Bruno Faldi. . . . After a while they’d tell me stuff they did on duty. It was such petty shit I never really thought much about it. I know now they were testing me. One night . . .” Ibarra’s voice drifted off. He didn’t want to talk about this but seemed determined to do it anyway. “We busted a massage parlor. They got me to go with them . . . one thing led to another. It went too far. I got a hand job from one of the girls and from then on they had me.”

  “So you looked the other way while they did what?” Behan asked.

  “I didn’t ask questions but they were at Milano’s beck ’n’ call every night. What else could I do? If I turned them in, they had pictures, dates, times. I’d be ruined, maybe go to jail.”

  “You did the massage thing more than once?” Josie asked. Ibarra didn’t answer so she knew he had.

  “I wasn’t helping them; I just didn’t interfere.”

  “With what? Don’t give me that I don’t know bullshit. You knew what they were doing.”

  “Prostitution, drugs, gambling, the Plaza was a full-service, onestop shop. Milano bribed the right people to get them to look the other way . . . tricked the stupid ones like me.”

  “What about Chief Bright?” Josie asked.

  Ibarra hesitated, but then shrugged and said, “He was hooked after he got involved with that Dennis girl. I figured it was Vince Milano that forced him to take Perry as his adjutant. Vince was always bragging how great it was having his nephew’s buddy in the bureau.”

  “So when Bright told us about Goldman dating Hillary, it was just to keep us from looking at him,” she said, and quickly added, “Who killed Hillary?”

  “Don’t know, but I’m guessing Misty, otherwise why’d they kill her?”

  “Who’re they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess,” Behan insisted.

  “Maybe Perry, he was crazy about Hillary. I think he could’ve done it and Bruno’s just crazy. He’d do it for fun if Perry or Milano asked him.”

  “You tamper with either of those homicide scenes?” Behan asked.

  “No, I swear to God I didn’t . . . but at the Goldman kid’s . . . Milano told me to look for a book, belonged to the Dennis girl. I didn’t find it but I looked.”

  “Why’d Milano want it?” Behan asked.

  “You kidding? It’s worth a fortune in the right hands—names, dates, places of guys she’d been fucking.”

  “You willing to testify? Can’t save your job, but maybe it’ll keep you out of jail.”

  “Why not. I’m tired of lying.”

  “Where’s Perry?”

  Ibarra shook his head. He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s disappeared. Where would he go if he didn’t want to be found?”

  “Probably be with Faldi.”

  “What if he didn’t want Milano to find him either?” Josie asked.

  Ibarra wasn’t the cleverest cop, but even he figured out why Art Perry might have more to fear from the crime boss than the police.

  “They’ll kill him if they think he might make a deal,” Ibarra said. “He knows too much.”

  “So, where would he hide?” she repeated.

  “The only place I can think of is his older brother. He just moved out here from Florida. They aren’t close, but Perry doesn’t trust anybody else. I doubt Faldi even knows Perry’s got a brother.”

  Behan got the brother’s name and found his address in the San Gabriel Valley. He lived in the mountainous city of Monrovia about thirty minutes from downtown L.A. Behan tried calling but kept getting a busy signal.

  A team of Behan’s homicide detectives met them at Wilshire and they drove Ibarra back to Hollywood to take his formal statement. Josie called Deputy City Attorney Harry Walsh and he agreed to assist the detectives with the paperwork.

  “We could call the locals, have them check the brother’s house,” Josie said, knowing what Behan’s response would be, but dreading the rush-hour crawl on the 10 freeway, one of L.A.’s busiest highways.

  “Don’t think so,” Behan said, getting into the driver’s seat.

  She didn’t argue, but her instincts told her this was a waste of time. So, they’d sit in traffic for an hour just to find an empty house, or wait for the brother to get home and he’d tell them he hadn’t seen Perry for a year or something like that. It was the only lead they had, but it wasn’t a very promising one.

  MONROVIA WAS one of those quiet little cities tucked away in the San Gabriel Mountains where bears and coyotes rummaged in garbage cans and backyards looking for snacks or edible pets.

  They located the address on a cul-de-sac in a newer development with odd-looking cookie-cutter townhomes. Several cars were parked on the street but none in his driveway, and the garage door was closed and locked. Mature maple trees along the sidewalks had lifted up the cement, and walkways were covered with a thick rug of orange, red and brown leaves. The neighborhood was quiet, no signs of life—not even a barking dog.

  Before knocking on the front door, Josie told Behan to go around back in case Perry w
as actually inside and decided to escape again. When she calculated he’d had enough time to get to the other side of the house, she rang the doorbell. She could hear the chimes inside but no one answered. She knocked, still no response. The drapes were closed, but she peeked through a narrow slit where the curtains came together. It was too dark to see anything inside.

  Convinced the place was unoccupied, she’d turned to leave when the front door opened. She instinctively stepped to the side and put her hand on her weapon.

  “Don’t shoot. It’s me,” Behan said, peering around the door frame. “The back door was open.”

  “Say something next time,” she said. “Anybody here?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  They methodically checked the bottom floor, identifying themselves before they entered each room, and then repeated the exercise on the second floor. Nobody was home. Behan tried the kitchen door leading to the attached garage and found it unlocked. He saw two cars parked inside, a white Cadillac with Florida license plates and the silver Lexus they’d seen parked at Carlton Buck’s office building. They still didn’t know who was driving the Lexus but Josie hoped it was Art Perry.

  There was only one other place to search in the house—the basement.

  “Maybe they left in another car,” Behan said, as they stood near the basement door.

  “Good theory, but the back door being open and that Lexus are a bit problematic,” Josie said, unholstering her handgun and opening the basement door. She peeked around the door frame, but couldn’t see much beyond the first few steps that led down into the darkness. The light switch was on Behan’s side, so keeping as close as he could to the wall, he reached around to flip it on.

  The basement was instantly flooded in a dim hazy light. Josie could see most of the spacious unfinished room, except for the far wall and some of the area to her left. She counted a dozen steps down to the floor.