Fallen Angels (22 page)

“Depends,” Behan said, “on what they’re doing.”

“Nothing illegal, that’s for damn sure,” Owens said, his cockiness quickly eroding.

Josie wasn’t sitting at the table. She stayed at her desk watching the interview. Owens was facing her but Behan sat between them, so Owens had to look around the detective to see her. She was surprised how many times he strained to see her reaction to his answers. He’d made it clear over the years he didn’t care what she thought or wanted, but this morning even he was sharp enough to realize her opinion mattered more than anything else in his world.

“Start from the beginning and tell me exactly what you’re doing,” Behan said.

Owens shook his head. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about his enterprise, but knew he didn’t have a choice. His internal struggle was almost comical to observe. Josie thought all he needed was an angel on one shoulder and Satan on the other.

“I got a few buddies in the industry,” Owens said and looked relieved after speaking those first words. He continued by describing how through his contacts in Hollywood he was able to offer bit parts in movies. “I been in this division just about my whole career. I meet people, industry people on radio calls and stuff, help them out. Producers, directors, all of them go nuts about having real cops playing police parts.”

“How’d you hook up with Carlton Buck?” Behan asked.

“We worked together . . . sergeants in Hollywood before Buck made detective and got transferred to Bunco Forgery division downtown. We ran into each other about a year ago in a bar . . . some cop’s retirement party. He tells me he’s retired and got his P.I. ticket. He’s waving lots a money at me to find cops who want to do security or protection work for celebrities. It was legitimate, all aboveboard.”

“What about bit parts in the movies? Did Buck set that up too?”

“Nah, he’s not connected that way. I got the studio contacts. I help them; they help me. So I keep two lists of cops that wanna work. One list is for security stuff. A few of those guys get the protection gig . . . pays better but there’s a higher risk for shootings or fights. The rest do security on pricey real estate. The money’s not as good but it’s safer.”

“What about the acting parts?”

“My other list is strictly for acting or extras.”

“So, how do you make your money on this deal?”

Owens hesitated. This was the part he didn’t want to talk about, so Behan asked the question again.

“I get my cut,” Owens mumbled.

“What’s that mean?”

Owens sighed and said, “Buck and the studios, they pay me a small percentage for every guy I bring them.”

He claimed he’d never met Hillary Dennis but had arranged for officers to work on several of her films. He didn’t keep records of where or when the officers worked. He went down the list and took the next available officer when there was a job. Sometimes he went out of order and picked certain officers on the list if the producer was looking for a special type. He always got paid cash so there weren’t any other records.

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Owens said. “Everybody makes money. Everybody gets what they want.”

“You can’t remember anyone who worked on the Hillary Dennis movies?” Behan asked.

“The studio tells me they need a cop; I send the next guy on the list. That’s all I know.”

“Did you know Misty Skylar?”

“That the dead woman in the alley last week?” Owens asked. “Never heard of her,” he said without waiting for an answer.

Two hours later, Josie figured Behan had all he was going to get. The big redhead must’ve thought so too. He concluded the interview and escorted Owens to his locker where the lieutenant voluntarily opened it and gave Behan two lists of officers’ names. Behan guessed they were copies because Owens didn’t seem all that upset about surrendering them.

When they got back to Josie’s office, she gave Owens the usual admonishment about not talking to anyone about his interview or revealing what had been asked or discussed. She told him he had a personnel complaint regarding the work permit, but didn’t know if there’d be other charges, then ordered him to stop working off-duty in the movie business until the personnel complaint was finished. His demeanor reverted to nasty and disagreeable when she promised to initiate another investigation if she found out he’d conducted roll call again without providing mandatory training or failed to do a uniform inspection. He started to leave but came back and pointed at Josie.

“You think I don’t know who’s been snitching,” Owens said. His face flushed in anger. “I know that lowlife’s been out to get me for years.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josie said, calmly. She saw Behan move a little closer to the irate lieutenant. Apparently, he thought Owens was about to do something stupid, but Josie wasn’t worried. Let him try. She’d enjoy beating the crap out of the little weasel. She might’ve been off the streets a few years, but she could still wield a mean nightstick.

“Bruno Faldi hates my guts. I know he’s the asshole telling lies about me. Fuck shoulda never been a cop,” Owens shouted, stopping just short of her desk.

“Still haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,” Josie said again, not moving and staring at the distraught man.

Owens was so angry his face was red, and he was spitting as he talked.

“Your fucking informant,” he said, grabbing Behan’s search warrant and shaking it in the air. “Faldi’s up to his ears in the mob. His uncle’s Vince Milano. Why’d you think the asshole retired so young?” Owens looked from Josie to Behan in frustration. “I was gonna blow the whistle on him and his Uncle Vincenzo, that’s why, and I got Buck to fire him, too. So this is the way he gets back at me.”

Josie and Behan watched as the man dropped his verbal bomb and stomped back to the watch commander’s office. Bruno wasn’t the one who’d snitched on him, but it was probably better if Owens didn’t know Buck had. The fact that Bruno Faldi was related to Milano was interesting, even disturbing, Josie thought, but not all that relevant since he wasn’t a cop any longer. She did recall both Buck and Bruno saying Bruno had quit his security job, not that he’d been fired. It was a small detail, but she hated loose ends.

As soon as Owens left, Behan spread pages of the lists on the table, and they carefully reviewed the names, knowing they’d have to interview all of them. It wasn’t a surprise that the name of almost every officer who worked on Owens’ watch was there. The lieutenant took care of his people. Donnie Fricke and Frank Butler were among those requesting movie jobs, as well as Bright’s adjutant Sergeant Perry and a number of the younger Hollywood vice officers. Behan hadn’t expected to find so many of his Hollywood detectives working off-duty for Owens, but had to admit Lieutenant Ibarra’s name on the armed security and protection list was the real shocker.

“Conflict of interest, don’t you think?” Behan asked, pushing away from the table.

“He knew we were looking at the off-duty stuff . . . but never bothered to mention it,” Josie said. “Did knucklehead have a work permit?”

“Don’t know. Never thought to check for his name.”

“Do it tomorrow . . . I’m dead tired. I gotta get some sleep,” she said, yawning. “He should be back from vacation. I’ll talk to him as soon as I drag myself in.”

Behan didn’t argue. He wanted to get home to his new wife. Although he claimed Miss Vicky didn’t object to his crazy hours, Josie had noticed some telltale signs of the old stressed-out premarriage Behan; most notably the dark circles that had reappeared under both eyes.

During the drive up the nearly deserted Pasadena Freeway, she kept thinking about Bruno’s connection to Vince Milano. It was odd the background people hadn’t picked up on that significant detail before he was hired, and obviously, he didn’t volunteer the information. Josie couldn’t help but wonder where Bruno’s real loyalties had been during his career with the LAPD. She’d found that most bad cops who slipped through the hiring cracks were predisposed toward corruption before they were sworn in. All they needed was opportunity. Bruno could’ve been a very valuable asset to Milano and his friends from inside the police department.

There was a web spinning slowly, linking the players in this investigation, and unfortunately it included her son. She was too tired to even begin to understand what it all meant, but every new connection seemed to trigger another level of anxiety.

She saw Jake’s Porsche parked in the driveway as she turned onto her street. It was nearly dawn and she tried to clear her head to remember if he’d mentioned he was coming home for some reason. She couldn’t remember. Exhaustion had wiped any relevant conversation from her brain.

The house was dark. She found him asleep in the den. He was stretched out on the recliner using his jacket as a blanket. She took one of the cotton throws from the closet shelf and covered him. He didn’t stir, and she could barely hear him breathing. Her husband always slept like a mummy. The sheets and blankets were barely ruffled on his side when they shared a bed. Josie’s side, on the other hand, looked as if two pissed-off bears had wrestled under the covers all night.

She watched him a few seconds. The stress lines had disappeared from his face, his shirt and suit were immaculate, and his shoes were polished. It was the old meticulous; cautious Jake again. His bulging briefcase was on the floor leaning against the lounger. He obviously had wanted to talk with her, but she didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead, she went up to their bedroom and dropped onto the bed. Whatever it was could wait until she got some sleep.

T
HERE WAS
something about the combined smells of bacon frying and freshly brewed coffee that worked like smelling salts on the comatose Josie. She woke and sat up, still dressed in her pantsuit and shoes. It was only four hours later than it had been when she passed out on the bed. She waited a few seconds until her head cleared and her eyes focused. Although she wasn’t completely rested she was primed to devour whatever was being cooked in her kitchen. She took a shower, got dressed in less than twenty minutes, and had nearly finished blow-drying her long hair when Jake appeared behind her in the mirror carrying two mugs of coffee. He stood there quietly for several seconds and she could feel him staring at her. Jake always said he liked watching her as she finished getting ready for work, swore he couldn’t believe how good she looked without fussing. Josie pinned her hair up off her neck and turned to take one of the mugs.

“Thanks,” she said. “Sleep okay?”

“Not really . . . you?”

“Like a baby.”

“You look great,” he said. “I got here after one. You couldn’t have gotten much sleep.”

“Enough,” she said, pushing past him into the bedroom. “What’s up, Jake?” she asked. She wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions and knew he wanted something.

“We need to talk about David,” he said, following her onto the landing and down the stairs.

The kitchen smelled wonderful. He had platters with toast, bacon and scrambled eggs on the breakfast table. She glanced at the clock over the sink. It was only eight a.m., so she had plenty of time to do this. She filled their coffee mugs again, sat at the table and piled the food on her plate. Jake took a slice of toast and one strip of bacon.

“I can’t believe you eat that much and stay so skinny,” he said, nibbling on the toast.

“I don’t want my son playing in that sleazy bar,” she said, not looking up from her eggs.

Jake pushed his plate away. “He’s our son and he’s old enough to decide where he plays the piano.”

“Why would you encourage him to work in a place like that?”

“He told me he saw you drinking at the bar . . . you and some guy.”

“He saw me?” Josie picked up on the accusatory tone in Jake’s voice when he said, ‘you and some guy,’ but she was more offended that David had seen her and didn’t come over to talk to her.

“He knew you wouldn’t approve, and he wasn’t in the mood to argue. Besides, he didn’t know if you two wanted to be alone.”

Josie’s first thought was ‘Fuck you,’ but she said, “I was working.” She took a sip of coffee and glared at him. “Even if I wasn’t working, what’s it got to do with you anymore?”

“Nothing, I guess,” he said, looking glum.

“I want David to go back to school, get his degree . . . in music or art, so he can get a real job teaching or something.”

“That’s not what he wants.”

“What difference does that make? We’ve let him do what he wants all his life and if we don’t step in, he’s gonna end up living on the boardwalk at Venice Beach drawing charcoal caricatures for tourists.”

“Don’t have much faith in him do you?”

“Yes, I do, but we’ve lived longer. He should get the benefit of our experience. You and I both know he’s chosen a path that usually ends in disappointment and poverty. At least, let’s make him do something that he can fall back on if the dream falls apart.”

“Like a college degree.”

“Exactly,” Josie said, exhaling as if she’d been trying to make an elusive point.

“He doesn’t want to go to college.”

“Then we stop supporting him until he does. Without our money to buy food or put a roof over his head, he won’t have a choice.”