Fallen Angels (24 page)

Behan leaned against the wall until Josie told him to sit down.

“Bright’s talking about giving the Dennis homicide back to RHD. You two are all I’ve got, so I need both your heads working on this,” Josie said, pulling out a chair for Behan.

“I got the background stuff you wanted on sleazebag Milano and our hippie councilman,” Marge said, taking a folder out of her center desk drawer. “I sent it as an attachment to your computer, but I thought you might want to go over some of it,” she added, placing the folder in front of Josie.

“Give us the highlights. I’ll fill in the rest later,” Josie said, glancing at Behan who suddenly seemed interested and slid the folder closer so he could read it.

“I checked with Organized Crime and they’ve got Milano tagged as a low-level weasel in a wannabe crime family. His old man was a bagman for the mob and his mom made booze deliveries during Prohibition. His brother’s in federal prison for murder and his brother’s kid . . .” she paused for a moment. “Here’s where the story gets so bitchin’ good. His nephew was one of L.A.’s fucking finest.”

“Bruno Faldi,” Josie said.

“How the fuck did you know that?” Marge asked. Her enthusiasm had clearly been derailed.

“It’s a long story. He worked for Carlton Buck’s P.I. firm as personal security for Hillary Dennis. Then he either quit or got fired just before Hillary got herself killed,” Josie said.

“The burning question is how he got past the background check with his daddy doing hard time,” Behan said.

“Faldi is his mother’s maiden name. He used it through high school and college, so apparently nobody bothered to check any further back when he applied to come on the department,” Marge explained.

“It’s a safe guess he wasn’t completely candid when he got that teaching job either,” Josie said. “Did Bruno give the department a phony birth certificate?” she asked, thinking they might be able to do something with a forged document.

“Nope, shitheads in personnel had a note in his file that he’d requested a certified copy of his birth certificate from some hospital in New York, and it would take about three weeks to get it,” Marge said. “Morons never followed up and he went through the academy, his entire career, and retired from the department without anyone realizing the paperwork was missing.”

“Did he really quit because Howard Owens was about to blow the whistle on him?” Josie asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Did he give any reason in his exit interview?”

Marge sat back, lifted her long blond hair off her neck and clasped her hands behind her head. “Bruno swore he had a fucking burning desire to bring about world peace by teaching empty-headed teenagers . . . or some such bullshit,” she said, exhaling and crossing her arms.

“Maybe it was true,” Josie said, playing the devil’s advocate. Actually, she couldn’t see Bruno Faldi as someone driven by human compassion. Especially since he’d taken a job as an armed bodyguard.

“Not likely,” Marge said, snatching the folder from Behan. She found Bruno’s last teaching evaluation from the girl’s academy and handed it to Josie. “The school board doesn’t think much of him as an educator. His students always bomb on state tests. Those pretty young girls are crazy about the handsome bald hulk, but the school administrators believe he gets way too familiar with the little mush brains. He’s on probation and probably won’t be asked back next term.” She slid the folder back toward Behan.

“I wouldn’t bet on it. Teaching’s worse than civil service. It’s harder to fire teachers than cops,” Josie said.

“Other than being his nephew, can we connect Bruno to Vince Milano’s business interests?” Behan asked.

“As a matter of fact we can,” Marge said with a broad grin. “I’ve got a dozen field interview cards from Avanti’s with Bruno Faldi’s name on them. My guys have stopped him several times because he’s too old to be hanging around that underage crowd. He always tells them he’s a manager at the club and gets his uncle or one of the staff to vouch for him.” She added with emphasis, “Bruno has never, ever identified himself as a retired cop. Do you know any cop with an ID card or badge who doesn’t show it to another cop the second he’s stopped?”

“No, but maybe he’s smart. If you collected that many FI’s on a retired cop hanging out around Avanti’s it would send up red flags and get everybody’s attention. If he’s your average asshole who works there, it’s no big deal, and he stays under the radar,” Josie said.

“Wonder what he really does for Uncle Vince?” Behan said. “That teaching job’s like a hobby, and if his evaluation’s any indication, he doesn’t seem all that interested in keeping it.”

“Why did he go to work for Buck . . . just to get to Hillary Dennis? He did a few one-night gigs before her, but she’s looking like his primary reason for having that job. When she dumps him he quits,” Josie said, then added, “So why? Did Milano want her watched or what?”

They were quiet. Josie could feel the anxiety and understood their frustration. A criminal investigation was similar to focusing a camera. They kept adjusting the lens until the picture became clear. It was exasperating when they couldn’t make out something they all knew was there.

“That teaching job gives him a couple of things—legitimacy and access to a lot of young girls. He sure didn’t do it for the money,” Behan said, finally. “My guess is it’s the young girls he’s after because his police career gave him the first one.”

As Josie listened to Behan and Marge exchange ideas, she browsed through the folder containing Milano’s information. It listed his businesses, arrest record, and family history. A few pages in, she found the section devoted to his nephew Bruno Faldi and replaced the teaching evaluation. The next item was Bruno’s application to the police department. Josie read it and confirmed what Marge had said. There wasn’t any reference to Vince Milano or Bruno’s father. He used his mother’s maiden name and listed his father as “unknown.” Josie turned the page and was about to pick up the next item when she noticed the back of the application. It required the names of two community references. Bruno again listed his family’s parish priest, but his second reference this time was LAPD Sergeant Carlton Buck.

“Small world,” Josie said, showing the entry to Behan and Marge.

“I’ll be damned,” Marge whispered. “I never noticed that.”

“I’m getting a little pissed-off that people keep lying to us or conveniently forget to mention stuff that matters,” Josie said.

“No shit,” Marge said, pushing the folder away.

“We’ll deal with Buck later. What’d you find out about Goldman?” Josie asked.

Marge took a second folder out of the drawer and gave it to Josie. “Our hippie councilman was a Berkeley grad . . . big fucking surprise . . . practiced law up north for a few years, got involved with the scumbags at the ACLU and traveled south. He lives in Brentwood . . . ex-wife’s a teacher. She left him for a dyke doctor. He’s got one fucked-up son, aka Cory. Goldman hates the police department but not as much lately since the chief of police was handpicked by his buddy the mayor.

“Cory’s been in and out of treatment centers for alcohol, drugs, and suicidal tendencies. Consensus is the kid’s a genius who screws up by the numbers.” Marge stopped and looked at Josie with a strange expression. She was clearly uncomfortable communicating the next bit of information. “The Goldman kid’s got shitty social skills and according to all our sources he has one real friend . . . your son,” she said, looking directly at Josie.

“What about Hillary? I thought they had some kind of relationship,” Josie said, attempting to sound as if David’s involvement with Cory wasn’t something that worried her. But she knew the pain in her gut and sudden onset of anxiety were both related to the fact her son was associating with the drug-addicted, unstable young man, and she was certain that signs of her discomfort were plastered all over her face.

“Cory might’ve been friends with Hillary Dennis, but not really close from what I can find, more like a groupie or gofer,” Marge mumbled.

“Look,” Josie said, after a few seconds of awkward silence, and forcing herself to calm down and appear rational. “It’s no secret David and Cory are acquaintances. As far as this investigation is concerned, my kid’s fair game just like Goldman’s kid. Do what you’ve got to do. If either one of you has trouble dealing with me, then take what you find to the D.A.’s office . . . I’m ordering you not to ignore evidence, don’t hide anything regardless of the consequences. My son’s a big boy. He made his choices.” She wanted to be certain they didn’t do anything stupid or out of loyalty to her, or jeopardize their jobs trying to shield her son. On the other hand, she fully intended to do whatever it took to protect David.

“You bet, boss lady,” Marge said, staring at the table but obviously still uncomfortable.

Behan nodded. “Don’t worry, I’d burn you and your kid to make a good case,” he said, not smiling. It was her friend’s typical dry sense of humor, but both he and Josie understood he wasn’t really joking.

“You’d burn your grandmother to make a good case,” Josie said, attempting to sound unconcerned.

Marge looked up, glancing from Josie to Behan, and when she realized they might be joking held up her middle finger. “You’re both sick,” she said. “This is so fucked-up. He’s your kid. Make him stay away from that loser.”

“He’s twenty-two years old and reminds me at every opportunity I can’t tell him what to do anymore.”

“Then beat the crap out of him until he does what you want,” Marge said with a look of disgust.

“David’s six-foot-four. I’d need a ladder just to get his attention.”

“Big and fucking stupid,” Marge mumbled loud enough for Josie to hear. Josie winced, but wasn’t certain she entirely disagreed with her friend’s assessment.

“So, I’m thinking Bruno Faldi’s looking more and more like my number one candidate for biggest asshole,” Behan said, ignoring the two women. “Did he kill Hillary and Misty for Uncle Vince? And if he did, why would Milano want them dead?”

“That’s a gigantic frigging leap into fantasyland,” Marge said. “Bruno went from creep to killer in sixty seconds based on what?”

“He was Hillary’s only bodyguard who conveniently got fired or quit a few days before she’s killed. He hid his ties with Milano and was in the perfect place to be a lucrative source of young girls for Misty’s escort and porn stable . . . yeah, actually I think the pervert’s worth a second look.”

Marge’s left eyebrow arched and she slumped back away from the table.

“Why would a guy like Milano want to kill a seventeen-year-old girl?” Josie asked, and added, “And why shoot her in his attorney’s house? That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Controlled environment . . . Lange’s out of town with the perfect alibi. My guess is Hillary did something that pissed-off Milano,” Behan said.

“Maybe he had to sit through one of her movies,” Josie said. “That’d make me wanna kill somebody.”

Behan had to smile. “Not a strong motive, boss, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

A uniformed lieutenant peeked cautiously around the glass partition that shielded Marge’s desk from the front door of the vice office.

“Captain, you might wanna come downstairs,” the lieutenant said, looking out of place in the casual vice surroundings. “Narcotics picked up some guy who claims his name is Little Joe, and he’s demanding to talk to you.”

THIRTEEN

E
dgar Demarco, also known as Little Joe, was stashed in one of the detectives’ interview rooms when Josie finally met him. He was a nervous little man in tight-fitting black slacks, black boots and a polyester black shirt with a large gold cross hanging from a hefty gold chain around his neck. Most of his hair was stuffed under an orange and red knit cap. The few loose braided strands she could see looked matted and badly in need of shampoo. His right hand was behind him cuffed to his chair, but the nails on his left hand were long and painted an ugly purple. He crossed his legs like a woman, and with his free hand rubbed the cross as if it were a lucky rabbit’s foot as he sat staring at the wall and jerking his head to music only he could hear.

“How can I help you?” Josie asked after introducing herself and Behan. They sat across the table and waited for him to slowly shift around and face them. He had an oddly curled lip that made him look as if he were snarling. Her first impression was the guy had the most perfect white teeth she’d ever seen. He couldn’t have been five feet tall, and she doubted he weighed even a hundred pounds—a heroin-dealing munchkin, she thought and grinned back at him.