Fallen Angels (36 page)

Josie tiptoed to the front door and Marge moved to the other side with Fricke hovering over her shoulder. Behan jogged back around to the front and mouthed the words, “No exit.” She motioned for him to come closer and indicated she would try the door. If it didn’t open, he should kick it in. There was a lock, but it was flimsy and she doubted it could be secured from the inside. She pushed down on the handle, and it opened. Josie stepped inside, drew her gun and shouted, “Police, keep your hands where I can see them.”

The doorway was narrow, but Behan was in right behind her. Mouse sat up with a drowsy groan and slowly raised her hands, barely able to keep them steady above her shoulders. Her eyelids were droopy and she seemed well under the influence of her favorite opiate. She glanced over at her kit; the bloody needle and a bent spoon containing a tiny piece of damp cotton had been left next to the still-smoldering remains of a candle. The leather strap she’d used to tie off the vein in her arm lay on her lap.

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

A
s 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.