Fallen Angels (42 page)

“No, I’ll do it,” Behan said too loud.

Josie shook her head, and tapped on her chest with the knuckles of her left hand hitting the steel plate in the protective vest she wore under her uniform.

“You wearing one?” she asked.

“I don’t need one,” he argued.

She positioned herself to jump, but Behan grabbed her arm and said, “Wait, let me try something first.” He unplugged the toaster on the counter, wrapped the cord around it and tossed it down the stairs. It crashed into the washing machine, but if anyone was down there they didn’t react. He shrugged at the silence, but then Josie heard something, low and muffled but definitely a groan. She holstered her weapon again and leapt without thinking. She reached the fifth step perfectly, barely touching it before jumping to the floor of the cellar, tucking in and rolling behind the wall of the alcove where she crashed into the washing machine and banged her head on the toaster.

A gunshot hit the wall in front of the alcove and another ricocheted off the cement at the foot of the stairs. Her right uniform sleeve was torn and she rubbed her sore bruised elbow before laying flat on her stomach and taking a quick look around the wall. A man’s body was lying motionless on the floor against the east wall and Art Perry was hog-tied on the floor beside it. He had duct tape across his mouth and was dirty, bloodied, and bruised but still moving. The gunshots had made a deafening noise in the small basement and her ears wouldn’t stop ringing. Even worse, she couldn’t pinpoint the shooter’s hiding place from her location.

“Anytime, Corsino,” Behan said with a whisper loud enough to be heard across the room. There were building materials, mostly wood and drywall, stored all around her. She fired two rounds in the direction of the biggest stack sitting in front of the area she couldn’t see.

As soon as the shooting began, Behan attempted to mimic her jump, but stumbled like a big Howdy Doody crash dummy down the stairs and landed sitting up beside her. Another round from the other side of the basement hit the floor in front of the stairs showering them with tiny pieces of concrete.

“Now what?” she said, brushing the white dust off the front of her uniform.

“Are they alive?” Behan asked, cocking his head toward the two bodies lying near the east wall.

“I saw Perry moving, but I’m not sure about his brother, if that’s the other guy.”

“I called 911 after the first shots. We’ll just sit tight and wait till the cavalry gets here,” he said as Josie immediately started crawling on her belly toward the other end of the alcove. “What’re you doing?” he asked in a strained whisper.

“Not waiting,” she whispered, determined not to let some other agency rescue them and clean up their mess.

“Fucking dope cop mentality,” he mumbled. “You’re dangerous.”

Josie didn’t respond or turn around because she knew he’d be there beside her when she reached the other end, and he was. They sat with their backs to the wall as Josie looked up at a single bulb—the only source of light in the basement. She pointed at the fixture, then at Behan’s gun and covered her ears. He nodded, and with another eardrum-shattering explosion shot the bulb, causing the room to go completely black. As they sat there waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness, Josie heard sirens wailing in the distance but getting closer.

“He’s in the loft!” Art Perry’s panicked shout broke the silence.

Instinctively, Josie rolled away from the wall toward the middle of the room and behind the stack of wood and drywall, pointed her .45 and flashlight toward the back of the basement near the ceiling, and for an instant in the beam caught a massive crouching figure in the makeshift loft pointing a gun in her direction. She fired twice or maybe more. She couldn’t remember, but saw the muzzle flashes to her right and knew Behan was shooting as well.

A heavy object hit the ground with a sickening thud and groan. Moving several feet to her left, she turned on the flashlight again and saw Faldi lying motionless on the concrete floor. His gun had landed several feet from his hand, but Josie kicked it away and leaned over him checking for other weapons while Behan handcuffed the lifeless body. She holstered her weapon and only then did that familiar jolt of adrenaline hit her. A sudden burst of nervous energy, held in check by years of discipline, training and muscle memory, washed over her like an emotional tsunami as soon as the danger passed. She’d been in shootings before and remembered that strange sensation, as satisfying as any orgasm for adrenaline junkies.

It was as if her body had switched onto autopilot and time slowed down for those few intense seconds. She didn’t hear the gunfire and couldn’t tell you how many times she’d fired her weapon, but standing over the remains of Bruno Faldi, she was grateful she still practiced.

In a nearby cabinet, Behan found a battery-powered light mixed in with some stored camping gear so they were able to restore minimal light. He quickly checked the condition of the Perry brothers before examining her arm.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he said, bending her elbow. “We’re a pretty good team. Don’t you think?”

She noticed his hand shaking a little and said, “Yes I do, partner, but you jump like an old lady.”

“Better code four this before the locals come in with guns blazing,” Behan said, as the sirens stopped somewhere close by.

Josie intercepted the small army of officers as soon as she reached the top of the stairs, and returned a few minutes later leading a boyish-looking lieutenant and a couple of his officers.

“Ambulance is on the way,” Josie said, standing over Art Perry who was untied but handcuffed now, and still had a piece of the duct tape stuck to one side of his face. His other cheek was scratched raw where he had rubbed it against the concrete floor to peel off the tape and warn them. She pulled off the rest of it. If it hurt, he didn’t react. “Better?” she asked and he nodded.

His brother was lying beside him, still unconscious but breathing.

Behan was standing where she’d left him, near Faldi’s body.

“Dead?” she asked.

“Very.”

“What sort of operation did you people have here, ma’am?” the Monrovia lieutenant asked, looking around the basement. “And why weren’t we notified?”

Josie explained they had intended to talk to Perry’s brother, and how she and Behan stumbled into what looked like the attempted murder of the brothers, so naturally they were obligated to act.

“Seems to me you had time to get our help and maybe could’ve avoided killing this man,” the lieutenant said. He might’ve caught Josie’s disgusted expression because he added quickly, “but I guess that was your call.”

All the notifications were made. Perry’s brother was taken to the nearest emergency hospital but never regained consciousness. Bruno Faldi was dead as soon as he hit the basement floor. LAPD’s shooting team took several hours to complete their on-site investigation and take Josie’s and Behan’s statements.

The shooting team determined Behan and Josie had each fired four rounds. One of Behan’s rounds killed the light; two of Josie’s were cover for Behan. Faldi was hit three times, but they didn’t know as yet which of those did the deadly damage.

Josie was exhausted, but spent a couple of hours with the chief of police going over the chain of events that led to the shooting. He had responded to the scene at her request, and initially wasn’t happy about one of his captains putting herself in the middle of an investigation. But eventually, he had to admit the circumstances with Bright, Perry and so many other police officers being involved made it an unusual case. He agreed to allow her to continue handling the investigation, and any resources she needed. Josie suspected Fletcher might’ve had a hand in triggering the chief’s support. She wanted to confront Bright immediately but wasn’t going to get that satisfaction. She was told he had retired earlier that day.

When Behan finally got around to interviewing him, Art Perry made it clear he didn’t take kindly to Milano’s attempt to permanently eliminate him as a potential witness. He was especially unhappy that Milano’s hitman Faldi had wiped out the only other member of his immediate family. So he willingly became a oneman flowchart, tying up loose ends on how Milano’s operation worked from inside and outside the police department.

He confirmed Ibarra’s story that Milano had ordered him and Faldi to compromise Ibarra, Owens and Bright to gain their cooperation and protection for his businesses. Faldi joined the police department at his uncle’s direction for the sole purpose of helping the family, and he recruited Perry before they had graduated from the police academy.

Perry claimed he didn’t feel any remorse for helping Faldi, but felt betrayed; he never would’ve talked about any of this if they hadn’t tried to kill him. He bragged he’d made more money by looking the other way than he ever did as a cop.

“Who tried to kill me?” Josie asked.

“Run ballistics on that Glock semi-auto Bruno carried,” Perry said.

“There’s no way he could’ve known I was gonna be at the Dennis house that night, and why would he wanna shoot me anyway?”

“Milano told him to stake out the house on the outside chance Mouse might show again. Everybody figured she had Hillary’s book. He sees you leaving and decides to kill you.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t like you,” Perry said with a smirk. “I don’t like you either.”

“You know anything about Milano’s connection to the Manuci family?” Behan asked before Josie had an opportunity to respond. She was grateful. It was the perfect opportunity to say something stupid, and she probably shouldn’t get into a pissing contest with their most important witness.

“Yeah, that’s why Faldi killed Misty. When I found out who she really was and why she was in witness protection, I told Milano and he told Manuci. Manuci says kill her because he’s got no use for her.”

“So you and Faldi escort her out the back door of that bar and blow her brains all over the alley,” Josie said.

“Hell no, I told them I wouldn’t have nothing to do with murder.”

“You didn’t try to stop it or warn her either.”

“Why should I? I hated her guts. I knew she killed Hillary.”

“Why? Because you and Hillary were blackmailing her? My guess is Misty agreed to pay you, then found out you lied to her and had already given her up to the Manucis.”

“If that’s true, why would Hillary go to that party expecting a big payoff and instead get her head blown off?” Perry asked, rubbing the bruise on his face before adding, “I’m not sorry Misty’s dead.”

At least now I know why Hillary died with a smile, Josie thought. She’d expected an envelope full of cash, not a 9-mm round through her head.

“Faldi didn’t kill Misty by himself. He had an accomplice and you’re looking like the best candidate for suspect number two,” Behan said.

“I’m not saying Milano didn’t try to get me to do it,” Perry said. “That lawyer Lange had me at his house every night, told me Mouse gave Misty the gun that killed Hillary. They were hoping I’d do the Manuci family’s dirty work for them; but like I told you, I wanted Misty dead and she deserved to die, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

T
HE INTERVIEW
was interrupted when Marge finally located Roy Mitchell living in a homeless shelter in downtown Los Angeles. He was broke, filthy and drunk, but after a bath and a few gallons of coffee, the bum easily identified Perry—or “Pretty Boy” as Roy referred to him—as the second man with Misty in the alley the night she was killed. Roy pointed at a picture of Bruno Faldi as the person who shot Misty, and then kicked and beat him as he lay helpless on the ground.

When Perry’s interview resumed and Behan had pried all the lies and the little bit of truth he thought he could get out of him, Behan told him he was being booked as an accomplice to murder; but neither he nor Josie was surprised that Perry didn’t look too worried. They had worked major cases before and knew as well as Perry did that he was a valuable witness who could easily negotiate a deal with the feds for his testimony against the crime families—and that would keep him out of jail. He’d walk away disgraced but still entitled to his police pension and lucrative benefits.

The same would be true for Bright, Ibarra, and Owens. Even if they went to jail, they did so with their considerable police pensions intact, which led Marge to complain there should be a way to wipe away all that guaranteed income.

“Not gonna happen,” Behan said, in the early morning hours as they sat winding down with Josie in her office.

“They’re no better than the fucking assholes. They don’t deserve to get a penny of our pension money . . . city of the angels, what a fucking joke.”

“Fallen angels might get to keep their wings, but they don’t get a CCW,” Behan said, yawning. They all knew carrying a concealed weapon was a valuable privilege given to cops who retired honorably, a privilege Perry and his buddies had forfeited. Not only their law enforcement careers and reputations, but any lucrative private security jobs were gone forever.

They all agreed that price wasn’t anywhere near high enough.