Fallen Angels (5 page)

“Did he ask you to pump me for information?”

“You make it sound sinister, Mom. He liked Hillary and was curious if the drugs finally got her.”

“How close a friend is he?” Josie was becoming sober in a hurry. Anxiety always produced that effect. She didn’t like where this conversation was going, and her motherly instincts warned her there was danger ahead for her six-foot-four-inch baby.

THREE

W
eary from a stressful day and lack of sleep, Josie made a pot of coffee in an attempt to clear her head. It was going to be a long night. She’d pushed Jake’s job situation to the bottom of her priority stack, and he seemed to sense his comments were unwelcome. After a weak attempt to interject his thoughts, Jake faded into a shadowy presence, picking up empty plates and making familiar kitchen cleaning noises. He managed to keep out of their way in another part of the house while Josie and David stayed up until after midnight drinking coffee at the kitchen table and talking about David’s association with Cory Goldman and the murder victim.

Josie wanted to believe her son was telling the truth about a casual and infrequent relationship, but she was a skeptic and suspicious by nature. David swore theirs wasn’t a close friendship; he liked Cory but hadn’t seen him for days before the councilman’s son called him that afternoon. Josie’s gentle but persuasive badgering eventually forced David to admit Cory knew he was a suspect in Hillary’s murder and had asked David to find out what he could from his mother.

“I refused to do that,” David said. “But I’m still curious. Cory’s screwed up, but I don’t believe he could kill anyone, especially Hillary.”

“Why especially Hillary?”

“He dumped her, then changed his door locks and phone numbers to get away from her and her crazy mother.”

“Mrs. Dennis says Cory threatened to kill Hillary yesterday.”

“She’s lying. Mrs. Dennis hates Cory . . . the way he dresses and the tattoos and the . . .” David hesitated.

“Drugs?” Josie finished his sentence instinctively knowing that had to be what he was trying not to say. Josie had made it clear his entire life she had no tolerance for drug users.

“It wasn’t that way. Hillary was hardcore. Cory only used a little meth and grass.”

Josie stared at him. “What do you consider hardcore?”

“Needles, ‘H.’ ”

“Heroin . . . I didn’t see any tracks on her. Where’d she shoot up?”

“Don’t know, but she did.”

She made a mental note to tell Red in the morning. The wine had done its magic, and despite the caffeine and growing concern, Josie was finally tired enough to sleep. She got up and kissed David on the cheek.

“Stay here tonight,” she said. “Your father’ll make you breakfast.”

She shut off all the lights and checked the doors. By the time

she climbed the stairs, she noticed the light was out in David’s old room and she could hear him snoring.

She’d consumed enough wine to be grateful the watch commander hadn’t called her that night, but wasn’t so wasted she didn’t notice Jake never came to bed. When she got up early the next morning, she looked out the bedroom window and saw his Porsche was gone and her city car was parked in the driveway in its place. Her son’s Jeep was still there.

Josie took a shower and dressed in a black pantsuit and white silk blouse instead of her jeans. She needed to drop her uniforms off at the cleaners. She put the .45 in her briefcase and wore a smaller 9mm Beretta under her suit jacket. There was a coffee shop near the cleaners where she could get her caffeine fix and something disgustingly unhealthy for breakfast. She peeked in David’s bedroom. He was still sleeping. There was an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched him for a few seconds. It wasn’t hunger.

By the time Josie arrived at Hollywood station, the coffee was gone, crumbs and powdered sugar covered her lap, and she was on a caffeine-sugar high and primed to start her day.

Lieutenant Ibarra informed her Behan was in the middle of the Dennis autopsy at the morgue, so she called him on his cell phone and told him what David had disclosed about the victim’s drug use.

“Do I need to interview your kid?” Behan asked.

“We’ll talk when you get back,” she said and hung up. Stupid question, she thought. Of course he would, but she didn’t like it. Knowing Behan, she figured he asked just to annoy her.

“Hey, Captain,” Donnie Fricke said, leaning into her office from the doorway. “Got a minute?”

“Come in,” she said, relaxing. At last, a touch of controlled insanity.

Officer Fricke came in without Frank Butler trailing a step behind him.

“Where’s your partner?”

“I got here early. Figured I’d let him sleep in. Me and Frankie, we turned over a lot a rocks last night.”

“How many arrests you make?” she asked. Josie loved the way Fricke talked. He sounded like a Chicago gangster, but was born and raised in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley. She was a little uneasy about the way he made his own work schedule. She’d been lenient with him because of the special detail and his incredible productivity, but she was about to assign an immediate supervisor to his narcotics car. He and Butler were supposed to report to the lieutenant watch commander at night, but Fricke had a habit of frequently coming to work early or late depending on his target for the night.

“It was a slow night, Cap’. We only hooked up six.”

They both knew that number was an incredible amount of work for two officers, but Fricke had perfected an assembly-line process for booking heroin addicts.

“You solve the Dennis murder, yet?”

Now Fricke laughed. “No, ma’am, but we got this snitch that says she knows where Hillary copped her drugs.”

“You tell Behan?”

“Ain’t seen him this morning. Want us to drop her name on the guys at RHD.”

“Give it to Behan, let him deal with downtown,” she said. “What did you promise her?”

Fricke glanced at the floor and said, “Fifty, but we don’t gotta sweat it. The dope guys got a package on her. They’ll front the money.”

He lingered in her office for half an hour. Fricke knew all the gossip in the division and couldn’t keep anything to himself. She listened, and in some cases was surprised by the actions of a few officers she thought she knew better. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Most cops were very intelligent with a highly developed sense of mischief. They could get themselves into some jaw-dropping adventures all in the name of fun. She figured their high jinks were a kind of pressure release valve, and tried to stay out of it unless their actions harmed someone or affected their work. Josie knew Fricke told her everything because he trusted her not to overreact. She listened to Fricke because the things she couldn’t do anything about he kept to himself.

Fricke was barely out of the office when Sergeant Jones stepped in and said, “Chief Bright called. He wants you back at the bureau when you get a chance.”

Josie felt a pain between her eyes as if she’d just swallowed a big chunk of ice. She had better things to do than bounce back and forth between the bureau and Hollywood station just to give ‘Not So’ something to occupy his time.

“Call his adjutant and set something up for tomorrow morning. I’ll stop by on my way to the office.”

The adjutant was leaving, but moved aside to let Behan enter. The big redhead didn’t acknowledge him and dropped wearily onto the chair in front of Josie’s desk. He pulled a yellow legal notepad out of his briefcase and put it on his lap.

“Coffee?” Josie asked, grabbing her cup and waving it at the detective. Behan shook his head and thumbed through several pages in the notepad. She filled her cup from a pot in the admin office and came back.

“When’s that guy gonna get a real job?” Behan asked, not looking up.

“What guy?” she asked.

“Your adjutant.”

“He’s only been here four months. What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Too salty for a sergeant with one hash mark.”

“Five years is a lot these days, Red,” she said, closing the door. “Still too cocky . . . needs to get knocked on his ass a few times.”

Josie recognized the crankiness that came when Behan had more alcohol than sleep, and opted to change the subject.

“RHD object to you sitting in on the post?”

“I trained both those guys. Besides they’re pissed off; they don’t want this loser case any more than you do. They said their boss is trying to find a way to give it back.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Won’t know much until the labs come back, but she was shot at close range, probably with the nine millimeter we recovered near the body. No ballistics yet, and no residue on her hands. Gun’s stolen, six months ago in a burglary on Yucca, from the Palms—that dirtbag apartment building Fricke’s always rousting.”

“Any marks?”

“Your kid had it right. They found fresh puncture wounds on her feet and in the groin area. Looks like she might’ve tried the needle once or twice in her arm, too.”

“Until she got smart enough to hide it.” Josie had worked narcotics for a lot of years and knew how ingenious heroin addicts could be.

Behan flipped through the yellow notepad, searching for anything he might’ve missed. She watched him and thought he looked more haggard and stressed-out than usual. He shifted his big frame trying to get comfortable, and his hands trembled slightly as he slipped the notepad back into his briefcase.

“RHD figures we dumped this stinker on them,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I explained how that decision got made in the rarified air staff guys breathe, not by us lowly worker bees.”

“I want you to talk to Fricke’s snitch before we give her up to RHD.”

Behan said, “I already told him to bring her to me as soon as he digs her up again. Wanna listen in?”

“Maybe, but first I’m taking you to breakfast.”

“I ate.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I had a hamburger.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, I guess; I’m not hungry,” he said, irritated with her interrogation.

“Either we eat or you go home. You look like hammered shit.”

They argued another ten minutes about where to eat, and finally Josie told him they were going to Murray’s, a hole-in-thewall coffee shop on Santa Monica Boulevard that had the best breakfast in the city. It was owned by a retired boxer from England and his gay son. Sammy, the ex-boxer, was in his late seventies and had a touch of dementia. He was a great cook, but sometimes you got your meal twice.

It was an off-hour so they found one of the four tables empty. Josie loved the food, but hated the environment. The place was stuck on a corner surrounded by the film industry’s dreary postproduction houses where homeless bums fought teenage male prostitutes for standing room. The graffiti was crafted by mindless taggers, not rival gangs, but it looked just as ugly. Occasionally, some of the street people would wander inside, and Sammy would feed them. If they smelled too bad, he made them take their food to the plastic tables outside.

On other days, she’d see an actor or some other celebrity sitting at the counter devouring one of Sammy’s omelets. Today, she spotted Councilwoman Susan Fletcher who, like Eli Goldman, represented sections of Hollywood. She was sitting at the far end of the counter with one of her community organizer aides. Fletcher was grossly overweight and balanced precariously on a wobbly stool. Josie glanced down and pretended not to notice her. She actually liked Fletcher, but wasn’t in the mood to talk politics.

The smell of sautéed onions must’ve affected Behan. He ordered a sausage and cheese omelet, hash browns, sourdough toast, and a side of pancakes. Josie drank coffee and watched him, wondering what Red ate when he was hungry. By the time he wiped his plate with the last piece of toast and drank half a pot of coffee, the color had returned to his face and his hands were steady. He sat back and opened a notch on his belt.

Josie wanted to ask Behan what was happening to him, but knew he wouldn’t tell her. His life was a mess, but he was too proud to whine about it.

“Thanks,” he said, finally. “Guess I needed that.”

She smiled but didn’t ask the question she was aching to spring on him: What the hell’s wrong with you? Unfortunately, before he could open that door or volunteer any personal information, Councilwoman Fletcher was off her stool and hovering over their table.