Fallen Angels (6 page)

“Captain Corsino,” Fletcher said, and held out her chubby hand to Josie. “Thanks, Sammy,” she bellowed, waving her other hand at the cook standing across the room. The old guy ignored her and slipped into the back room. Fletcher was probably in her forties, but had an old lady appearance with her henna-colored hair cut just below her ears and curled under at the ends, and her dark matronly business suit.

“Councilwoman,” Josie said, smiling. “Detective Behan, my homicide supervisor,” she added, pointing at Behan.

Fletcher reached down and grabbed the detective’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said. “How’s the Dennis investigation going?” she asked, and pulled an empty chair from the table behind them. She moved it beside Behan and settled her considerable bulk without an invitation. Her preppie-looking aide, who never did get an introduction, stood, clipboard in hand, leaning against the counter. “I know Eli Goldman is terrified his son might be involved,” Fletcher said. She tried to sound concerned, but Josie caught just the slightest trace of a smile cross the woman’s plump face.

Before her election, Fletcher was a vocal left-wing liberal; but during her first year on the council, she’d proven to be one of Josie’s strongest supporters . . . most of the time. It wasn’t friendship, but Josie and the councilwoman had a solid and respectful working relationship.

“It’s not my investigation anymore,” Behan said.

Fletcher turned to Josie. “Why not? I thought the girl died in Hollywood.”

“Deputy Chief Bright gave the case to RHD,” Behan said, before Josie could think of an answer that would offer her boss some protection. She didn’t like Bright, but generally felt an obligation to shield the rank above her.

Josie glared at Behan. She knew what he was doing. It was common knowledge Eli Goldman and Fletcher didn’t get along. They never fought in public, but behind the scenes there were rumors of threats and backstabbing recriminations. Behan was a master at pushing people’s buttons. He had to know Fletcher would suspect Goldman’s hand in the investigation’s abrupt transfer to RHD, a move which meant greater oversight and control by the chief of police, who also happened to be Eli Goldman’s good friend.

The aide whispered something in Fletcher’s ear; she nodded, and he faded back to the counter.

“I’ve got a meeting,” Fletcher said, grunting as she used everything within reach to get herself back on her feet. “I am not pleased with this. It doesn’t pass the smell test.” She turned to leave, stopped, came back and challenged Josie. “Did you agree with the decision to pass this investigation to RHD?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Damn you, Behan, Josie thought, and said, “Actually, I wasn’t given a vote or I would’ve kept it.”

They were gone, the councilwoman and her Sancho Panza on a mission to the civic center to hack down a few political windmills in the City of the Angels.

After several seconds of painful silence, Behan put his hand over his mouth and said, “Oops.”

“I should’ve let you starve to death,” Josie whispered.

“Come on, I want the case back; you want it back; RHD wants to give it back, so everybody’s happy.”

“Everybody except that deputy chief guy who can transfer my ass to Jail division for the rest of my career.”

“They’re not gonna know it was you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Josie said, tossing twenty dollars on the table. “It was my big-mouthed, conniving D-III.” She actually wasn’t all that angry, which surprised her. There would be some questions, but she hadn’t initiated anything. Councilwoman Fletcher would do all the dirty work, ask embarrassing questions and make accusations until the chief either gave in and returned the investigation to Hollywood, or got angry and went after the culprit who’d talked to Fletcher. It was a crap shoot, but Josie knew the chief of police was too smart to make Susan Fletcher an enemy.

It didn’t take long to find out. Behan was driving them back to Hollywood station when Josie got a message on her Blackberry from Bright’s adjutant to go code-three, emergency speed, to West bureau. If she were in a more charitable mood, Josie might’ve had Behan drop her at the station, and she would’ve gone alone, but somehow it seemed appropriate that he face the firing squad with her.

“Are you okay?” she asked after several minutes of watching Behan drive too slowly without a word of conversation.

“I hate the bureau.”

“You know what I mean. Something’s going on with you. Can I help?”

“You can stop asking me if I’m okay.”

“I’m not going to do that. What else?”

“Pay my alimony and child support.”

“Why do you keep marrying these women? Why don’t you just live with them like everybody else? That way when you break up you don’t have to support them and their kids for the rest of your life. She takes the wide-screen TV; you get the dog, and it’s over.”

“I’m Irish Catholic. That’s what we do.”

“You need money?”

“Yeah, but not from you. Don’t worry about it. I got a plan.”

Now Josie was worried. “Am I gonna start getting reports of some big, grumpy, red-headed bank robber?”

“Better. I know this very rich, very old widow who’s about to become the next Mrs. Phillip Behan.”

Josie slumped back in the passenger seat and stared out the window. The man was hopeless. She was grateful they’d reached the bureau before she got details about the bride or the pending marriage. Behan straightened his tie as he got out of the car and looked somewhat presentable. He always seemed to patch his life together when he was married or had decided to get married again.

They walked past Sergeant Perry and the secretary and into Bright’s office. The chief was reading and didn’t bother to acknowledge them until he finished. When Bright saw them standing on either side of the only other chair in the room, he shouted for Perry to bring in another one. The adjutant responded immediately, arranged the furniture so everyone faced the chief and left. Josie pictured Perry kissing Bright’s ass and twirling out of the room. She smiled at the mental image.

“Something funny, Captain?” Bright asked her. He wasn’t pleased.

“No,” Josie said, trying not to look at Behan. “Guess I’m just in a good mood.”

“Enjoy it. It won’t last,” Bright said.

“Why’s that?” Josie asked as innocently as she could. “You’re getting the Dennis investigation back.”

“I thought RHD had it,” she said, giving Behan a look that warned him not to say a word. This was her show.

“The chief wants your people to handle it.”

Josie turned toward Behan and asked, “How’s your workload?”

Before Behan could respond, Bright said, “This isn’t negotiable. It’s yours.” He was visibly irritated.

“We’ll pick up the homicide book and start today,” Josie said with a forced smile.

Bright reached into the side desk drawer, handed a large binder to Behan and said, “Just remember, I’m really in charge of this investigation. I want to be informed on every move you make. I don’t want any blunders on this one.”

Josie could feel herself blushing and knew it was frustration. She knew better than to let anything Bright said bother her, but this did. The man knew nothing about criminal investigations. He was a careerist who hadn’t worked at anything for years except his next promotion, and he certainly didn’t know how to manage a homicide case. She didn’t say anything but heard Behan, always the loyal soldier, respond.

“Yes sir.”

“Anything else?” Josie asked, standing.

“Rating report,” he said, removing a folder from his desk drawer, then immediately tossed it back. “Just remembered, I can’t do that now . . . got to leave early. Have Sandy put you on my calendar for early tomorrow morning,” he said to Josie.

She nodded and left his office, stopped at the secretary’s desk and got penciled in for the next morning. Behan was chatting with one of the young record clerks, but Josie wanted to leave and said she’d wait for him by the car. She could feel the anger and disappointment simmering inside her, and it wasn’t just the investigation. Josie never expected or wanted to promote higher than area captain, but she wanted a fair evaluation of her work. She’d labored too hard to have someone like ‘Not So’ assess her performance.

She leaned against Behan’s vehicle. The fresh air and a light breeze cleared her head. Maybe she was making too much of something that really wasn’t all that important. If the rating wasn’t fair, she’d fight it. She gazed at the black and white patrol cars returning to the division’s parking lot one by one until they were lined up by the back door of Wilshire station. It was a change of watch. The returning officers cleaned out their cars, joked or shared information with the men and women who would work the p.m. watch, some of the dodgiest hours to patrol L.A.’s streets. Josie always marveled at how nonchalant and relaxed they could be about such a dangerous job. She liked watching them; it put the world back into perspective.

Being in a patrol car had been one of the most enjoyable times she’d had during her career. She missed the simplicity of driving out of the station every night with her partner and looking for trouble, police work in its purest form—every day different, every radio call possibly the most important event in another person’s life or the last precious moments of your own. Patrol was sporadic doses of adrenaline or boredom frequently mixed with mind-numbing fear. A person got tested, courage and ability measured every day. Maybe that’s what really bothered Josie about Bright. By all accounts, he’d failed the test but still got rewarded.

Behan had them back at Hollywood station by late afternoon. He’d stopped talking about the rich widow and was thinking about the Dennis homicide again. Josie had flipped through the pages of the binder as Behan drove, and was disappointed to discover the RHD detectives had already interviewed Cory Goldman at his home with his father and an attorney present. The interview had revealed no new information and basically Cory repeated the same scenario David had given her the night before. He claimed he wasn’t at the party and hadn’t seen Hillary for weeks, and was in fact trying to avoid her and her crazy mother. Cory described Hillary’s mother as a “religious crackpot” who had driven Hillary from her house with her constant ravings. There was a recent photo of the young man. He could’ve been handsome, but had pierced both ears and one nostril, shaved his head and had extensive tattoos on his neck and arms. It was difficult for Josie to believe this guy and her David were friends. In a lot of ways her son was conservative by today’s standards. He hadn’t done anything that caused permanent damage to his body and dressed like a flower child.

“So, what’s your game plan,” Josie asked Behan as they entered the back door of Hollywood station.

“Interview Fricke’s snitch and the other wits from the party,” he said, taking the binder from her.

“Captain, Red, where you been?” Fricke shouted at them from down the corridor near the division’s jail. “We been waiting.” He grinned and pointed at the closest holding cell.

Behan ordered Fricke to take the snitch back to the detectives’ interview room, and he’d be there in a few minutes. He waited until they were in her office, then asked Josie how she wanted to handle the investigation.

“The same way you handle all your investigations . . . ignore Ibarra and pester me,” Josie said.

“You know Bright will talk to Ibarra, and the little kiss-ass is gonna wanna run everything I do by the bureau first.”

They were standing just inside her office. Josie gently pushed the door closed with her foot.

“We’ll do what Chief Bright told us to do,” she said. “He’s the boss and it’s his investigation now, but everything goes through me first, same as always. Ibarra’s your boss. I’ll make him the official liaison between Hollywood and the bureau,” she said, thinking that would keep him preoccupied and out of everybody’s hair.

“What a fucking disaster,” Behan said.

“Do the best you can. You’ll make it work like you always do.” She tried to sound positive, but knew with Bright’s oversight and Ibarra’s ineptitude the case was destined to become a fucking mess, just like Behan said.

Behan reached for the door when the adjutant knocked from the other side, then pushed it open almost hitting the big detective.

“Sorry,” Sergeant Jones said, moving his stocky frame away from Behan. “Thought you’d want to know. Footbeat called in a dead body in an alley off the boulevard.”

“Homeless?” Josie asked. She knew street people were always overdosing and dying in those alleys off Hollywood Boulevard.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “She had ID. It’s Misty Skylar.”

“Fuck.” Behan mumbled.

“Another movie star?” Josie asked. She’d have to start using some of those amc gift cards gathering dust in her desk.

“Hillary’s agent,” Behan said on his way out. He told Fricke to put his snitch back in the holding cell while he tracked down a team of detectives to send to the alley.

“You want to go out there with me?” he asked Josie, who’d followed him back to the homicide table. She had a stack of work waiting on her desk and wasn’t interested until Behan reminded her that Misty Skylar had been at the Hollywood Hills party house with Hillary the night she was killed. It was too much of a coincidence even for the Hollywood crowd.

Lieutenant Ibarra was already on the scene when they arrived and was interviewing a pretty older woman in a revealing waitress uniform. The dead body had been discovered outside the back door of the bar where the waitress worked. Yellow police tape sealed the only entrance to the alley, and two uniformed officers stood in front of that flimsy barrier to keep curious pedestrians and the media from trampling the crime scene.

Josie couldn’t see the body until she passed the dumpster. Misty Skylar was propped against the wall between the dumpster and a pile of trash. She was wearing an expensive-looking black strapless cocktail dress, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, and her arms folded against her chest. Her feet were bare but clean. Her head was back as if she was staring at the stars, though her star-gazing days were definitely over.

Josie moved around the body, careful not to touch or step on anything, and glanced at the face. The eyes were swollen shut and blood was caked under the victim’s nose and both ears. The spot where Misty’s mouth should have been was a black hole. The flesh around it burned or shredded. The wall behind her was covered with blood, pieces of cartilage, teeth and brain matter. A highcaliber explosion had gone off in the woman’s mouth.