Fallen Angels (9 page)

“How’s Donnie Fricke?” Harry asked when they were alone. He made no secret of the fact he admired Fricke’s dedication and willingness to work closely with his office. He looked away when he asked the question. She couldn’t explain why, but the guy always seemed a bit intimidated by her. They laughed and joked together, but Harry always held back a little. He was younger than her, but his hair was thinning and he wore dark-rimmed glasses that made him look older and a lot shyer than he was.

“He’s okay; why’d you ask?”

“I had to kick back some of his reports. I thought he might’ve been upset.”

“Hasn’t mentioned it,” she said. “What was wrong with the reports?”

He shook his head and said, “No big deal; they were starting to sound a little too boiler plate.”

She laughed. “Under-the-influence symptoms don’t change much from one heroin addict to another.”

“I know,” he said, nervously. “We fixed the problem. I worried something might be wrong. He’s usually so careful. . . .”

Harry didn’t finish his thought and found them a couple of places at a table in the corner far enough away from the podium and those service club rituals that always preceded the lunch. When the president banged his gavel for everyone to be seated for lunch, there was one open place beside her at their table. Councilman Eli Goldman pulled out the chair and sat down as he asked, “Is this taken?”

Everyone but Josie immediately welcomed him. She smiled and knew what his first words would be before he opened his mouth.

“How’s the Dennis investigation going?” he asked, whispering and leaning toward her.

“It’s still early,” she said.

“I understand there’s a second killing that may be related,” he said. Her expression must’ve revealed her displeasure because he quickly added, “Chief Bright has kept me in the loop on this one. I told him to let me know if there’s anything the council can do . . . you know, like reward money or anything like that.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” Josie said, calmly, but inside she was fuming. Cory Goldman, their primary suspect, could go to his father and find out everything her detectives were doing. What a stupid way to do police work. At that moment, she decided Behan was about to get her new directive on not sharing any pertinent information with the bureau.

Goldman didn’t pursue the conversation about the homicides. Instead, he chatted with Harry. The councilman had been invited to the lunch to give a city commendation to one of the social service organizations that assisted the homeless in Hollywood; and as soon as the paper with the city seal changed hands he was out of the room.

Josie wasn’t far behind him, and noticed that Goldman had been intercepted on the sidewalk by a tall good-looking man with grey hair and a great tan. She didn’t recognize the man and hadn’t seen him in the restaurant. The two men shook hands but appeared to be arguing about something. Harry Walsh was standing in front of the entrance with her waiting for the valet parking attendant to return with his car. He was saying something to Josie, but she was more interested in the sidewalk conversation.

“You know him?” she asked Harry, nodding in their direction.

“With Goldman?” Harry asked and hesitated just a moment, squinting to make out the other man’s features. “Peter Lange; he’s an entertainment lawyer. I think he practices in New York.”

“Let me take a shot in the dark. Did he just buy a house in the Hollywood Hills?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.” Harry’s car arrived; they shook hands, and he was gone. When she looked up, Goldman was nowhere in sight, and Lange was getting into a black limo that had pulled to the curb. Josie watched until the limo eased into traffic.

When Josie got back to the station, Behan confirmed Peter Lange was the new owner of the Hollywood Hills party house. Detectives had verified his alibi and established he was in New York on the day Hillary was murdered. He had no idea who had commandeered his new home for the deadly gathering, didn’t know Hillary Dennis or any of the other guests, and had given no one permission to be there. The caretaker had been hired by the real estate agency. Lange had never met him until he arrived the day after the killing, whereupon he immediately fired the man and hired another caretaker the same day.

“How does he know Goldman?” Josie asked.

“Lange’s a big political contributor. His MO is to move in and start laying down cash to anybody that can help him, including the mayor.”

“Actually, his house is in Susie Fletcher’s section of Hollywood,” Josie said, recalling the crazy gerrymandered districts in the city established more for political expediency than logic or convenience.

“He bought an office building on Sunset. That’s Goldman’s domain, but I’m sure Fletcher got her tribute too.”

She knew Behan was probably right. That’s how politics worked in L.A. Money had the loudest voice in public policy decisions.

Despite some last minute crises around the station, she and Behan managed to get to the party house on time. Josie was surprised how much better it looked in the daylight. The outside was freshly painted, and a new six-foot wall with an electronic gate surrounded the place. She pressed the buzzer and looked up at a security camera on the roof of the garage. The gate opened, and Peter Lange was standing on the step by the open front door.

None of these hill houses had much of a front yard, but the view of the canyon was spectacular. Josie noticed the small courtyard area inside the wall had recently been paved with Spanish tiles and looked great.

Lange was cordial and gave her a long, firm handshake. He had a dark complexion and brown eyes. She thought he looked more Mediterranean than his name would indicate. Living with Jake all those years, she’d met hordes of her husband’s Italian relatives, and Peter Lange could easily have been one of them. He invited them inside.

There was no trace of the gruesome murder scene in the large front room. A new black leather couch had replaced the bloody one, and the wall had been scrubbed and painted sage green. Josie noticed all the furniture was new, and included contemporary glass-topped tables and recessed lighting. The space had a more masculine look now. It wasn’t her taste, but was very well done.

Lange sat on the couch beside her; she could smell his cologne. It was spicy, almost a fresh-cut wood scent, and she was about to ask what it was before remembering she might not have anyone to give it to.

“I want to apologize for dragging you out here. I know you’re both busy,” Lange said after they declined anything to drink. “You can understand how disturbing it would be to have something like this happen in your home.”

“I see you’ve added some security,” Josie said.

“It was either that or sell the place,” he said, but those words didn’t fit the man. Josie couldn’t picture him as the sort of guy who’d run from trouble. Actually, she thought something didn’t feel right about him. He was trying too hard to be nice.

“Do you have a new address or phone number for the former caretaker?” Behan asked.

“Sorry no, I just wanted him out of here. Despite his denials I can’t believe he didn’t help arrange the whole party thing.”

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Josie asked, beginning to wonder why he wanted them there.

“I need to know who did this and why they picked my house. I saw you today at the Rotary,” he said, as an afterthought. For some reason, Josie blushed as if she’d been caught doing something bad. He continued, “I confronted Goldman there because I believe his son is involved, but you saw how he reacted. He denied Cory knew anything. I don’t believe that. Do you?”

“We haven’t eliminated him as a suspect,” Behan said. “But there’s really nothing that puts him in your house that night.”

“I know,” Lange said, running his fingers through his thick hair. “But it’s frustrating. I want you to know I’m willing to do whatever’s necessary to help solve this terrible thing. I didn’t know the girl, but no one deserves to die like that.”

“Thank you. We appreciate your offer,” Josie said, not having a clue about what he thought he could do. In her suspicious mind, she wondered if he was attempting to redirect her attention away from the odd confrontation she’d seen between him and Goldman that afternoon.

“Do you represent specific entertainers?” Behan asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, but not actors, mostly musicians.”

“Anyone on the West Coast?”

“Of course,” Lange said. “I have a number of clients here.”

“Any reason one of your clients might think he or she could borrow your home for the night?” Behan asked.

Lange folded his arms and exhaled. “Surely you don’t believe I’m involved in this business except to the extent that someone broke into my home,” he said.

Lange turned toward Josie. She didn’t want to answer for Behan, but her detective wasn’t responding so she didn’t have much choice.

“Absolutely not,” she said, thinking that’s what he expected to hear. She believed he was as much a suspect as anyone else, but had no intention of telling him that. “We appreciate your offer of assistance, and of course we’ll keep you informed about anything that concerns you or your property.”

“Thank you,” he said and seemed to relax. “I appreciate that. What happened here was shocking. I want to stay in L.A. and keep my businesses here, but like I told the mayor, my decision depends on how this investigation is handled.”

After the veiled threat, he offered to show them around the property. Josie wasn’t interested. She’d had enough of Peter Lange, but Behan jumped at the invitation. The house was approximately three thousand square feet and every room was professionally decorated. She thought Behan would start drooling when they arrived in the game room where a full-sized pool table and bar were prominently displayed. From there, French doors led to the backyard which featured a small lap pool and a huge canyon view.

When the tour was over, Lange escorted them to the front gate.

“Is Corsino your married name?” he asked, before she could get into Behan’s car. She nodded, and he said, “Too bad, I thought we might be paisans.”

“Change your name?” she asked.

“My dad Giovanni Langella became Johnny Lange at Ellis Island.”

“Pastore was my maiden name, but my dad split when I was a kid and on my mom’s side they were all hard-drinking Irish.”

“Buono,” Lange said, laughing and hugging her. “Sorry,” he said stepping back almost as quickly. “For a second there I forgot you were a cop.”

She looked down at her uniform. “I can see how you’d make that mistake.”

Peter Lange stood by his front gate and watched as they drove away.

“I’d say you smoothed his feathers,” Behan said, grinning and looking intently at the road. “How’re your feathers doing there, boss?”

SIX

T
here were two events Josie had promised to attend that evening. The first was a homeowners’ association meeting at a residence in the Hills where she assured a group of about fifty, mostly older, wealthy men and women that there wasn’t a crazed serial killer skulking in their backyards, waiting in the heavy undergrowth until they closed their eyes so he could butcher them in their sleep. She didn’t know that for a fact, but believed it was a logical deduction from the known facts in the Dennis murder.

The meeting was down the street from Lange’s home, but he didn’t attend. His neighbors were grateful Josie came and thanked her profusely for the meager information she’d provided about the case. They had as many questions about Lange as they had about the murder in his house, wanting to know what he did for a living and describing all the strange-looking characters he entertained almost every night. Josie didn’t have any answers, but she learned from the old woman who lived next door that a police cruiser had been routinely making nightly visits before the murder.

Josie drank a respectable amount of coffee and ate too many cookies before leaving. She was sorry she had another meeting that night because she was enjoying their company and probably would’ve stayed longer. As she got older, she was finding successful old people were fascinating, and eventually one of them always opened an expensive bottle of wine which made bullshitting sessions a lot more enjoyable. Unfortunately, many of them were easily frightened. They didn’t seem to fear death as much as departing the world at a time when they had so much of life figured out.