by Connie Dial
It was a difficult walk back to the house. A few blocks seemed like miles, and the San Gabriel Valley had turned cold. There were people on the street—distracting activity around her. She checked her Blackberry. No messages.
As Josie walked up the sidewalk toward the house, it was dark—but she could see there were two cars in her driveway. The city car was parked safely in the garage. She got closer and could make out David’s jeep beside the Porsche. Her first thought was wondering why David had been home more in the last two days than in the last two months, and immediately she felt guilty. A mother should be happy to see her son and she was, but David’s companionship frequently came not only with his dirty laundry but with conditions.
When he was a boy, David was closer to her, but as he got older Jake was his confidant and mentor. She was never certain what was going on in her son’s life—what was real, or what he wanted her to believe so she wouldn’t ask too many prying questions. She was a cop and maybe not as gullible as Jake or most of the other mothers, but lately she was resigned to ignoring his deceptions, knowing inevitably the truth would surface. Otherwise, she feared their relationship might become a series of nasty interrogations. Tonight she wasn’t certain she could play his games. Her nerves were already on overload.
She found him rummaging in the refrigerator. When she said “Hi” he straightened up and hit his head on the top shelf.
“You alright,” she said, trying to touch the back of his neck. “Kind of jumpy, aren’t you?”
He moved away. “I’m fine. You scared me. I didn’t expect you home.”
“Where did you expect me?”
“With Dad. What happened?” He pulled the butter dish out and closed the refrigerator door.
Great, she thought. They’ve already talked about it. Well, she wasn’t going to discuss her marriage problems with her son.
“You staying? Want me to make you something to eat?”
“What happened with Dad?” David asked again, taking a loaf of bread from the counter.
She sat at the breakfast table and watched him. He buttered four slices and started devouring the bread. Josie always marveled at how much food her son could consume and never gain a pound. Obviously, he got his metabolism from her. He was skinny but ate enough to keep three people alive.
“I’m guessing you already know,” she said with a tight smile.
“Male menopause.”
“Possibly.” She watched him butter and eat his fifth slice of bread. “I can make you a steak or heat up some soup. You don’t have to eat like a prisoner.”
“I told him he was a shit if he left you.”
“He’s . . . confused,” she said, not wanting to have this conversation.
“You don’t quit on people you’re supposed to love.”
Who is this guy, she thought staring at her son, this tall, goodlooking young man who was coming to her defense. At times, she wasn’t certain David even liked her anymore, but here he was on one of the weirder nights of her life taking her side, defending her instead of his father.
“Thanks,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll work things out. You wanna stay tonight?”
“Can’t,” he said, standing, brushing crumbs off his Levi’s, and leaving a mess on the table.
Josie couldn’t explain why, but the question popped into her mind, so she asked, “Did you know Misty Skylar?”
“She’s my agent. How do you know her?”
Josie rubbed her temples. It was the wrong answer. “I met her in an alley this afternoon. She’s dead.”
The color faded from David’s face. He pulled out the chair and sat. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered. “What the hell’s going on?”
“How long have you had an agent?” Her son’s proximity to two murder victims was pushing things way beyond coincidence.
“Cory introduced us a few weeks ago. She caught my set and liked the sound. We signed with her that night and that’s the only time I’ve ever spoken to her.”
“Did you know she was Hillary’s agent?”
“No . . . well, maybe yes. I don’t know. What difference does that make?”
He was upset and becoming emotional. Josie didn’t like what she was seeing. Supposedly, he hardly knew the dead woman, but he was behaving as if he’d lost a close friend.
She’d been a cop long enough to know when someone, even if he was her son, wasn’t responding the way he should.
But almost as quickly as David’s distress appeared, it vanished. He got up and walked around her to the door.
“Is it okay if I tell Cory?” he asked, before leaving. “So he doesn’t hear it on the news or the street.”
Josie didn’t care. She was more concerned about her son’s odd behavior and his connection to these people.
“Can I make a suggestion? Actually, it’s more than a suggestion,” she said before he could get away. He stopped and shrugged. She said in her captain voice, “Stay away from Cory Goldman until this investigation is over.”
“Sorry, Mom, not gonna happen, I’m not Dad. I don’t quit on people,” he responded and was gone before she could object.
Josie cleaned up the kitchen and sat alone in the den. She turned down the lights and poured herself a full glass of wine, the last of a really good Cabernet she had started a few nights ago. She flipped the switch on the CD player, and the disc was one of Jake’s, a Glen Miller big band classic, good drinking music.
She finished the wine, stretched out on the couch and closed her eyes. Her intention was to relax and try not to panic about the avalanche of events coming perilously close to smothering her family.
FIVE
She woke up on the couch at five a.m. with a stiff neck and a headache. When she went upstairs to take a shower, Josie noticed that Jake’s bedroom closet was nearly empty. All of his favorite suits and shoes and his workout bag were gone. Somehow he’d managed to pack his belongings and get out without her knowing when or how it happened. The big surprise this morning was that his departure didn’t devastate as much as sadden her. He’d left the closet door open probably to be certain she’d realize he was gone. She closed it.
The hot shower fixed her neck and coffee cleared her head. Josie needed to work. Running her division was the one thing that kept her sane. She was always in control there and knew how to make things happen.
It was so early she beat most of the rush-hour traffic and made good time driving to Hollywood. She got off the 101 Freeway at Cahuenga and made the quick jog onto Wilcox. She stopped at the light on Yucca, and was pleased to see the street was fairly clean with no sign of the homeless encampments that occasionally popped up during the night. The faded blue wall of the Palms was visible to her right. When the light turned green, she made a turn in that direction. She hadn’t been to this location for a while and was curious to see if the infamous Palms had changed. The three-story building with the painted-over graffiti, chipped stucco and peeling wood trim looked exactly like it did fifteen years ago when she’d worked the Narcotics division. The front yard was cement with a couple of untrimmed ugly bushes in a patch of dirt near the front door. A brick planter with dead flowers and thriving weeds was under the first floor windows.
There were several loose bricks in the planter where dime dealers kept their stash. Everyone knew that was where they hid the plastic baggies, but they still did it and always got arrested. This was where Hillary allegedly bought her drugs, an unlikely hangout for the rich movie star but an easy place to score. Josie knew Fricke thought of the Palms as an easy mark for catching heroin users. It wasn’t inconceivable that the two could’ve crossed paths here.
It was quiet now. When the sun came up, most drug dealers and users were just getting to bed. She drove around the block toward the station and had to admit arresting criminals was a lot more satisfying than some of the things she was expected to do as a captain, but she figured an important function of her job was insulating her officers from all the noise and off
icial nonsense that blew down and around them. Until somebody proved to her that Fricke was involved in this mess she was determined to protect him.
Behan was waiting in her office when she arrived. He appeared rested and wore a clean shirt and dress pants.
Josie guessed the widow had agreed to be his next bride, so she asked, “Did you and the unfortunate woman set a date?”
“Vegas, this weekend.”
“Do you even have any pension left to give this person after the divorce?”
“She’s never gonna divorce me. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll treat her like a queen, and she’ll support me for the rest of my life.”
“There’s a name for men who do that,” Josie said, opening her wardrobe closet and taking a clean uniform out of the plastic bag.
“Bad news; Mouse is gone,” Behan said, ignoring her comment.
“Gone as in left town, or she’s dead kind of gone?”
“Don’t know. Her stuff’s not in her room at the Palms.”
“Did Fricke work last night?” Josie asked, feeling a little guilty for thinking what she was thinking.
“Yeah, but he and his partner had a ton of arrests. They were tied up all night. I’m guessing she got cold feet and split.”
“Maybe,” Josie said. She was still preoccupied thinking about her son’s proximity to both murder victims, but she didn’t want to say anything to Behan. Eventually, he’d interview David, and all of that would come out. It made her uneasy to discuss her son’s involvement because she didn’t want Behan to think he had to treat David any differently than any other witness; but then she knew she’d be really annoyed if he didn’t. It was complicated.
“My guys are gonna do another interview with the two porn stars that were at Hillary’s going-away-permanently party . . . see if they can remember anything about anything.” Behan looked embarrassed and hesitated a few seconds before asking, “You got time to go up to that party house with me today?”
She was fighting the wire hanger, attempting to pin the silver captain bars on the collar of her uniform. “Why can’t Ibarra go?” she asked, knowing Behan did everything he could to stay away from his lieutenant, but she was too busy to keep filling in for her subordinate.
“The owner’s back and he’s pissed about the pieces of movie star brain all over his expensive wall. He’s some rich, big-shot attorney and the mayor’s bud. Chief Bright wants me to go up there and smooth his feathers which ain’t exactly my area of expertise, and I know it’s not Ibarra’s.”
“I’ve got to be at a Rotary Lunch in about half an hour . . . 1400 hours okay?”
“Perfect, thanks boss,” Behan said with a big relieved grin.
“Get out. I’ve got to change.”
He bounced off the couch and for the first time in months, the big redhead looked completely sober. Maybe wedding the widow wasn’t such a bad plan, Josie thought, but knew this was how it always started with Behan’s marriages—euphoria followed by a slow but inevitable descent into alcoholic misery. For his sake, she hoped this time it would be different.
The monthly Rotary Lunch was always held in an expensive restaurant off Hollywood Boulevard. Josie wasn’t a member, but usually got invited by one of the business people in the city.
She exchanged greetings with a number of the small business owners and with Harry Walsh, the head deputy city attorney assigned to the Hollywood court. Harry was a sharp, philosophical lawyer who could quote Plato and Justice Scalia with equal authority. Josie got along with him because he hated criminals as much as she did, and unlike a lot of city attorneys actually tried to find ways to put bad guys in jail.
“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.
