Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  “Careful you don’t become one of those nine-to-five management weenies.”

  “Careful I don’t give your cushy vice job to some deserving lieutenant who isn’t such a pain in the ass,” Josie said.

  “Son of a bitch, I was trying so hard to be good,” Marge said before hanging up.

  The rest of the day was planned inertia for Josie. She took hours to browse through the L.A. Times with unscheduled naps between the boring news and editorial sections. Shortly before the dinner hour, pleasantly surprised by the lack of any emergency phone calls from the station, she perused the last advertisement and changed out of her pajamas into a pair of shabby cutoff Levi’s and sweatshirt.

  The house resembled a domestic disaster area badly in need of straightening and cleaning. She picked up a few things from the floor and removed the most visible layers of dust on the furniture before deciding she wanted to cook. It felt strange without Jake and David sharing her space. She could actually do whatever she wanted without getting consensus from the two men in her life. For over twenty years, every choice . . . what, when, and where to eat, what to watch on television, what CD to listen to . . . was a group decision. Suddenly she could decide for herself, and then realized she couldn’t remember what she actually liked without at least considering her husband and son.

  There was a veal roast, still safely under the expiration date, in the refrigerator. She sharpened her best knife and sliced the veal almost as if she were peeling an apple, and flattened it on the cutting board. It was a technique she’d learned from Jake’s Italian mother. She mixed bread crumbs, parsley, parmesan cheese, an assortment of spices, onions, and garlic, sautéed all of it with the pork squeezed from two sausages, then spread the mixture over the veal. Josie rolled the veal like a carpet and tied the reconstructed roast with string. It was big enough for a family of four. She peeled the last two potatoes in the bin, quartered them, put them in a roasting pan with the veal, and poured a glass of the wine she’d been drinking over the whole thing. The oven had been heating so she slid the pan in quickly. She enjoyed cooking but didn’t like eating alone. Without giving it much thought, she called Jake’s cell phone, and he answered.

  “You hungry?” she asked.

  “What’s up?” he countered, in his best noncommittal tone.

  “I’m making veal roast. Want some?”

  He cleared his throat and mumbled something Josie couldn’t understand.

  “I don’t wanna sleep with you, dear; I wanna feed you an exquisite meal,” she said, getting a little annoyed by his stalling.

  “Can I call you right back?”

  “No,” she said calmly, and hung up. The wonderful smell of the veal cooking in a bath of expensive red wine filled the kitchen, but Josie was losing her appetite. She tried David’s number but got his answering machine. Marge was working and Behan was busy getting married so she sat at the breakfast table, drank a little more wine, turned off the stove, and went to bed.

  DIRTY POTS and cooking utensils covered the countertops, and the kitchen still had the scent of garlic and onions when Josie got up the next morning. She washed the dishes, wiped the oven, and unceremoniously flipped the half-cooked roast into the garbage. She should’ve felt worse about wasting all that food, but was still too annoyed to worry about it. Her mistake, she’d decided, was calling Jake and expecting him to come home because she’d asked. It was a good lesson. When someone who supposedly loved her could walk away and function without her, the connection was broken. There was no love without respect, so move on she told herself; it’s over.

  That intellectually sound conclusion got her out of the kitchen, dressed and on her way to work, but she knew rationalizing this stuff wouldn’t permanently take care of all those bad feelings she’d buried somewhere in her gut.

  When she arrived at the station, the detective squad room was Monday morning busy with forty-eight hour arraignments looming, bulging caseloads, transporting arrestees and witnesses to court, and locating and prepping witnesses. Behan’s desk and computer were covered with papers and folders. He was staring at his monitor but looked up when Josie sat in the chair beside him.

  “Still married?” she asked.

  “This one’s a keeper . . . makes me breakfast, doesn’t want to work, too old to have kids. It’s the perfect marriage.”

  “Great,” Josie said. She knew she sounded grumpy, but didn’t care because she figured Behan was the one person who wouldn’t make a big deal out of her foul mood. “What’s new on the Dennis-Skylar homicides? You talk to Marge about Saturday night?”

  He studied her for a second or two as if he were trying to decide how flippant he could be without pissing her off.

  “Bad night?” he asked, with just a trace of sarcasm.

  “Let’s just say there wasn’t anybody to make me breakfast.” She glanced at the monitor on his desk and saw he was watching a movie she didn’t recognize, which wasn’t a surprise since it wasn’t in black and white and Bogart and Hepburn were nowhere in sight. “Isn’t this place entertaining enough for you?” she asked.

  He stopped the movie and went back a couple of scenes before starting it again.

  “Recognize anybody?”

  She did. A very alive Hillary Dennis was lounging on the front porch of a shanty in an image that reminded Josie of a scene from The Grapes of Wrath. Hillary had been an incredibly beautiful young woman. On film she appeared to be no older than thirteen or fourteen, but very seductive. She was wearing a faded sundress without underwear, and unbuttoned just enough to keep an R-rating and dodge the kiddie porn label. In this scene, an older man, who Behan told her was Hillary’s film father, was pawing at the young girl. It got worse—in every way a terrible movie—but Josie was mesmerized. It was fascinating to watch someone walk and talk, be so vibrant, when just a few days ago she’d witnessed the cold dead flesh.

  During the last scene, Behan stopped the DVD.

  “See that woman,” he said touching the screen. He was pointing at a well-endowed, half-dressed redhead standing in the background, one of Hillary’s bumpkin relatives in the movie. It was a non-speaking, strictly eye-candy part. “She’s one of the porno stars that was at the party.”

  “Okay, so what? She’s kind of an actress. Isn’t she?”

  “When we interviewed her she claimed she’d never met Hillary Dennis before the party, and it gets better,” he said, stopping the DVD again. He went back to the first few scenes and froze a skuzzy bar scene. It was dark, but sitting at a table in his best Deliverance attire—a long-sleeved plaid shirt, baseball cap and torn jeans—was Cory Goldman.

  “Hilly, it seems, was a pretty good meal ticket for all her friends and ex-boyfriends. So why would Miss Porno Star say she didn’t know her?”

  “Good question; I think we’ll have to ask her when she’s here this afternoon with her lawyer,” Behan said, hesitating a second before asking, “Wanna guess who that might be?”

  “Peter Lange,” she answered without thinking. The slick attorney seemed to be popping up everywhere.

  “Right again.”

  Josie picked up a stack of DVD’s from the corner of Behan’s desk. She shuffled through a collection of films even Josie recognized as B-movies. Hillary had found her niche as sleazy worldweary jailbait. The teenage ennui dripped from the album art.

  “You watch all these?” she asked.

  “Me and Vicky.”

  “Vicky? Is Vicky the new Mrs. Behan?”

  “Victoria Kiel Behan.”

  “Related to those theater chain Kiels?” Josie asked, joking.

  “Her recently departed second husband was,” he said, enjoying her surprised expression.

  Josie laughed. “You’re number three. She’s number five. You two were made for each other.”

  “You have no idea.” Behan was smug. He looked rested and well-groomed, and Josie was happy for him. “Come to Nora’s after work and meet her. We’re buying.”

  You mean she’s buyin
g, Josie thought but didn’t say anything. He was in good spirits, and she wouldn’t spoil it for him.

  The end of the DVD was coming up, and Hillary’s delinquent character was about to be dragged off by the police for killing her lecherous father. A tall good-looking uniformed policeman cuffed her and led her out of the family shanty. Josie snatched the control from Behan and stopped the movie. She gave it back to him.

  “Go back to where they show that policeman’s face and freeze it,” she ordered.

  Behan did what she’d asked, then sat back staring at the screen. “Damn, I’ve watched this thing twice and never recognized him. That’s Art Perry, isn’t it?”

  “Sergeant Art Perry or his twin brother. Go to the credits.”

  He scrolled slowly through the credits, and there it was at the bottom—Policeman played by Arthur Perry.

  “Ain’t that some strange shit? Chief Bright’s adjutant in a movie with a murder victim, and he kinda forgets to mention it,” Behan said. “Guess I wouldn’t be bragging about being in this dog either, but still.”

  “I got to hear this interview,” Josie said. She knew it wasn’t nice, but Art Perry was such a pompous ass it would be fun to watch him squirm a little.

  “You gonna sit in on the porno queen this afternoon?”

  “Maybe I can catch a few minutes. You know she’s just going to say she was afraid to admit she knew Hillary.” Josie was leaving but had one last thought. “Was this Hillary’s last movie?” she asked. She didn’t know why but it seemed significant if Art Perry was in her last movie.

  “Yeah, it went right to DVD. No big mystery there,” Behan said.

  Josie knew she had to advise Bright before they dragged his adjutant into the station for an interview. Perry was entitled to get legal representation or call someone from the Police Protective League to deal with the possibility of any internal discipline. She went back to her office, closed the door and called the bureau. Bright was there and listened quietly as Josie described what she and Behan had seen in the movie. She purposely downplayed the interview as routine. Of course, Bright didn’t have the same information she had about the possibility a cop might’ve been involved in Hillary’s murder. She’d kept that between Behan and herself. Josie hadn’t even told Lieutenant Ibarra.

  With Chief Bright talking to Councilman Goldman and now Bright’s adjutant appearing in Hillary’s film, Josie figured her decision to keep the bureau out of the loop was looking smarter all the time.

  “Was Sergeant Perry only in the one movie?” Bright asked when Josie finished telling him about what she’d seen.

  “As far as I know, but even so he should’ve disclosed that information.”

  “Probably,” he said, not sounding too concerned. “But I doubt he’s any more involved in all this than your son is.”

  “Big difference. David admitted immediately he’d had contact with these people,” Josie said. She knew she was being defensive, but the man had a talent for provoking her. “Do me a favor, Eric. Don’t tell Perry why we want to talk to him. Behan will explain when he gets here.”

  “Why? Do you suspect him of something?”

  Josie shifted in her chair. She was glad this conversation was on the phone because she wasn’t a good liar, and Bright would’ve guessed from her body language she was holding something back.

  “No, of course not, but I’d rather have Behan explain it to him.”

  He agreed, but Josie wouldn’t be surprised if Sergeant Perry came to the interview fully prepped by his boss.

  BY THE time Josie returned from a meeting that afternoon, Behan had finished with the porno star and was interviewing Sergeant Perry. She answered several phone messages and signed some paperwork before sitting in the closet-sized space adjacent to the interrogation room where she could watch Behan question Perry. The two men were alone in the room, no lawyer, no union representative.

  The handsome sergeant appeared relaxed and unconcerned. His answers were short and to the point. He said he liked acting and had done several low-budget films as an extra, or brief walkon parts with an occasional speaking line or two. He didn’t have an agent any longer since he was able to get enough work on his own. He didn’t know Misty Skylar, and his former agent was selling real estate in New York. Other than on the set, he claimed he never saw Hillary. His part was filmed in half a day, and other than the final take, he’d rehearsed with a stand-in. He asserted that was the only time he’d worked with Hillary and never appeared in any of her other films.

  “Why didn’t you say something about working with her?” Behan asked.

  “Sorry. It was such minimal contact I never thought you’d be interested,” Perry answered, trying to sound matter of fact, but Josie picked up a slight break in his voice.

  “You know any other cops that had any contact with her or worked in her movies?”

  Perry glanced up at the ceiling as if he were trying to recall and then said, “Not that I can remember, but there’s tons of cops in the industry. Some of them might’ve worked with her.”

  “What do you mean?” Behan asked, shaking his head.

  “There’s a bunch of us that do bit parts or technical advising, and a lot more of the younger guys do personal security for the bigger honchos. The Hollywood elite all think they need protection from nutty fans or paparazzi.”

  “How do you get those jobs?”

  Perry smirked. “You don’t know?”

  “Why would I know? And if I did know why would I be asking you?” Behan asked, not attempting to hide his annoyance.

  “Howard Owens organizes the whole thing.”

  “Lieutenant Owens, our morning watch commander?”

  “Uh huh,” Perry said, nodding.

  Josie was leaning on a ledge near the screen and wasn’t all that surprised. Owens had time during the night to do whatever he wanted. A competent morning watch lieutenant would’ve been out in the field observing his people work, but Josie had her loyal spies who told her Lieutenant Owens never left the station. It took him forever to finish projects or rating reports, so he had plenty of time to run his business on the side. She’d given him several poor evaluations and lately had contemplated recommending his demotion, but civil service and the police union protected and insulated him from any meaningful action on her part.

  The rest of Behan’s questioning failed to reveal much information. After Perry provided a copy of the work permit required by the department, Behan concluded the interview. As soon as Perry was out of the room, Behan made a phone call to the Personnel division and determined that Lieutenant Owens didn’t have a work permit.

  Josie wanted to confront Owens that night before he started his watch, bring him in her office, ask him about his business, and demand a list of the officers who worked for him as well as a list of his clients.

  “What if he denies having any lists or says he doesn’t know what the hell Perry’s talking about?” Behan asked.

  “We could do an administrative search of his locker, but what if he’s smart enough to take the stuff home or keep it in his car?” Josie’s thoughts were jumbled with too many contingencies.

  “He’s got to have contact with somebody who sets up the jobs. I’ll try to dig up some other cops who got jobs from him. Maybe a couple of my guys can keep an eye on him for a while.”

  “We don’t have anybody good enough to do that.” She’d worked a surveillance unit for several years and knew it was more complicated than just following people.

  “The new kid on autos made detective from Metro, and Danny Hill on the robbery table worked a few years with the surveillance guys before his back went out. The three of us can watch him a while.”

  “Let me think about it,” she said, and quickly added, “Okay, I thought about it. If we follow him, I’d rather give it to I.A.’s surveillance team. I need you guys here doing your real jobs. By the way, what did the porno queen say?”

  Behan shrugged. “You were right. She said she was afraid to ad
mit she knew Hillary. She’s acting scared; I don’t think she’s telling us everything she knows . . . like everybody else I’ve talked to.”

  “You think Perry’s telling you the truth?”

  “Hell no, did you?” Behan asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, truthfully. “But give a copy of his interview to Ibarra so he can pass it on to Bright.”

  Because both Hillary and her agent were killed in a similar manner, Josie figured it was a good guess both murders were somehow connected to the movie industry. They worked, partied and were killed in Hollywood. She worried about how many of her officers might be moonlighting, and asked Behan to check work permits for everyone who was assigned to Hollywood division. Without a department work permit, Lieutenant Owens probably used a fictitious business name, so Behan would have to look for any company that employed a lot of LAPD officers.

  Within two hours, Behan had an answer. He drove downtown and personally checked the work permits. He called Josie and told her there were a couple dozen Hollywood officers who had work permits for a company name that Behan recognized.

  “Carlton Buck’s a retired bunco forgery detective who started a P.I. business as soon as he signed his papers. He hires mostly police retirees for mall security, but he’s branched out and offers armed bodyguards to rich sheiks, movie stars and a lot of rappers.”

  “You need to talk to him before you interview Lieutenant Owens,” Josie said.

  Behan grunted. “Good idea, he’s got nothing to fear from the department. As long as we don’t threaten to pull the plug on his P.I. ticket, he’ll give up Owens like a bad habit.”

  Josie said she’d talk to him later but got silence on the line.

  “There’s something else, boss,” Behan said finally. His tone was concerned and hesitant.

  She mentally braced herself for more bad news.

  “Donnie Fricke and Frank Butler are two of Buck’s regular employees.”

  It wasn’t good, but it could’ve been worse. “Aren’t most of his guys young cops? They’re the ones who usually work off-duty.”