by Connie Dial
“Looks like it, but you gotta remember there’s gonna be a few who don’t bother with work permits.”
“Talk to Buck. We need to know more before we start thinking evil thoughts,” she said and hung up.
Josie was sitting at her desk and tossed her pen onto a pile of folders. She hated cops working off-duty. They made good salaries and didn’t need to work other jobs. Their quest for the new boat, RV or jet ski that was bigger and better than the next guy’s toys was their primary motivation. Young men and women, some without a college education, making more money than they’d ever had in their lives were tempted to live way beyond their means, and they quickly figured out they were a rare sought-after commodity in this dangerous world. They came equipped with the right to carry a deadly weapon. It was a formula for careerending disaster.
By late afternoon, the station was relatively quiet. Most detectives had gone home or across the street to Nora’s restaurant for Behan’s post-Vegas celebration. The admin staff had all checked out. Josie sent her adjutant home and was trying to decide if she wanted to make an appearance at Nora’s. Behan’s marriages were almost becoming an annual event. She could always catch the next one, but knew he’d be hurt and disappointed if she didn’t meet his current wife.
“You’re not dressed.”
The voice startled Josie. She looked up at Marge Bailey peeking around the doorway.
“I’m thinking. It’s my job to do a lot of serious thinking. Dressed for what?”
Marge wore her usual jeans, tank top and leather jacket. Her blond hair was in a long French braid.
“We’re going to Red’s wedding party. I wanna meet the blushing bride,” Marge said, grinning.
“Are you and Behan playing nice together now?” Josie asked. She got up and closed the office door. At least, she could get out of her uniform and get ready to go someplace.
“We’re buds. He wants my people to stay on Mouse until he’s ready to pick her up again.”
“She still with Cory Goldman?”
“Nope, he split about an hour ago, but Red told me not to fuck with him and stick with Mouse. He can always find that asshole easy enough.”
Josie laughed. She could never reconcile Marge’s beautiful face and graceful figure with the language that came out of her mouth.
“Why’s that funny?”
“It’s not,” Josie said. “You are. You look like Princess Di and sound like Al Capone.”
“My first husband was a boxer. I was young, sweet and impressionable.” She grimaced and under her breath said, “But when he cheated, I kicked his ass.”
Josie finished changing her clothes and already knew the rest of that story, so she agreed to go to Nora’s. When they arrived, the bar area was packed with detectives and off-duty cops. A few officers in uniform had stopped by and were drinking cokes with their police radios turned on to listen for hot calls. As soon as they spotted Josie, they quickly finished their drinks and made a hasty exit.
The redheaded newlywed was standing at the bar surrounded by coworkers, but Josie didn’t see any unfamiliar face who might’ve been his new wife. She worked her way closer until Behan noticed her. He hugged Josie and Marge and thanked them for coming.
“Where’s the little woman?” Marge asked, gulping a beer one of the detectives had passed to her.
“She went someplace quiet to make a phone call. She’ll be back,” Behan said. He got a glass of red wine for Josie and whispered in her ear, “Thanks, I know how much you hate these things.”
A few minutes later, the current Mrs. Behan returned to the bar. Behan had told Josie his wife was over sixty, but it was difficult to believe. The woman was stunning. Her short hair was champagne blond. She had grey eyes and a clear complexion—without wrinkles or age spots. Her figure was terrific, and she wore a silky cream pantsuit that looked elegant and expensive. She was talkative and funny and obviously doted on Behan.
Marge pulled Josie aside. “I hate this damn woman. Nobody should look that fucking good when they’re old. It’s unnatural.”
“Lots of money and good surgeons, the secret to a long and gorgeous life,” Josie said, and turned away from the bar just as Chief Bright entered the restaurant. Josie was shocked. The deputy chief never came to any of Hollywood’s celebrations, but her surprise didn’t last long. Without a glance, he walked past the bar and into the dining area, never bothering to acknowledge any of the Hollywood officers. It was just a scheduling coincidence. A few seconds later, Councilman Goldman entered with Peter Lange and Vince Milano a step or two behind him. A waitress escorted all of them back toward the restaurant.
Voices surrounding Josie became background noise as she stared at the front door wondering who might appear next. Eventually, she maneuvered around the sea of bodies in front of the bar and worked her way back to the foyer where she had a decent view of the dining room. This is damn curious, she thought. The high-powered group sat at a table in the back of the dimly lit room and were laughing and talking like old friends. The restaurant was more upscale than the bar with a better class of clientele, mostly business types in pricey clothes with expense accounts to match. The meeting appeared to be more social than business. Josie was tempted to walk over and say hello, mostly to see their reaction, but decided against it.
“Now there’s a what-the-fuck’s-that-all-about moment,” Marge said, standing behind Josie. “Milano’s dirty little paws touch everybody, don’t they?”
“Might be nothing,” Josie said. “He donates a lot of money to buy stuff for the department.”
“Bullshit,” Marge said, sarcastically.
Josie took a step back when Lange glanced in their direction. She didn’t wait around to see if he noticed her. Instead she pushed Marge back toward the bar.
“I need a drink,” Josie said. Once they were back in the crowded bar, she stopped and asked Marge, “I’m not saying I think there’s anything going on, but how much info do you have on Milano’s businesses?”
“What’d you need?”
“Don’t know . . . everything I guess. I want you to take a good look at him and Peter Lange.”
“What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Very helpful,” Marge said, taking a handful of peanuts from the closest table.
The current Mrs. Behan squeezed through a narrow opening in the wall of detectives and stood between Josie and Marge.
“I wanted to thank you personally for taking time to come, Captain Corsino,” Vicky Behan said, touching Josie’s arm and getting close enough to be heard.
“My pleasure,” Josie said, watching Marge fade into the crowd. “It’s good to see Red happy again.”
“He’s crazy about you. I think you’re the only reason he’s still sane after all he’s been through,” Vicky said, with a wry smile. Her teeth were perfect and very white, her voice melodious and soothing—somebody’s gorgeous grandma.
Josie wasn’t certain how to respond. She didn’t know what Behan had been through except his drinking bouts, and she had no idea how to fix that. She made small talk for a while, then excused herself to get another glass of wine. The new Mrs. Behan was a nice lady and Josie liked her, but knew Red Behan had left a trail strewn with nice women who thought they could either live with him or change him. It was just a matter of time, she figured, before number five discovered he wasn’t worth the effort.
The crowd was getting noisier and more raucous. She knew it was time for her exit, since the party only got going once the captain left. A commanding officer’s presence inhibited most officers, so she’d slip out and let them have their fun without worrying about how she might judge their behavior. Years of experience had taught her self-preservation would keep them from doing anything really stupid.
Outside, the cold fresh air was a welcome change. The streets of Hollywood were never empty or quiet and tonight was no exception. There were fewer tourists on this east side of Sunset, but the bars and restaurants were b
usy with locals. Most of the more colorful characters were up on Hollywood Boulevard, but Josie spotted familiar street denizens. She was waiting for traffic to clear before crossing the boulevard when she heard someone call her name. She turned and saw Peter Lange coming out of Nora’s.
“Captain Corsino, why don’t you join us?” he asked when he was within a few yards.
“Actually, I’m pretty tired,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I was on my way home, but thanks.”
“Too bad; we’re trying to design that campaign to educate kids about the dangers of drinking and drugs. We could use your input.”
“Looks to me like you’ve got considerable assistance already,” she said, not believing a word he said. “What’ve you decided so far?”
“Ah, not much,” he said, looking slightly perplexed. His confusion confirmed her suspicion that whatever they were discussing had nothing to do with educating kids.
“If we can’t pick your brain, can I at least buy you a nightcap?”
“Thanks, but like I said I’m really tired. Maybe another time,” she said and crossed the street, leaving him on the curb. When she reached the other side, she glanced back; he shrugged and waved lazily before returning to the restaurant. Peter Lange was a handsome, intelligent, sometimes charming man, and Josie had to admit she was tempted, but she kept imagining this big bright neon sign over his head, flashing “really stupid idea.”
THE MIA’s were minimal the morning after Behan’s post-nuptial celebration. Most detectives were on automatic pilot for getting to the office at seven a.m., but their first item of business was always a big breakfast with lots of black coffee or whatever the concoction was that opened their eyes. By the time Josie arrived, they were at their desks working. She smiled at Behan as she passed the squad room door. He grinned and smugly pointed at his wedding band.
Wow, two whole days and you’re still married, she thought, and shook her head believing on occasion her favorite detective was a certifiable dork.
She had about half an hour before Susan Fletcher’s appointment, enough time to sit with her adjutant and go over the day’s schedule, including an hour meeting with Ibarra and her watch commanders to discuss crime trends. She considered not inviting Ibarra because he usually didn’t contribute much, but she needed to keep him busy and out of Behan’s hair.
Josie had just finished her first mug of coffee when she heard Councilwoman Fletcher’s booming laugh in the lobby. She opened the lobby door to the admin office and Fletcher charged through like a bull elephant and went directly into Josie’s office.
The councilwoman was accompanied by the same young man with the clipboard who’d been with her at Murray’s. He leaned against the wall as his boss sank into Josie’s couch. It would be a miracle, Josie thought, if that woman managed to get up again. Josie tried to convince the young man to sit, but he refused, and Fletcher behaved as if he wasn’t there.
Josie dragged a chair over to the couch and sat on the other side of a small wooden coffee table that cost her twenty dollars at a yard sale. It was solid mahogany and looked pretty good after she’d sanded the scratches out and refinished it. She waited while Fletcher searched through her briefcase and produced a small electronic notebook.
“I thought my position was clear on needle exchange. I’ll never agree to close that center,” Fletcher said, not looking up from the notebook.
A recitation by Josie of all the violations her officers had logged and her personal observations of drug use and indiscriminate distribution of too many syringes didn’t sway Fletcher.
Frustrated, Josie finally blurted out, “Allowing that facility to remain open is tacit approval of illicit drug use.”
There was no response from Fletcher for a few seconds while she concentrated on the notebook’s keyboard, a tiny pad that was no match for the councilwoman’s substantial fingers.
“No, it’s not,” she said, calmly, glancing up. “It’s controlling the spread of HIV and hepatitis.”
“What do you base that on?” Josie asked and knew her tone was way too pissed-off to achieve a good outcome.
Fletcher gently closed the notebook and smiled at Josie the way someone does when she knows she can’t lose the argument. “There are studies. Besides, it’s common sense.”
“It’s a huge source of crime in my division. Look at the crime patterns,” Josie said, sliding a copy of a map page with clusters of little red dots across the coffee table toward Fletcher.
“It’s my district; a few property crimes are an acceptable tradeoff to save lives,” Fletcher said, pushing the map away without so much as a glance. “Your officers will have to be more vigilant in that area.”
Josie sat back, took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. She wanted to ask what the point was of being vigilant if you weren’t allowed to make arrests, but instead requested, “Will you, at least, consider moving the trailer to a more remote, industrial area where these addicts won’t be tempted to steal from the neighbors?”
“No, the problem’s here. This is where it’s needed.”
Now they were both quiet. Josie wasn’t going to argue anymore because it was clear Fletcher wasn’t willing to compromise. Josie would order Fricke and the patrol officers in that area to start making arrests closer to the trailer. When Fletcher found out she’d be irate, but Josie decided it was time to challenge the woman.
“Have you made any progress on the Hillary Dennis murder?” Fletcher asked, stuffing her notebook into the briefcase and giving it to her aide. She yawned, leaned back on the couch and crossed her arms. “Eli Goldman’s telling everyone his son’s been cleared because there’s a serial killer. If that’s true, why haven’t I heard it from you?” she asked, frowning but not looking at Josie.
“Nobody’s been cleared, and two similar killings don’t make a serial killer.”
Fletcher wiggled closer to the edge. “Good,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the preppie clipboard aide who came around, braced his leg against the couch, and tugged on her arm, grimacing and straining until the massive woman was standing. “Have you seen Eli’s kid? That’s one messed-up boy . . . not the son you’d want in your family album.” Fletcher yanked on the back of her dress, freeing it from where it stuck between her legs, and snatched the briefcase from her aide.
The councilwoman kept talking until the door to the lobby closed. Josie didn’t accompany her out, but imagined the monologue continuing into the parking lot and all the way back to downtown L.A. She wondered if Fletcher’s remark, “not the son you’d want,” was meant as a reference to Eli Goldman or a warning to her about David. Either way, Josie agreed.
As soon as she got back, her adjutant was waiting near her desk holding a stack of phone messages.
“That one’s from an Internal Affairs guy . . . says he needs to talk to you ASAP, something about the Dennis homicide,” he said, pointing to the one on top.
A sergeant in the Special Operations Division of Internal Affairs wanted to meet with her that afternoon about an investigation involving one of her officers, but wouldn’t tell her any more until they met.
As usual, Josie’s day was slipping away, but she’d managed to get some work done after the councilwoman left. She was returning from a late lunch with Marge when her adjutant warned her he had stashed the I.A. sergeant in her office. He was perusing her wall art and sipping coffee when she entered.
The pale blond man introduced himself and shook her hand. He was tall, overweight, and definitely had been in an office job too long. His grip was damp and flabby. Without asking, he closed her office door and sat in the chair directly in front of her desk.
It might’ve been nervousness, but he never stopped smiling, an irritating Mona Lisa grin that suggested he knew something she didn’t.
“I.A.’s received an anonymous tip that one of your officers is involved in assisting the sale of narcotics at the Palms,” he said and added, “and might’ve had something to do with the Hillary Denni
s killing.”
“So did we. We’re looking into it.”
His watery blue eyes widened. “You did? You have an open investigation? I checked; there’s no I.A. number.” He was wiggling, looked confused and then upset he hadn’t surprised her.
“It’s part of a homicide investigation . . . unknown officer.” “
Oh,” he seemed almost relieved. “I’ve got a name.”
Now Josie shifted uncomfortably. “Who?” she asked, annoyed when he’d paused too long.
“Donnie Fricke, he’s a . . .”
She interrupted, “I know who he is. Who’s the informant and exactly what’s the allegation?”
“Anonymous . . . but alleges Fricke and a drug dealer named Little Joe help each other out, and they arranged the Dennis killing.”
“Why would Fricke do that?”
“Dennis was having sex with him. She threatened to expose the arrangement to the department unless she got all her drugs gratis.”
“So, we’ve got some unnamed source and nothing else.”
“Correct,” the sergeant said.
“You’re here to tell me the internal surveillance unit is going to follow Fricke.”
“Also correct.”
“What about his partner Frank Butler?”
“Possible suspect . . . proximity to the subject,” he said, reading from his notes.
Josie realized she was so tense her neck and shoulders had begun to ache. She sat back and tried to relax.
“What do you need from me?” she asked.
“Nothing really. We’ll coordinate with your homicide detectives so we don’t interfere with each other’s investigation. Do you have any concerns or reservations about your detective supervisor’s ability to keep this confidential?”
“Of course not, but Detective Behan should be the only other person in Hollywood division who knows. You haven’t notified the bureau yet, have you?”
“Chief Bright has been briefed.”
Great, Josie thought, you might as well put it on the Internet. Fricke was smart and had developed dozens of sources inside and outside the department. If Bright knew, his adjutant and office staff most likely were aware of the I.A. investigation, too. The surveillance would be a waste of time, which Josie thought was a shame because that would’ve been the best way to find out if Fricke was dirty. She could almost guarantee Fricke would be on his best behavior until I.A. got tired of following him.
