Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  Josie caught the bartender grinning at her after she inspected the place Lange had touched, then wiped it on her jacket sleeve before finishing the wine.

  FOURTEEN

  The next morning, Josie was at her desk earlier than usual—another resurrected detective habit from her past when she’d needed to be in the office at daybreak to finish paperwork, line up witnesses, and get arrestees transported for arraignment. Today, she didn’t have to do any of those things, but knew Behan wanted to go back to Buck’s place as soon as he could get away and she was free. They were both eager to follow up on Bruno Faldi.

  Not sleeping-in gave her an opportunity to catch up on the job she was actually getting paid to do. She spent over an hour sitting in her office going over routine matters, and gave her adjutant several pages of notes and directions until the young sergeant looked as if he’d reached his saturation point.

  “You know it’s strange,” he said, packing up his laptop when they finished. “The bureau hasn’t asked for anything the last couple of days. Even Sergeant Perry has stopped pestering me.”

  “Be grateful,” she said, but wondered if the silence had anything to do with Eli Goldman’s interview. Bright had shown an unusual interest in what the councilman had to say. Actually, he wasn’t just curious; he seemed worried.

  On his way out, Sergeant Jones reminded her that Lieutenant Ibarra wanted a meeting with her as soon as they finished. Josie wanted to talk with him too, and knew Ibarra probably wouldn’t be all that eager if he knew what she was about to tell him.

  Before anyone had an opportunity to summon him, Ibarra peeked into Josie’s office.

  “I saw your door open,” he said. “Have you got a few minutes?”

  He didn’t wait for an invitation, but sat quietly at the table facing Josie until the adjutant left and pulled the door closed.

  “We need to talk about your association with Howard Owens and Carlton Buck,” she said as soon as they were alone. Might as well get to the point, she thought, and waste as little time as possible with this guy.

  “Wish I’d known Howard Owens was retiring. I never would’ve agreed to leave you two lieutenants short.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Chief Bright offered me the detective lieutenant job at Wilshire and I took it. It’s closer to home and the captain at Wilshire and me were academy classmates. If I knew Howard retired, I would’ve turned it down.”

  Josie should’ve been angry because Bright hadn’t consulted her about the change, but she was desperately trying to suppress a full-blown horse laugh. She’d been prepared to tell him he had to find another job. Instead she cleared her throat and managed to say, “Good for you,” and suppressed the temptation to add, “don’t let the door hit your incompetent ass on the way out.”

  “Thanks, but I can delay my transfer until you get another lieutenant if you need me . . . you know, with Howard Owens retiring and all,” he said.

  “Not necessary,” Josie said, emphatically, and when he started to get up, she ordered, “Sit down. We’re not done yet. Why didn’t you tell me you were working off-duty for Owens and Buck.”

  “Actually, it’s just Buck.”

  “You do protection details?” Josie asked, skeptically sizing up the scrawny man. If she were a client, she’d expect a lot more bulk for her money.

  Ibarra swallowed a laugh and said, “No, he pays me to sit in a guard shack all night at the front gate of some actor’s estate in Brentwood. I watch security cameras and open the gate when cars come and go.”

  “That’s it? You never got paid to bodyguard celebrities?”

  “Look at me,” he said, pointing at his slender frame. “I’m not exactly the bodyguard type. I just sit in my shack and make fifty bucks an hour mostly to sleep.”

  Josie wrote down the address where Ibarra claimed he worked and the celebrity’s name, another movie star she’d never heard of. Ibarra told Josie that unless she held up his paperwork he’d be on the next transfer to Wilshire. She assured him nothing would interfere with his departure.

  “You knew Behan was looking at off-duty employment. Why didn’t you tell him you worked for Buck?” she asked.

  “I had a work permit on file. I guess I just figured he knew.”

  She didn’t believe him, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Ibarra had kept that information to himself for a reason, but she figured the best way to find that reason might be through Buck.

  “Ibarra,” she called as he was leaving. He turned and stood by the door. “I meant to ask. Do you know Bruno Faldi?”

  He hesitated, folded his arms and nervously shifted his weight before saying, “He was a sergeant who retired a few years ago, wasn’t he? As I recall he retired early.”

  “You’ve never worked with him on or off-duty?”

  “Not that I can remember,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d have to say no.”

  She nodded. His nervous body language said he probably had. “Thanks, enjoy Wilshire and give my best to your new C.O.,” she said, and waited until she was certain he was gone to do the yes! arm pump. She was tempted to call the captain at Wilshire who was probably gloating and thank him, but she worried he might still have time to cancel the transfer. She’d wait a few weeks. It would be more meaningful after Ibarra had worked there a while and Wilshire felt the full effect of his ineptitude.

  Behan couldn’t escape from the homicide table until almost eleven a.m., but before Josie could get out the back door, she got a call from Bright at the bureau. He wanted her to send Fricke’s personnel complaint back to Internal Affairs.

  “The chief of police’s decided it’s probably better if I.A. handles this particular investigation,” Bright explained.

  “Why’s that?” Josie asked. She really wasn’t concerned about who did Fricke’s investigation, but knew the decision to give it back to I.A. smelled more like Bright’s idea than the chief of police.

  “The chief wants you to concentrate your resources on this Dennis investigation,” he said.

  “The allegations against Fricke are linked to her murder,” Josie said, stating what she thought was obvious.

  “He’s being accused of some serious misconduct and it’s more appropriate . . . the chief thinks it’s better if an Internal Affairs sergeant handles it.”

  “Okay, anything else?” Josie asked. She decided deciphering Bright’s convoluted reasoning was too distracting with this morning’s schedule. “I’ll have someone drop off the complaint after I relieve Fricke and Butler and send them home.”

  “Internal Affairs can do that, too,” he said.

  “I’ll do it,” Josie insisted.

  She wasn’t about to have anyone else order her officers out of the field. Her tone of voice must’ve warned Bright she wouldn’t give in on that point without a fight because he didn’t insist. Besides, he should’ve known that unpleasant task was always the commanding officer’s responsibility.

  Sometimes it was astounding how ignorant the man could be, Josie thought as she hung up the phone, but immediately vowed not to waste any more of her valuable time contemplating ‘Not So’s’ shortcomings.

  FRICKE MUST’VE surmised why he’d been summoned to the captain’s office several hours before the start of his shift. There was none of the usual joking and wisecracking between him and his partner. Butler closed the door and they sat quietly side by side on Josie’s couch waiting for her to give them the bad news.

  Josie had too much respect for the men not to tell them the truth. There was a personnel investigation with two informants alleging that Fricke had assisted Hillary Dennis in obtaining and using heroin and that he’d had an improper relationship with her. The charge against Butler was that he knew or should’ve known what Fricke was doing. Due to the seriousness of the charges, they would be assigned to their homes with full pay until the investigation was finished. Fricke didn’t look worried, or even despondent, until she told them the investigation wo
uld be handled by Internal Affairs.

  “You know how I got such a high opinion of you, ma’am, but those I.A. guys, they don’t care nothing about the truth. They just want a copper’s scalp to make themselves look good and get promoted.”

  “You both got reps?” Josie asked.

  Fricke shrugged. “I guess,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “Either you do or you don’t.”

  “Protective League gave us this fat sergeant that talks a lot, but don’t seem to be doing much,” Fricke said. “I wanted a lawyer, but I guess they don’t think I’m worth it.”

  Frank Butler didn’t say anything. He sat next to his partner staring at his tightly clasped hands resting on his knees. His was the lesser charge, but his association with Fricke could negatively impact his career for years. They were friends but Josie had to believe Butler harbored some resentment for being in the middle of Fricke’s predicament.

  “What do you think, Frank?” she asked. Josie was worried about the quiet man. It wasn’t good to keep anger and frustration bottled up. Sometimes, it was healthier to rant like Fricke.

  “What I think is we’re fucked,” he said, softly, still focused on his hands.

  “If you didn’t do anything, you’ll be alright,” she said.

  Now he glanced up at her. The guy was a retired marine and in his young life he’d faced tougher things than police department discipline, but they both knew what she’d just said was naïve and she really didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Can’t Lieutenant Bailey do anything, ma’am?” Fricke asked. “She’s our supervisor.”

  “I.A. took the complaint,” Josie lied. She didn’t see any point in bringing Bright into this, but was getting tired of spending so much time and effort dodging the fallout from his asinine decisions.

  “Hillary Dennis was killed in Hollywood. Our complaint’s tied to Hillary. Both informants are probably in Hollywood. We work Hollywood. Doesn’t it seem strange to you I.A. took it outside this division?” Frank Butler asked. He sat back and waited.

  “Yes,” Josie answered truthfully. Butler was the kind of guy who could smell fear and bullshit better than most. Since she’d always tried to avoid both, Josie agreed with him. Besides, he was right. Everything about the Dennis case was bizarre including this personnel complaint. Butler was a smart guy so she asked him again, “What’s your take on all this?”

  “Somebody wanted a scapegoat and picked us. While everybody’s looking at Donnie and me, the killer and the dope dealer get a pass. We get hammered—case closed.”

  Josie studied him as he talked. He was angry, but not the way Fricke would be. The veins in his neck were bulging slightly, but he spoke calmly, rationally, never raised his voice. His dark eyes locked on hers, daring her to be deceitful or dismissive. The man had been honored for his service in Afghanistan and had firsthand knowledge of death and dying in battle. If Fricke had done anything disreputable or illegal, Josie’s instincts told her Frank Butler would not knowingly be a part of it.

  She took a business card out of her desk drawer and gave it to Butler.

  “Call and tell him I said he should represent both of you. He’s the best lawyer I know,” she said.

  “Jake Corsino, he related to you?” Fricke asked, snatching the card from Butler.

  “My husband,” Josie said. “He used to be a supervisor in the district attorney’s office, but he’s in private practice now. Tell him . . .” she hesitated and then said, “Just tell him your story and give him your rep’s name. He knows when something stinks.” She smiled and added, “Tell him I promised he’d represent you pro bono. He doesn’t need the money.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Fricke said, jumping up and shaking her hand.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Butler said. He still wasn’t smiling, but at least he’d blinked.

  “Get out of here, go home, and stay out of trouble until we can figure out what’s really going on,” she said. Josie knew Jake would represent them. He couldn’t help himself. They were the underdogs. Despite all the years they lived together and his tolerance of her conservative ravings, at heart her husband was still an idealistic bleeding-heart liberal. He encouraged their son because David was everything Jake had wanted to be but couldn’t because his real talent was practicing law not the piano. Although she hated to admit it, he probably did fit better in his new politicallycorrect law firm than he ever had as a prosecutor.

  AN HOUR later, Josie was in the passenger seat of Behan’s car en route to Carlton Buck’s office in West L.A. She briefly told Behan about her conversation with Ibarra, but really didn’t want to talk about the meeting with Fricke and Butler, and got quiet and moody when she thought about it.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, after twenty minutes of uncharacteristic silence on her part.

  “Nothing,” she mumbled.

  “Right . . . what did ‘Not So’ do this time?”

  “It’s not just Bright. It’s all of it,” she said, not liking the whiny sound in her voice. Josie hated complainers. Her philosophy was if you didn’t like something fix it or shut up, but her frustration level was higher than usual.

  “All of what?”

  “This Dennis thing . . . all the crap floating around the edges . . . doesn’t it bother you?”

  “Define floating crap,” Behan said in his annoying analytical way.

  “The Goldmans, Bruno Faldi, Owens, Buck . . . my own kid, for Christ sake. Mostly, it’s just so damn convenient that two informants who know each other happen to identify Fricke as the fall guy. Worst part is nobody’s really got a decent motive to kill Hillary.”

  “Fricke does.”

  “How do you figure that?” she shot back.

  “The little black book.”

  Josie snorted. “Another bullshit figment of Little Joe’s imagination.”

  “What if it’s not? What if Fricke did what Little Joe said he did, and Hillary blackmailed him with her journal . . . times and places she fucked him or bought heroin with his help.”

  “I just don’t see how Fricke could do it without Butler knowing or at least suspecting something. They’re practically joined at the hip, and I can’t believe Butler would allow any of it to happen. It’s the Butler piece that doesn’t fit,” Josie insisted.

  “Okay, maybe I agree with you there. They’re always together and Butler’s the original Captain America.”

  “So who’s being protected while we’re distracted by all those fingers pointing at Fricke?”

  “Eli Goldman?” Behan asked.

  “I can’t see him hanging around with street scum like Little Joe.”

  “If Goldman dated Hillary, he might’ve had contact with Little Joe and Mouse, and paid them to lie about Fricke to keep the heat off himself.”

  Josie slumped back against the headrest and closed her eyes. It wasn’t farfetched or the first time in Los Angeles that a city councilman had been involved with a young woman and things went terribly wrong; and Lange was the perfect mouthpiece to shield Goldman in legal camouflage . . . for a price, that is. The payoff for Little Joe and Mouse didn’t have to be more than a few hits of their favorite drug or a couple hundred dollars.

  While Behan was talking, Josie was half-listening, contemplating the tattooed image of Goldman’s son that kept popping into her head. Cory Goldman, the councilman’s weird progeny, was the most vulnerable link in this chain of unsavory characters. She wondered how much he actually knew. His connection to Mouse certainly put him in a position to know more than he was telling them. If the father-son relationship was bad enough, Cory might be persuaded to reveal some dirty little family secrets. The only way to find out was to drag him back into the station and have Behan bully him. She had no intention of telling Bright, and she was certain he’d come unglued when he found out; but on the positive side, Councilwoman Fletcher would love anything that embarrassed Goldman.

  “What’re you planning?” Behan asked.

&n
bsp; “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t ever play poker, Corsino. Your face is a neon sign. The right side of your mouth goes up a little when you’re about to do something sneaky.”

  Josie instinctively touched her lip. “I want one of your teams to bring Cory Goldman to the station.”

  “RHD’s already questioned him,” Behan said as if he were talking to a child.

  “I don’t wanna question him. I want you to scare him. He’s an insecure mess. Terrorize him and make him tell you what he knows about his father.”

  “He’s got a lawyer.”

  “So what? Forget the lawyer. We’re not gonna use his statements anyway, so who cares if they’re admissible. I just wanna get him nervous enough to tell the truth about his father and Hillary,” Josie said.

  “Great, you get the truth and I get Goldman’s ACLU buddies screaming about police fascism and marching around my desk with pickets and television cameras.”

  “I’ll take the heat.”

  “I know you will,” he said in the way he used to when they were dope cops together and he was in charge. “All of us know you’ll try to protect us, but at some point if a wall gets pounded on long enough it falls down and you won’t be there for us.”

  “So what are you saying . . . back down?”

  He groaned. “All I’m saying is we’re grown-ups; let us take some of the heat so Bright doesn’t destroy you and I end up working for some weenie bean counter.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell everybody it was your idea,” she said, grinning.

  “Yeah, and that has about as much chance of happening as my silver wedding anniversary.”

  “As long as you bring it up, what the hell is going on with you and Marge?”

  “Nothing,” he said and dropped an icy wall of silence between them.

  They arrived at Carlton Buck’s office before Josie could figure out another way to approach the touchy subject. Marge was old enough to know what she was doing, but Josie had years of corroboration telling her that in the arena of stable adult emotions Red Behan was clueless.