Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  This afternoon, the P.I.’s building was bustling with activity. It was a far different place from the uninhabited spacious office they had visited several days ago. The underground parking was nearly full, and a pretty blond receptionist greeted them inside the first set of glass doors. Behan was mesmerized by the woman’s big blue eyes—and he sounded more like Dustin Hoffman’s Rainman than a big city detective—so Josie interrupted and explained why they were there. The blond escorted them back to Buck’s private office passing through a wave of activity—every desk occupied, phones ringing and computers lit up. A few men and women in sharp tan and green private security uniforms with cloth badges sewn above their shirt pockets wandered among the desks or drank coffee in small groups at the back of the room. It had the appearance of a very successful security business.

  “Disengage,” Josie whispered, as they entered Buck’s outer office and Behan’s stare locked onto the departing full-figured blond.

  “Just a connoisseur of fine art,” he whispered back.

  Buck greeted them as warmly as he had on their first visit, again offering food and drink. This time Josie and Behan declined. Behan pulled out a leather chair from the conference table for Buck, and then he and Josie sat on either side of him. Buck wasn’t wearing his suit jacket and had loosened his tie, but he still had the holstered semi-auto on his belt. His breathing was labored and he apologized for his appearance, explaining he’d been boxing up some old files. Josie noticed his hands were clean, and he wore a hefty gold nugget ring. His nails were manicured with a clear polish, and a Rolex watch was visible from under his starched shirtsleeve cuff when he adjusted the large-carat diamond pin stuck into his silk tie. There didn’t appear to be any financial slump for this security business, Josie thought, or the former cop had another lucrative source of income.

  “Why’d you lie about Bruno Faldi?” Behan asked, before Buck could settle in and get comfortable.

  Buck rested his hands on his substantial beer belly and for a moment looked like a mortified, gun-toting Buddha.

  “What did I lie about?” he whined, leaning toward Behan. “I told you what I knew.”

  “Owens said you fired Bruno. You told us he quit,” Josie said.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like Howard Owens, we were even partners once; but the guy’s a lazy moron. He never knows what he’s talking about.” Buck wiggled to the edge of the chair. “Even if I did fire Bruno Faldi, why would I confide that information to somebody like Howard? Howard’s a shill. He finds me cops I need for jobs.” Buck waved dismissively toward Josie and slid back. “Now he’s retired, he’s no good to me anymore.”

  “Did you fire Bruno?” Josie asked.

  “No, I told you he quit.”

  “You also told us you didn’t know anything about him,” Behan said.

  “Yeah, that’s right . . . nothing except what I already said.”

  “Why is it then I’ve got this recommendation signed by you and dated more than twenty years ago telling the department recruiter that Bruno Faldi was a great guy who’d make a dynamite cop?” Behan asked in his calm voice while handing Buck a copy of Bruno Faldi’s application to the police department.

  The furrows deepened in Buck’s brow and his pupils mimicked combatants in a ping pong game as his gaze darted from Behan to Josie and back several times. He shook his head and it seemed as if he wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come.

  Finally, he managed to blurt out, “I swear I didn’t really know him. I mean I knew his family. He seemed like a good kid.” Buck tugged at his shirt collar, loosened his tie a little more. “I guess I didn’t remember I did that,” he said, sheepishly, staring at his signature.

  “Did you fire him?”

  “You don’t fire Vince Milano’s nephew.” Buck spit the words back at her, then slumped in his chair deflated. “He quit . . . don’t know why . . . just quit,” he said, softly.

  “You know the Milano family?” Josie asked.

  “I know the Faldi family. His mom was my wife’s bookkeeper. I found out later about Milano.”

  Josie could see Buck didn’t want to talk about Bruno, but he’d been caught in a lie and cops aren’t good liars. It was a strange phenomenon; guilt made them want to confess everything they’ve ever done wrong. She had a feeling Buck was relieved. It was as if he’d never wanted to be a party to any of it in the first place and telling them was sort of liberating.

  “When did you find out about Milano’s connection?” Behan asked.

  “Owens told me the day he wanted me to fire Bruno. What a moron! Like I’m gonna fire Vince Milano’s nephew.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Whatever Bruno wanted me to do.”

  “And he wanted the Hillary Dennis job.”

  “Yeah, and he got it.”

  “Did he say why he wanted that particular job?” Josie asked.

  “Nope and I didn’t ask.”

  “Why’d he quit?” Behan asked.

  Buck got up and went to the liquor cabinet behind his massive desk. He selected a bottle of whiskey and held it up. “Want some?” he asked, and both Josie and Behan shook their heads. He returned with one glass nearly three-quarters full.

  “I had almost thirty years with the department working some pretty tough divisions, but this Bruno Faldi character scares the crap outta me,” Buck said, taking a big swallow, nearly emptying the glass. He coughed a few times and then said, “Big bald unpredictable nut job is what he is. Who knows why he quit. He sure ain’t telling me.”

  Josie figured Buck believed what he was saying. Even a sizeable dose of whiskey couldn’t keep his hands steady.

  “Explain,” she said, wanting more than a stupid description. “The guy teaches teenage girls for a living. He can’t be all that terrifying.”

  “Dead eyes . . . fakes like he feels stuff. I’ll give him credit, he’s a good actor—makes you believe him. When he was on the job, I seen him hurt people if he thought they were in his way or he wanted to scare them. He made that Dennis girl trust him and depend on him, but I know he didn’t give a fuck about her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He told me. The psycho was playing with her.”

  “For what purpose?” Josie asked.

  “He’s not gonna tell me that, but one day he doesn’t show up for work. Dennis girl calls me wanting to know where’s her bodyguard. He won’t answer my calls, doesn’t even pick up his last paycheck. She’s hysterical because she doesn’t trust anybody else. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s what he wanted. Anyhow, a couple a days later she’s dead and Bruno’s out of my life, forever I hope.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us all that in the first place?” Josie asked.

  “I didn’t know what Bruno told you. I’m not gonna be the guy that calls Milano’s nephew a liar, and then have him or his uncle’s friends come after me or my business.”

  “You ever meet Milano?” Behan asked.

  “Hell no, and I don’t want to neither,” Buck said, and seemed to be struggling with a thought before blurting out, “I was a good cop. If I knew what Bruno was like or that he was tied to a guy like Milano, I would’ve never done this.” He shook the copy of the application in front of Josie and whispered, “If he hurt that girl, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t my fault.”

  “I’m sure that’ll make Hillary’s mother feel much better,” Behan said, sarcastically. He got up and snatched the application from Buck’s hand. Buck didn’t speak as they left his office. Behan was so disgusted he didn’t even glance at the receptionist on the way out.

  When they reached the parking garage, Josie spotted Buck’s Porsche and remembered the Lexus. She asked Behan if he’d run the license plate on the silver Lexus. He had, but the number didn’t come back on file, which usually meant it belonged to a cop or politician, or some other VIP who managed to keep the information out of the public database.

  On the drive back to Hollywood, they agreed that Buc
k might’ve told the truth this time. Now they needed to find out why Bruno wanted to get close to Hillary and the real reason he quit just before she was killed.

  “Maybe to make her think she was safe and then leave her vulnerable long enough for someone to kill her,” Josie said, throwing out a possible scenario.

  “If Milano wanted her dead, I’m betting he’d just kill her. So, why bother with the whole bodyguard charade?” Behan asked. “You notice there’s a couple of names that keep coming up in this investigation?”

  “There are a lot of names that keep coming up. Who do you mean?”

  “Eli Goldman and Milano.”

  “And it’s Milano’s sleazy attorney who just happens to represent the dope dealer who’s accusing Fricke.”

  “I’m still not convinced Fricke is completely clean,” Behan said and quickly added, “You want me to pick up Cory Goldman this afternoon or wait until tomorrow to make him wet his pants?”

  “Tomorrow. . . . Let’s talk to Milano,” she said.

  “Any particular reason?” he asked.

  “I can’t see Bruno doing anything unless Milano gives his blessing. If we ask the right questions, maybe we’ll learn something.”

  They got to Avanti’s an hour before it opened. Behan parked near the front door where half a dozen young men in red vests leaning against a ramp railing eyed them suspiciously but didn’t approach. They were parking valets, illegals who probably hadn’t been in the country more than a few weeks and were living off their tips. They recognized the police car and knew enough to keep their distance. By the time Josie started up the ramp, they’d gone.

  Inside the club, the lights were on but the warehouse had a drab shabby look. She knew in a few hours darkness and the glittery disco ball would transform this dreary reality into a magical place. It was all phony, but kids came here and pretended for a while it wasn’t.

  An elderly black security guard drinking a beer at the bar was the only one they could find inside. His uniform was wrinkled and spotted with food stains and he didn’t seem interested in who they were or what they wanted. He acted pleased to have something to do and escorted them to Milano’s private office.

  It wasn’t what Josie had expected. The room was no bigger than a large walk-in closet. Old posters of long forgotten secondrate entertainers were pasted everywhere, overlapping like tacky wallpaper. Taking up most of the space was an oak roll-top desk that had seen better days.

  When the guard opened the door, Milano was sitting with his back to them. He turned quickly and at first looked surprised, then worried.

  “Captain Corsino, what’s wrong?” he asked, standing to greet her.

  She introduced Behan and said, “Nothing, Mr. Milano, we wanted to talk with you if you have time.”

  “Vince,” he said, clearing off two chairs for them. “I’ve always got time for you.”

  Josie explained that Behan was handling the Dennis homicide and had a few questions for him. Milano didn’t seemed concerned and was more interested in getting them something to drink and eat until Behan finally convinced him to sit down so they could get started.

  “How well did you know Hillary Dennis?” Behan asked when Milano settled in behind his desk again.

  “Not very well, she came here with friends . . . all of them pazzesco . . . they acted crazy,” he said, touching his forehead with both hands. “When she came, I went home. I didn’t like her.” He shrugged and added apologetically, “But she spent a lot of money, brought in paying customers, so what am I supposed to do.”

  “Did you know any of those friends?”

  “Just that Goldman kid.”

  “Did you see or hear any of them threaten her or harm her in any way?” Josie asked.

  Milano snickered. “How would I know? They don’t have respect for nothing or nobody . . . always high, always motherfucking everything. They hate the world, think they’re smarter than everybody.”

  “Did Hillary seem scared or afraid of any of them?” she asked.

  “That little tramp wasn’t afraid of nothing.”

  Josie looked at Behan and he asked the question they were both thinking. “Then why was she paying your nephew to protect her?”

  He slowly shook his head and said, “Don’t know, maybe she finally pissed off the wrong guy.”

  Behan started to say something when the door swung open and Bruno Faldi entered as if on cue. He stopped in the middle of the room and at first seemed confused. His expression said he was trying to figure out why these particular people were here with his uncle.

  “Figlio,” Milano said, obviously pleased to see him. Bruno bent over and hugged his uncle, kissed him on the cheek.

  Josie knew just enough Italian to know Milano had called him son. She figured the possibility he’d reveal anything that might implicate Bruno was diminishing quickly.

  Milano didn’t bother to introduce them, which also told her the two men had previously discussed Bruno’s interview with her and Behan. She thought Bruno’s demeanor seemed different tonight. He wasn’t trying to be pleasant. He said something in Italian to Milano which she couldn’t understand but it sounded angry. Milano whispered something back, attempting to calm him.

  “Why are you harassing my uncle?” Bruno demanded, glaring at Josie. She figured the girls’ academy must’ve dumped him because his Mr. Chips image was definitely a thing of the past. His massive frame looked menacing in a black t-shirt and leather jacket. He was wearing worn Levi’s and biker boots that made him look taller, and he didn’t need the extra height. They were finally getting a glimpse of the real Bruno Faldi.

  “Excuse my nephew,” Milano said looking at Bruno and adding in a tone that left no doubt he was in charge and unhappy, “These are my guests.”

  Behan turned to Bruno and asked calmly, “What’s your problem?”

  “Nothing, I don’t want you hassling Uncle Vince. How can he do business with you guys busting in here all the time?”

  “You working at Avanti’s full time now?” Josie asked.

  “I’m helping out a while. What’s it to you?”

  “They want to know why you worked for that slut movie star,” Milano said.

  “You already asked me that and I told you. Why are you bothering him?” Bruno was becoming very agitated.

  “You said she hired you because she was scared. Your uncle says Hillary wasn’t afraid of anything,” Josie said.

  “That’s what she told me.”

  “And there’s our dilemma because we don’t know what she told you, but we’re pretty sure you lied to us about it,” Josie said as calmly as she could with the big man pacing like a hungry lion in front of her.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said and stopped near his uncle. “If you don’t stop harassing us our lawyer’s gonna make you stop. I got a badge and gun too. I’m not some schmuck off the street you can push around.”

  “Enough,” Milano said, standing and touching Bruno’s flushed face. “Is there anything else, Captain? I gotta open the club.”

  “No, we’re done. Thank you for your time,” she said, and turned to Bruno on their way out. “Too bad that teaching thing didn’t work out.”

  He didn’t respond but she could see he was seething and might’ve done something really stupid if his uncle hadn’t been there.

  “You like to live dangerously,” Behan said, when they were back in the car headed toward the station.

  “The guy’s a time bomb. I felt it that day at the school, but I still don’t think he killed Hillary,” she said.

  “Why not?” Behan asked. “Other than the fact nobody saw him at the house that night.”

  “I got the feeling he actually liked her. Milano didn’t, but you’re right the old man wouldn’t have killed her that way.”

  “So we don’t know anything more than we did before we talked to him.”

  “We know Bruno’s a loose cannon with a gun and badge. Wanna stop at Nora’s for a bi
te?”

  “Can’t, I forgot I promised Vicky I’d be home for dinner tonight. It’s some kind of anniversary.”

  Smart woman, Josie thought. With Behan’s track record, it was best to celebrate the days and weeks or Vicky might never get a “first” anything anniversary.

  “She’s a nice lady, Red.” Josie wanted to say more but the right words wouldn’t come.

  It didn’t matter. He ignored her comment and parked near the back door of the station. They walked inside together, but he peeled off into the detectives’ squad room without another word. She knew she was wasting her breath. The big redhead did whatever he pleased and then fell apart when the inevitable consequences hit him like a Malibu landslide.

  She wasn’t going to fret about it. She was already balancing too many fragile male egos in her universe—one half-grown son, an emotional wreck of a husband, and a deputy chief who confused leadership with schoolyard bullying.

  FIFTEEN

  Hollywood was two different worlds at night. The west end showcased the business improvement district with private security, trendy restaurants and historic theaters with movie star footprints in cement, but on the east side of the division, the scenery changed dramatically. When the sun went down, this area around Western Avenue and beyond morphed into something mysterious and dangerous with its Mexican gangs and rampant drug dealing.

  Josie occasionally drove through that part of her division to get to the Hollywood Freeway, instead of taking the closer on-ramp a few blocks north of the station. She’d found a way to gauge her officers’ enforcement efforts by the amount of blatant illegal activity she could identify on any major street.

  It was late and she was drained after the bout with Bruno, but for some inexplicable reason she was driving out of her way, doing something she could’ve easily done any other night and dragging out the process of getting home. Although she kept the police radio and computer turned on to monitor hot calls and activity in her division, she was finally alone in her steel Ford bubble and driving was a way of clearing her mind. For a few minutes, her world was static. No one could step in, steal precious seconds, ask for favors or advice or tell her what to do. Sometimes she needed this unplanned excursion down her city streets because it was therapeutic.