Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  Tonight, she’d decided to take Fountain Avenue across to the freeway and was only a couple of blocks from the on-ramp when she passed a street sign for Sierra Way. The next light was red and as the car idled in light traffic, Josie tried to remember where and why she’d recently heard that particular street name. She had a nagging feeling it was connected to something important, and turned right and drove around the block pulling to the curb at the corner of Sierra Way. Information overload was always a problem for her. In her position, problems had to be handled quickly and sometimes superficially to keep the police machinery running twenty-four hours a day. Eventually, names, dates, times, and places started to run into and over one another.

  But Josie was certain there was something significant about that street. She closed her eyes, and the memory light inevitably flickered on. Mrs. Dennis—Hillary’s mother—lived on Sierra Way. Josie remembered the house numbers six-six-five, because at the time she read it she thought if the five had been a six it would’ve been the sign of the devil and an odd address for the God-fearing woman.

  She drove a couple of blocks down Sierra and found the small two-story house with a floodlight above the front screen door. The porch was cluttered with boxes and an assortment of junk stacked up to the top of the railing. Heavy plastic tarps were draped over some of the debris. The house was dark inside except for a low light in what appeared to be the living room. A second floodlight was on the side of the house, and from across the street, Josie could make out more junk piled against the house. The garage door was open and packed with furniture. A freezer had been left between the house and the driveway.

  Josie made a U-turn and parked in front of the house. It was a little after eight, but she figured as long as she was in the neighborhood, why not visit Mrs. Dennis and see how the woman was getting along—community policing, command-officer style. The truth was Josie hadn’t really given much thought to Hillary’s mother, but did want to talk to her again. She hoped Mrs. Dennis could give her a better picture of who the young woman really was, what she was up to. Mothers, even bad ones, knew surprising things about their kids.

  The front porch was dirtier than it appeared from the street. Cobwebs clung to the security screen and hung from every corner. A chilly breeze wafted across the yard spreading the aroma of sautéed onions mixed with the stench of open garbage containers that seemed to be coming from next door. Josie peeked in the front window before ringing the doorbell. A torn shade was pulled down, but she could see Mrs. Dennis sitting near a big screen television. The woman turned and stared at the door for several seconds before getting up and coming to the window. Josie held her badge close to the glass and identified herself, speaking as loud as she could without alarming the neighbors.

  Mrs. Dennis opened the door and glared at Josie through the security screen.

  “Whaddaya want?” she shouted, with her hand shading her eyes as if she were blinded by bright sunlight.

  “Mrs. Dennis, it’s Captain Corsino.”

  “I know who you are. Whaddaya want?”

  “I’d like to come inside and talk with you for a minute, if it’s okay.”

  “You know what time it is? Come back at a decent hour.”

  “Sorry, I’ve had a very busy day and this is the first opportunity I . . .”

  “You arrest that boy?”

  “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about,” Josie said and tried to open the screen. It was locked.

  “What’s the good a talking to me?” she said.

  Josie heard the latch on the screen click, and Mrs. Dennis held it open. She allowed Josie to come inside and then locked the screen and front door again. The living room was warm and clean. A three-foot-high plaster statue of the Virgin Mary sat on a cabinet in the corner with votive candles flickering in little glass holders around the base of the figure. The homemade shrine was church quality and didn’t seem out of place in this particular woman’s home.

  The interior of the house was spotless. A sweet fruity odor saturated the air and Josie could feel her empty stomach rumbling. Whatever was cooking wiped out the porch stench and triggered the hunger switch in her brain, and for just a moment that warm oven smell triggered memories of her mother’s kitchen. Josie’s love of cooking had come from the rich aromas of spicy pasta dishes and hearty stews that had always permeated her childhood home. Although the family never had much money, her mother made every meal large and special.

  Mrs. Dennis turned off the television and offered Josie the chair where she’d been sitting.

  “Before we talk, I just made some peach cobbler and a fresh pot a coffee. Make yourself comfortable while I get us some.” She did a quick genuflect in front of the statue, but came back and said, “Better come with me in the kitchen. Not as fancy but a lot more sociable for cobbler and coffee.”

  Josie followed her down a dark musty hallway past the small dining room into the large country-style kitchen with a breakfast table. Mrs. Dennis was wearing a full apron over what looked like a flannel nightgown. Her thinning hair was pinned up in little ringlets around her head, and Josie could see traces of white facial cream close to her hairline. She had prepared herself for bed, but seemed resigned to entertaining unexpected company.

  The table was big enough for a large family, but only four chairs were placed around it.

  “Are any of your other children still at home?” Josie asked, watching her take a sizeable pan from the cooling rack and scoop out two big chunks of warm peaches covered with a thick crust. Mrs. Dennis removed a container from the freezer and put vanilla ice cream on top of the cobbler before setting it in front of Josie.

  “Got their own lives,” she said, placing a mug of coffee beside the mound of saturated fat. By the time Mrs. Dennis sat down to eat, Josie had nearly finished her cobbler and was scraping the last glob of ice cream off the plate.

  “That was wonderful,” Josie said, knowing if she were at home alone she’d be using her finger to get that last drop of peach nectar. She noticed Mrs. Dennis staring at her and realized she must’ve attacked the cobbler like a starving vulture. “Guess I was hungry,” she said sheepishly, and put her fork down.

  “Don’t you ever eat? You look like skin and bones,” Mrs. Dennis said, getting up and taking Josie’s dish to fill it again with a bigger portion and more ice cream. Before sitting, she topped off both coffee mugs.

  “Thank you,” Josie said. “Guess I forgot to eat today.”

  “My little girl used to eat like you, never gained a pound. She coulda been a beautiful woman like you,” Mrs. Dennis said, softly. She put her fork down. Her untouched cobbler sat in a pool of melting ice cream. “I pray for her every day . . . worried, you know, about her immortal soul.” She made the sign of the cross.

  Josie stopped eating and sat back. “Why are you worried about your daughter, Mrs. Dennis? She didn’t do anything wrong. Did she?”

  “Never got to repent for her sins.”

  “She was so young. What could she possibly have to repent that might jeopardize her soul?” Josie was gently prodding, trying to get her to start talking, to tell unguarded truths.

  Mrs. Dennis tilted her head back and snorted. “My Hilly was hell-bent on damnation.”

  Hilly, Josie thought. The only other people she’d heard call Hillary by that name were Little Joe and Mouse. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Got with that boy,” she said, pushing the cobbler plate farther away. “He’s the devil, got her whoring, taking drugs.”

  “Did you know any of her friends? Did she ever bring them here?”

  “They weren’t friends . . . led her away from God . . . got her murdered.”

  “What do you mean?” Josie asked, frustrated by the old woman’s babbling riddles.

  “She brung them here once when they got nowhere else to go. Spent every penny she’d earned. Lost her place when there weren’t no more jobs.”

  “But she had her own apartment and lots of money when she di
ed.”

  “Got money somehow, moved outta here with all her leeches.”

  “Who stayed here with her?”

  “That boy and some foulmouthed little bleached whore . . .”

  “Mouse?”

  “Never knew her name . . . put ugly pictures all over her body.”

  “Anybody else?” Josie had to ask, but felt a cobbler earthquake rumbling in her stomach. Once again, she was struggling to keep thoughts of David out of her head, but just the possibility his name could come up ruined a great dessert.

  “Negro boy dresses like a woman . . . that’s all of them I ever seen.”

  Josie knew that had to be Little Joe and felt relief that she’d dodged embarrassment again.

  “Older man ever come here to see your daughter?” she asked.

  “Never saw nobody but that devil boy and the other two.”

  “Did they leave anything here?” Josie asked.

  “Just those pictures I gave to you.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “I looked real good after that little one come back to get some clothes she says she forgot, but I never found nothing of hers.”

  “Mouse came back by herself?”

  “Hilly’d been dead two, maybe three days, when that woman knocks on my door, says she needs to come in and get some things she mighta forgot.”

  “Did you see what she took?”

  “Grieving so bad didn’t really notice nothing. Why, you think that little tramp whore stole from me?”

  “Try to remember. Did you see her carrying anything when she left?”

  “I can’t say, truthfully, wasn’t paying attention.”

  Mrs. Dennis allowed Josie to look in the three bedrooms where Hillary and her friends slept. Like the rest of the house, these rooms were tidy and clean. Josie thought Hillary’s room looked as if it had been decorated by a spoiled teenage girl with terrible taste and too much money. It was a large space with a big screen television, Blu-ray player, stereo, and clashing colors of purple and green with pink lacy curtains over a big front window; there were too many stuffed animals and framed posters of all her forgettable films. There wasn’t a single book in sight, but two small stacks of magazines were sitting on her desk. She’d painted the walls a dark purple and found an expensive ugly comforter to match. It struck Josie for the first time that this young woman might’ve in many ways remained a child until her brutal death.

  When Mrs. Dennis excused herself to clean up the kitchen, Josie thoroughly searched the desk drawers, dresser and closet, under the bed and mattress . . . no diary. She looked behind furniture too, and did the same in the other two bedrooms before Mrs. Dennis called from downstairs to ask if she wanted more coffee. It was nearly ten p.m. and Josie was about ready to leave, when one more question occurred to her before she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Did you ever talk to a lawyer named Peter Lange?” Josie asked, and then described the handsome attorney. They were standing in the living room again. Josie could see Mrs. Dennis was fighting to stay awake and looked tired, but didn’t seem eager to be alone again.

  “He’s been here.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Says he’s the one owned that house where my little girl got killed and how sorry he was for my loss. We just talked, that’s all.”

  “He didn’t want anything or give you anything.”

  “That’s all,” she said, nervously wrapping the strap of her apron around her thumb. She wouldn’t look directly at Josie.

  “Are you certain he didn’t take anything?” Josie said.

  “I said he didn’t,” she snapped and glared at Josie.

  “Okay, then he gave you something.”

  “Nothing, not a dime . . . if he did it’s my business,” Mrs. Dennis said weakly, studying her hands.

  It always came down to money, Josie thought. Enough cash was as comforting as any words of condolence. “How much?” she asked.

  “He told me not to say nothing or the deal’s no good.”

  “Was it some kind of settlement?”

  “I promised not to sue him which I wouldn’t a done anyhow. I ain’t mad at him, not his fault. I just want justice for my little girl.”

  “He didn’t ask for anything else?”

  “No, just not to bother him . . . he did say Hilly mighta had some book that belonged to one of his clients, but we looked same way you did and couldn’t find nothing.”

  “Which client?”

  “Don’t remember or maybe he never said, but like I told him, I ain’t got nothing of his and I ain’t gonna sue nobody. I just want the monster that killed my little girl to be dead so he can burn alongside of her in hell. Then I can get some peace.”

  JOSIE HEARD the door and screen lock behind her as she stepped onto the cluttered porch and felt the night air cut through her light jacket. She should’ve been tired but felt invigorated. She’d spent three hours with a crazy old woman and ate like a pig, but she might’ve discovered what happened to Hillary’s diary. Turned out Mouse had a little pack-rat blood and most likely snatched Hillary’s diary as soon as the girl was dead. Lange had talked to Mrs. Dennis, searched the rooms and probably knew as much as Josie did. She figured the odds on Mouse’s survival were better if she found her before Milano’s lawyer did.

  Unfortunately, her best bloodhound was sitting at home waiting for the geniuses at I.A. to figure out the allegations against Fricke were bogus. In the meantime, keeping Mouse alive and locating the diary would be really difficult without him and his partner. She needed Fricke, but even she wouldn’t have the guts to put him back in the field now.

  When she got into her car, Josie called the Hollywood vice office and Marge answered.

  “Have a bad dream?” Marge asked, as soon as she recognized Josie’s voice.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Why are you calling me at this hour? All good little captains should be safely tucked in their beds by now.”

  “Actually, I never quite made it home.”

  “What’s wrong? Where are you?” Now Marge sounded concerned.

  “It’s okay. I’m sitting outside Hillary’s mother’s house. I stopped by to see how she was doing.”

  “In the middle of the fucking night?”

  “It’s a long story. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, but for now I need your people to pick up Mouse again. Make it your number one priority. I think she’s got Hillary’s diary and I’m pretty sure Lange and Milano want it as badly as I do.”

  They talked a few more minutes while Josie started her car and made a one-handed U-turn heading back in the direction of the freeway. She drove under a streetlight across the road from Mrs. Dennis’s house and was saying goodbye to Marge when the front windshield cracked with a loud thud and then again. Josie stepped on the gas pedal and turned away as a shower of glass fragments sprayed her head and face. Her first thought was a brick had been thrown at the window until she saw the bullet-sized holes and swerved away from the light, angled her car toward the street, leaving the engine running and the headlights flooding the area where she thought the shots might’ve come from. She unholstered her .45 and scrambled across the seat to the passenger door, sliding out onto the ground. Her phone was nearby on the floor of the car, but she reached for the police radio.

  “Commander six, officer needs help six hundred block Sierra Way, shots fired,” she said as calmly as she could, directing the approaching units to what she calculated was a safe location. It took a few seconds from the shots hitting the car to the radio call, but she felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. Her hand was shaking slightly as she slipped the radio into her jacket pocket.

  Using her car for cover, she crawled toward the front bumper, trying to see something, anything that would tell her where her assailant was hiding. The street was dark except for the police car’s high beams, and it was quiet. One porch light came on, but no one came out. Gunshots weren’t an anomaly in this nei
ghborhood. In the distance she could hear sirens. Crouching under parked car windows, she moved further down the street. The area was deserted and eerily still. “Come on, asshole, stick that pumpkin head up and give me one clean shot,” she whispered. Both her hands were on the gun and steady now—anger trumped fear.

  Within thirty seconds, the street was surrounded with police cars and what seemed to be an army of shotgun-toting officers. Josie directed them and the officers with dogs to her location. The first one to reach her was that same sergeant from Rampart division who had responded to the party house the night Hillary was killed.

  “We’re doing a yard-by-yard search, ma’am, but we’re pretty sure the shooter took off before we got here,” the sergeant said, brushing some glass off her shoulder with his leather glove.

  “You spend a lot of time in my division,” Josie said, slowly getting up from her crouched position. “And I do appreciate that.”

  “You’d better let the paramedics take a look at you,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” she said, noticing several officers standing around now, staring at her. She thought she must’ve gotten pretty messed up rolling out of the car and reached to straighten her hair. The sergeant clamped her wrist.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “Your hair’s full of glass. Can’t you feel the glass in your skin?”

  She couldn’t, but suddenly had an urge to rub her face. She stood under a dim streetlight and examined her hands. They had tiny cuts that were barely bleeding, but there wasn’t any pain. The paramedics examined her face and hands and decided it was best to take her to the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai where they could more easily find and remove any tiny glass fragments and disinfect the cuts.

  The sergeant took her personal items out of her car and threw them in the backseat of his black and white cruiser.

  “Hop in,” he said, opening the passenger door. “I’ll get your car towed when they’re done, but first let me take you to Cedars.”