Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  The paramedic shrugged and closed the back doors of his ambulance as Josie got into the police car.

  She opened the passenger window and thanked the paramedics as the sergeant pulled away, maneuvering around several parked police cars and a couple of ambulances. “And thank you for the lift,” she said, beginning to notice a little discomfort as her neck muscles tightened from tension, and feeling considerable pain in her joints.

  “No problem, Captain. You just don’t look like the type to lie on a stretcher and wait for somebody to take care of you.”

  Josie nodded, but wasn’t sure she agreed. She was fighting an urge to scratch her face and thought lying on a stretcher with a shot of Demerol didn’t sound like such a terrible idea right now. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” she asked, trying to keep her mind off the painful cuts and overall ache.

  “Kyle Richards. I like to stay busy, and there’s never too much going on in the middle of the night except in Hollywood.”

  “Maybe you should transfer into my division, since you spend so much time hanging around.”

  “Mind if I ask you a question, ma’am?”

  “Probably, but go ahead.”

  “What were you doing in that gang-infested neighborhood by yourself in the middle of the night?”

  “Community policing,” she said, giving him a look that should’ve told him she had no intention of answering that question, at least not for him. Sergeant Richards was trim with graying brown hair. He had four hash marks on his sleeve—twenty years with the department—and judging from his salty attitude, he’d been around, probably retired military. She’d be surprised if his personnel package wasn’t full of commendations.

  She was always looking for competent people and this sergeant looked like a good candidate for her division.

  “You feeling okay?” Sergeant Richards asked as he exited the freeway off-ramp and turned onto the surface street.

  “Like a pincushion.”

  “Almost there. Don’t scratch.”

  “You work any off-duty jobs?”

  “No, why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “I’d rather spend my free time with my kid.”

  He negotiated the turn into the Cedars’ parking structure near the emergency room door. He parked and helped her retrieve her belongings from the backseat.

  “I can take it from here, Richards. Appreciate your help, but you’d better get back to Rampart so I don’t get nasty calls from your watch commander,” she said, gingerly shaking his hand, trying to keep her blood off him.

  “No problem, he’s a pretty mellow guy. Take care, Captain,” he said, getting back into his patrol car. She watched him typing on his MDT computer keyboard as he left the lot. There was no downtime for this guy.

  Josie was grateful she didn’t have a lot of personal junk in her car and only had to carry a utility bag, shotgun and her briefcase into the emergency room. She knew a couple of captains who would’ve had golf bags and substantial loot from their most recent shopping spree stashed in their trunks. The area captain at Pacific division kept a packed suitcase and fishing gear in his city car for weekend getaways with his pretty senior clerk typist.

  The sliding door opened, and she saw Marge standing at the nurses’ station with her back to the door. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and stared at Josie. It must’ve been quite a sight because Marge’s eyes widened when she turned around.

  “What the fuck,” Marge said, hurrying to help Josie.

  “Somebody shot at me,” Josie said.

  “I was on the goddamn phone, remember. I get out there . . . morons say some sergeant took you . . . nobody knows shit . . . why the fuck didn’t you call me back?”

  “Calm down, woman,” Josie said, handing her the shotgun. “Take this so I don’t look like Mad Max.”

  Marge took the shotgun and utility bag, and gently removed the strap of the leather briefcase off Josie’s shoulder. “I’d say more like Edward Scissorhands. Have you seen the side of your face?”

  A nurse took Jose behind a curtain where she removed her jacket, shirt and bra, and helped her into a hospital gown. With magnifying glasses, several nurses removed tiny slivers of glass that were embedded in the left side of her face and neck. Most of the glass was on the surface of her skin and brushed off, or was washed away with the soothing disinfectant. Leaning forward, Josie combed her long hair from her neck forward and watched little pieces of glass fall onto a towel one of the nurses had placed on the floor.

  An hour later, she was relatively glass-free and finally able to get a glimpse of her face in the mirror over the sink in the patients’ bathroom. With her hair pulled back and her skin cleaned, she didn’t look as horrible as she’d anticipated. There were lots of tiny red spots on her cheek and she could still see remnants of glass dust in her hair, but overall she felt fine. Her skin stopped itching after the disinfectant wash and her hands were hardly scratched. Marge had gathered Josie’s belongings, and they were about to check out when Chief Bright arrived with Art Perry.

  Marge groaned under her breath and whispered to Josie, “Just when you think things can’t get more fucked-up.”

  “You don’t look too bad,” Bright said cheerfully, getting too close to her and staring at the side of her face. The bureau chief was in a tight t-shirt, sweatpants and running shoes, and looked as if he’d just finished his morning jog. He didn’t seem the least bit distressed about Josie’s dangerous encounter.

  Perry was in a business suit and appeared ready for work although it was still only six a.m. He was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Are you okay?” Josie asked him.

  He almost smiled. “That should’ve been my question to you. Are you done here?”

  “We have some questions but they can wait if you’re tired and want to get home,” Bright said, talking to Josie but looking at Marge, and finally taking the utility bag from her and giving it to Perry.

  “Let me grab a few hours sleep and I’ll call you,” Josie said. “I already gave my statement to the detectives. They recovered .45 casings but not a clue as to who did the shooting or why.”

  “What were you doing out there?” Bright asked, as they stood in front of the sliding glass door outside the emergency room while Perry and Marge loaded Josie’s belongings onto the backseat of Marge’s car. Josie explained how she’d decided to visit Mrs. Dennis, but carefully avoided any reference to Hillary’s diary or Peter Lange. “Why would you go there alone at that time of night?”

  “I was on my way home and saw her lights on,” Josie lied. She guessed that sounded lame so she added, “I remembered you told me Mrs. Dennis was bugging you and the police commission, so I thought I’d try giving her an update on the investigation and maybe she’d give us all some breathing room.” It wasn’t a great explanation, but the best Josie could conjure up after nearly getting her head blown off.

  “This case is too much for you. You can’t be doing these things in the middle of the night. Did you get a look at the shooter?”

  She didn’t get the connection but answered, “Never saw anyone. Might’ve been some neighborhood punk who recognized the police car,” Josie said. “It’s the most logical explanation.” She wasn’t certain that was true, but then Bright didn’t have as much information as she had, and any other explanation would’ve required filling him in on some of those facts she’d worked so hard to conceal.

  “WANNA TELL me what’s going on,” Marge said when they were back on the freeway headed toward Pasadena.

  “You’re taking me home so I can shower and sleep.”

  “Bullshit—why aren’t you telling Bright everything?”

  “Because other than you and Red, I’m not sure who I can trust anymore.”

  She surmised from Marge’s silence that she didn’t entirely buy that explanation, but Josie was surprised at how little Marge’s disapproval actually mattered right now.

  SIXTEEN

  When they got t
o Pasadena, Josie invited Marge into the house to rest a while before making the long drive back across town to her apartment. Josie’s body was bruised and tired, and although Marge hadn’t complained, she noticed her friend could barely keep her eyes open.

  Josie understood that despite her frequent expletives and disgruntled attitude, Marge became anxious when someone with authority other than herself didn’t play strictly by department rules. So as soon as they were in the den reclining on loungers with glasses full of a really good Cabernet, Josie tried to reassure her that holding back information from the bureau was a necessity.

  “Even Bright’s not that stupid. Why do you suppose he keeps blabbing everything to Goldman?” Marge asked.

  “Don’t know. At the moment, I’m more concerned about someone wanting to kill me.”

  “Could’ve been a random asshole thing.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Why not? Nobody in any way connected to this case knew you were going to be there . . . not even you from what you’ve said.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence. Besides, what if somebody was already there watching the house.”

  “Why and what does anybody in this investigation gain by blowing away your high-ranking ass?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe I was getting too close to something. Mouse went there after Hillary died and I’m guessing what she took was Hillary’s diary and not some forgotten piece of clothing from her thrift store ensemble. Maybe the shooter was hoping she’d come back.”

  “Anything Hillary wrote isn’t really evidence at this point,” Marge said, placing her empty glass on the floor beside her chair.

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “Experts might ID the handwriting as Hillary’s, but regardless of what she wrote, with her dead, how do you validate any of it?”

  “That depends on what she wrote. We might be able to prove some of it without her,” Josie said, finishing her wine. She retrieved the bottle from the coffee table and filled her glass again. Her friend’s eyes were closed and she was snoring softly.

  Josie sat back and sipped the wine. She should get up and take a shower, rinse the remaining bits of glass out of her hair. The warm water against her skin would feel so good, but she couldn’t make herself get out of the recliner. She was very tired, but her eyes wouldn’t close. Alcohol usually made her sleepy, but it wasn’t working. A serious bout of frustration was the real problem. The Bright and Goldman relationship was bothering her. Was it possible Chief Bright had a reason to protect Goldman? Was her boss involved with Hillary too? She took another swallow. That was crazy, there was nothing to prove or even suggest that connection . . . too tired, too much wine.

  It happened, but she couldn’t remember when or how. She’d fallen asleep with the empty wine glass on her lap. When the annoying itch on the side of her face woke her, the room was dark. Several seconds passed before she could clear her head and remember why she was here and where she was supposed to be. No headache . . . that was a plus. She reached up and pulled the chain to turn on the pole lamp over her shoulder. The recliner next to hers was empty. A handwritten note was propped up by an empty wine glass on the coffee table.

  It read, “I’m gone. See you at the station. Don’t worry, I’ll catch your little rodent. Get some sleep or you’ll start doing stupid things. Oops sorry, too late. Your favorite lieutenant, MB.”

  “Smartass,” Josie said, to the empty recliner.

  The long nap had helped. Actually, she realized she’d slept most of the day. Her hands and face were a little tight from the healing cuts, but otherwise she felt pretty good. The red light was blinking on the phone. Marge must’ve turned down the ringer before she left. Josie hit the button and played back half a dozen messages. The last ones were from Jake and David. She called her husband and son, assured them she was fine. They told her Marge had notified them earlier that day, but she’d suggested they let Josie sleep.

  A long hot shower was the best medicine. When her hair was clean, she scratched her head. Even though it really didn’t itch anymore, she’d been thinking about doing that since the shooting last night. The cuts on her face were barely visible now, but she gently patted dry that side of her face and applied a cream the nurse had given her. She dressed in jogging pants and a baggy sweatshirt, letting her damp hair hang loose to dry. Food was the primary thing on her mind now. She wasn’t eating right and getting too skinny. Another helping of Mrs. Dennis’s cobbler would taste so good, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  She’d started downstairs when she heard the front door open and returned to the bedroom to retrieve her .45, but hadn’t reached the nightstand before she heard Jake calling out to her.

  “Don’t shoot me, I’m bringing food,” he shouted.

  She looked over the railing on the second landing. Her husband was carrying several large bags and had a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

  Her stomach growled as soon as she got within range of the garlic and sausage smells.

  “Don’t you ever eat anything but Italian?” Josie asked, taking one of the bags and searching through it as they went into the kitchen.

  “Not often, but I usually cook it myself. I figured if you slept all day you’d be starving, and welcome quantity and speed over quality.”

  She started emptying the bags while he pulled a couple of plates out of the cupboard.

  Jake placed two large squares of lasagna and a couple of sausages smothered in meat sauce on a plate and grated fresh parmesan cheese over the top. She sat at the breakfast table, ate quickly and drank Chianti out of a water glass. He took a smaller portion and nibbled at the pasta, sipped his wine and watched her devour her meal.

  Finally she sat back satisfied. “Thank you,” she said, topping off their glasses with the wonderful wine. “How did you know I hadn’t eaten?”

  “We’ve been married over twenty years. Eating is a very low priority until you’re famished. Then you eat everything in sight. That’s why we’ve never owned a pet,” he said, peering at her over his glass.

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’ve never eaten a puppy in my life.”

  “I’ll take your word for that. You look much better than I expected. I can hardly see the cuts.”

  “I was lucky I turned away fast enough. The doctor said those flying chips of glass could’ve done a lot of damage to my eyes, not to mention what the bullets could’ve done.”

  “Why were you out there by yourself?” he asked, and looked worried, maybe a little upset with her.

  “It was stupid . . . I wanted to talk to the girl’s mother again . . . and I accidentally found myself on her street.”

  “Why would somebody shoot at you? They couldn’t have known who you were . . . could they?”

  “I don’t know, Jake. Don’t worry; I’m not going back there.”

  “I do worry. I hate you being around that kind of stuff. When you got promoted I thought you’d be isolated from the guns and violence, but it never ends . . . disgusting animals doing disgusting things to one another.”

  “You’re making a living defending those disgusting animals,” she said, and then cringed a little. He was trying to be nice and she just dumped on him. “I’m sorry. I understand what you’re saying.”

  “I only practice contract law now. You were right. I couldn’t do it.”

  “What’d your new partner say?”

  “Nothing, he needs me a lot more than I need him.”

  Forgetting for a second how different they were, Josie asked, “Don’t you miss the excitement of the D.A.’s office?”

  “I don’t miss the misery and human suffering.” He exhaled and put his glass on the table. “I know you don’t understand. It’s even difficult for me to explain, but I can’t tolerate that life anymore . . . the institutional indifference, adapting to other people’s pain. I’m done with all that ugliness.”

  “That’s great, honey, but what planet do you intend to live on,” she said, me
aning to be a touch nasty this time.

  “I’m not naïve. I know evil exists, but I’m done wallowing in it or letting it consume me so I can make a living. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Do you see me as somebody who wallows in human suffering to make a living?”

  “Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

  “So, what you’re really saying is you can’t be around me anymore.”

  “I love you. I hate what you do and it’s making me crazy. I’m trying to work it out.”

  “I’m not gonna quit.”

  “I know.”

  Josie took one last bite of pasta, but could hardly swallow. She felt like crying but didn’t because she couldn’t decide if she was angry or sad. How does a cop avoid ugliness? Police work usually starts with ugly. Should she come home every night and pretend she arranged flowers all day? Crime and criminals were generally repulsive with few redeeming qualities. How was she supposed to sanitize that?

  “Guess you’ve got a problem,” she said, her defense mechanism kicking in.

  “Unless you’re ready to retire and let me support us.”

  “And what am I supposed to do, start knitting?”

  “Anything you want that doesn’t involve killing and maiming,” he said, getting a little more animated. He must’ve thought she was actually considering his offer.

  She filled her glass about a third of the way and offered him more wine. He shook his head.

  “I love you Jake and want you back in my life, but I’ll retire when I’m ready or when I can’t do it any longer. Since neither of those conditions exists at the moment, are you telling me our marriage is screwed?”

  He got up and cleared the table. She drank and watched him. When he was finished, Jake leaned over the table and kissed her. It was warm and nice, but a long way from passionate.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing,” he said, and then he left.

  Josie sat at the table until the wine bottle was empty. What he wanted wasn’t fair. Do it my way or not at all. She believed he was being selfish and stubborn. So, why did she feel so miserable? Her mind said “fuck you,” but her heart was broken. It hurt to think of any future without Jake, but the idea that at this stage of his life he would suddenly develop a life-changing aversion to violence almost made her laugh. He’d been a fierce, sometimes ruthless prosecutor. Maybe David was right—male menopause.