Fallen Angels

by Connie Dial

  An empty bottle of sleeping pills was on the nightstand, usually a woman’s preferred method of suicide, but it fit in this case because Josie couldn’t imagine the timid young man shooting himself or doing anything that might ruin his body art.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?” Ibarra asked again.

  She looked at him and for the first time since entering the room realized how pale, almost grayish he was. His dark eyes were sunken in even darker circles.

  “Are you sick?” she asked.

  “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “Wilshire not all you expected,” she said.

  “Actually, I haven’t started yet. It’s nothing. I’m just tired,” he said and turned away from her. This quiet, introspective man wasn’t the Ibarra she knew. He appeared lost in his thoughts and wandered a few feet from the bed before patting Behan on the back on his way out of the room. Behan turned to her and shrugged. He’d noticed it too.

  The bedroom was similar to the living room with more gloomy landscapes decorating the walls, but no pictures of his father were hung in this space. There was a piano keyboard in the corner next to the bathroom door, with sheet music and composition books piled on the floor and on the windowsill. The guy wrote music too, Josie thought, picking up a half-finished page of scribbled musical notes lying on the keys.

  Behan tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped at the sudden interruption. Her thoughts were consumed with not only the wasted opportunities in this young man’s life, but also maybe a little apprehension about the condition of her talented son’s state of mind.

  “Sorry,” Behan said. “You daydreaming?”

  “Just thinking how sad this is.”

  “It’s about to get worse. The bureau sent me a text the councilman’s on his way.”

  “Probably better if he sees his kid here than in the morgue,” Josie said. The gut-wrenching smells, cold, and isolation of a steel slab in the morgue made the unimaginable even more appalling.

  “Okay, but I’m gonna tell them to wrap up the body and have it ready to go as soon as his father’s done.”

  “Fine, just let the man have some time with his kid,” Josie said. Her tone was testy because she hated when dead people got treated like sides of beef. She knew technically that’s what they were, but she’d been brought up Catholic and couldn’t help herself. She still believed people had a soul even when their blood stopped circulating and they began smelling like last week’s garbage.

  The medical examiner and his assistant had the body on a gurney in a few minutes, but left the boy’s face uncovered for his father.

  “Did your guys find a note?” Josie asked, while she and Behan stood by the bed watching the assistant carefully remove the pillowcase and put it in a manila evidence envelope for his detectives.

  “My guys said Ibarra searched everywhere but couldn’t find one.”

  “It’s not usually hidden, is it? Where was he looking?”

  Behan shook his head. “Everywhere . . . closets, drawers, books, but I’m told he stopped before we got here.” He glanced around the room before adding, “Actually, I don’t know what he was looking for, but it sure as shit wasn’t any suicide note.”

  “I’m guessing with such a short time to look he didn’t find it, so maybe your guys should do a more thorough search. There’s lots of places to hide stuff in here.”

  She knew they weren’t going to recover any suicide note, but she suspected Behan, like her, hoped Mouse had stashed Hillary’s diary when she stayed here and that might’ve been the real reason for Ibarra’s search.

  “They’re going through the living room now. I told them to target anything that’s handwritten . . . anything.” Behan’s voice trailed off and he was staring past her. She turned around as Goldman entered the room with Bright and Art Perry a few steps behind him.

  Goldman hurried to the gurney, put both hands on the side railings, and hovered over the remains of his dead son. He touched the boy’s face, kissed his shaved head, and cried uncontrollably before unleashing a heartbreaking wail that filled the room like an ambulance siren. Nobody moved immediately to comfort him. Finally, Bright put his arm around the man’s shoulder and gently steered him away from the gurney. The medical examiner finished covering the body and rolled it out of the room and into the hallway. Goldman tried to follow, but Bright stopped him, whispering something in his ear that caused the councilman to stop crying. He visibly struggled to contain his emotion and managed to recover his composure.

  Josie and Behan stood quietly in the corner near the piano keyboard. She didn’t want to be there and would’ve paid a fortune to be invisible at that particular moment. As soon as Cory’s body was out of sight, Goldman turned his grieving and rancor in her direction.

  “You murdered my son,” he said in a throaty whisper just inches from her face. He was disheveled and his eyes were red and swollen, his long grey hair sticky from perspiration.

  Behan stepped between them, but Josie gently nudged her detective aside and stood close enough to Goldman to smell the stale odor of alcohol on his breath.

  “You’re wrong, sir. I’m sorry for your loss, but I think we both know that,” she said, not retreating when he attempted to move toward her. She felt sorry for him, but he wasn’t going to intimidate her. He was distraught, but a lot of what had gone wrong with Cory was his responsibility, not hers.

  “You harassed him, forced him to do this,” Goldman whined, stepping back a little and finally looking to Bright for support. “You shouldn’t be allowed to keep this job. I promise in my son’s memory to do everything I can to fire you and make certain you never have an opportunity to do this to another father,” he shouted, spewing spit and pointing his finger at her. His face was flushed and wet with perspiration and his hands were shaking. He marched out of the bedroom with Bright following, trying to calm him.

  Now that the worst possible scenario was over, Josie still felt bad but started breathing normally again. Behan gave her a consoling look as she wiped her damp palms on her uniform pants. She realized she wasn’t angry at the man’s words, but felt sorry for him because Goldman was wrong. He couldn’t blame her for his son’s death. She was only a bystander watching an out-of-control train speeding full throttle toward disaster. There were only two people who could’ve kept that young man on track—himself and his father.

  Bright returned to the bedroom a short time later without Goldman. He didn’t speak to Josie or Behan, but walked around as if he were trying to compose himself or gather the courage to say something. He stood in front of one of the paintings depicting the remains of a dreary stone farmhouse surrounded by weeds and junk cars, a depressing scene.

  “I’m certain Eli didn’t mean all that,” he said, staring at the picture. “He knew his son was troubled.” He picked up a few books, replaced them on the window ledge and moved closer to Josie. “You know you bring this negative scrutiny on yourself,” he said expressionless and waited for Josie to respond. She didn’t so he raised his voice and continued, “If you’d done what I told you and kept his father in the interview room no one could’ve criticized you.”

  “Sorry sir, but that’s the way Cory preferred do it,” Josie said, interrupting Behan before he could speak. She didn’t want her detective saying anything that might make the situation worse than it already was.

  Bright snickered and shook his head. “I’m certain that’s what the two of you made the boy believe. I might not have your street savvy, but I’m not stupid either.” He held up his hand when Josie began to protest. “Don’t,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done, and I suspect no one’s really going to make an issue of it when calmer heads prevail.” The deputy chief was as poised as Josie had ever seen him. He seemed resigned to accept whatever might happen. “Was this boy’s death in any way connected to the Dennis homicide?” he asked as he examined the sheet music on the keyboard.

  “We don’t know, but my guess is it probably was,”
Behan said, exchanging a quick look with Josie that seemed to say, where is this going?

  Art Perry came back into the bedroom and Bright quickly dispatched him to their parked vehicle to wait for him. The arrogant sergeant’s dour expression signaled his displeasure at being dismissed.

  “I have some concerns,” Bright said, as soon as Perry was out of sight. He sat on the piano bench and seemed hesitant to speak at first, folding, then unfolding his hands on his lap. “This is difficult, especially now, but I have to caution you not to reject the possibility Eli Goldman had a relationship with that Dennis girl.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Behan asked, impatiently.

  “I was privy to a conversation between Vince Milano and Eli. It’s possible Eli did meet with that girl . . . on several occasions.”

  Bright stood and said, “I wanted to share that information with you in case you still had some questions about his involvement.” He looked from Josie to Behan; neither of them spoke. “Apparently, my concern was justified, so now you know and I have nothing more to say on the matter, so don’t ask.” He walked out to the living room lingering only briefly to examine a few more of Cory’s pictures before leaving.

  All of them, including Bright, knew Eli Goldman’s admission of a relationship with Hillary Dennis was incriminating. But even more revealing to Josie was the fact that Bright had failed to disclose his awareness of the relationship until this moment, and that he actually thought he could make his revelation and step away without any repercussions.

  EIGHTEEN

  By the time Behan drove Josie back to Hollywood station, it was early evening and the busiest time of the day for police work. The darkness drew urban demons from their hiding places. Drug dealers, prostitutes, and other denizens of the night congregated and prospered in the shadows. Quiet neighborhoods morphed into deadly family disputes or gang-related drive-by shootings.

  Intending to avoid getting caught up in all that again, Josie promised herself she’d drive home without setting foot inside the station. The City of Los Angeles had squeezed more than its money’s worth out of her today and she didn’t think she had the energy or desire to contend with another department calamity until tomorrow. At home, the inevitable confrontation with David was looming, but not tonight if she could avoid it. A light dinner, bath and bed were all she could manage.

  The urgent message on her Blackberry was from the assistant watch commander. She sat in her car with the engine running, deciding whether to drive out of the station parking lot and call him from the freeway, or do the right thing—what she was expected to do—and confront the latest crisis.

  “I have no life,” she mumbled, turning off the ignition and getting out of the car. She’d been a captain for six years, and since the day she’d pinned those damn silver bars on her uniform collar she’d seen the last of planning or organizing her time.

  The assistant watch commander was in Levi’s and a sweatshirt standing at the soda machine by the back door waiting for her. He looked eager to get out of the building, and apparently, the only thing he had left to do before his shift ended was locate her.

  “Captain, Lieutenant Bailey’s been looking for you,” he said, picking up his workout bag as soon as he saw her. “She told me not to go home until I found you.” The frustration in the sergeant’s voice didn’t surprise Josie. He was generally unflappable, but she knew Marge Bailey was capable of making the Pope edgy. “Lieutenant says you’re supposed to ride with her tonight.”

  Josie closed her eyes. “Shit, I forgot. Where is she?”

  “Upstairs, waiting. Did you need me for anything else?” he asked, making no secret of the fact he wanted to get out of there and as far away from Marge as he could.

  “Go,” she said, waving him away.

  Cory’s death and the confrontation with his father and Bright had pushed Fricke’s meeting with his informant completely out of her head. She trudged up the stairs to the vice office where Marge was waiting with Fricke and Behan.

  “So, you’re in on this too,” Josie said to Behan.

  “Nope, but I did warn her you’d figure it out and be very unhappy.”

  Josie didn’t say anything to Fricke, and he sat quietly, looking as if he’d just finished altar boy practice. He was smart enough not to get in the middle of an argument when his opinion couldn’t affect the outcome.

  “I don’t know how the hell you people figured you could get away with this. You think Harry Walsh wouldn’t notice all those hype arrests coming in without Fricke’s name anywhere on the reports?”

  “I warned him to slow down,” Marge said, innocently, interrupting Josie’s tirade, then added quickly, “Boss, you wanted Mouse. Donnie found her, so let’s go snatch the little fucker before she’s in the wind again.”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Behan said, shrugging. “She’s your monster; you created her.”

  “I’ll take credit for a lot of things, but not those two,” Josie said, pointing at Fricke and Marge, “They’re completely self-made.”

  When Josie calmed down and gave him permission to speak, Fricke recounted how he had arrested a hype that knew Mouse and was willing to show him where she stayed to keep out of jail.

  “The snitch is scared shitless Mouse is gonna find out she talked to us,” Fricke said. “So she’ll take us there, point out the pad and split.”

  “Fine,” Josie said, and asked, “Where’s your partner?” She finally realized Fricke was without his shadow.

  “Frankie, he don’t wanna break curfew,” Fricke said. “You told him to stay home and he ain’t interested in my crazy ideas.”

  “He knew you’d do it anyway,” Josie said. Frank Butler had done the right thing, but Josie figured he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d let his partner risk something like this alone.

  “Couldn’t say,” Fricke said, looking at Marge.

  “Who gives a fuck,” Marge said.

  Josie did. It always bothered her when people acted out of character. Butler was more cautious than Fricke, but she was certain Marge had kept him away to protect him from possible fallout.

  They loaded up in Marge’s car since it looked the least like a police vehicle. Fricke met with the snitch at Hollywood and Vine at the bottom steps of the Metro station and escorted her back to the car.

  Corky appeared to be in her forties, but an addict’s lifestyle always made it difficult to estimate age. Her complexion was scarred by acne or lesions caused by injecting methamphetamine or some other stimulant. She wore dark glasses, a baseball cap and baggie sweater, but Josie could see both arms were covered by needle tracks and meth sores. As soon as Corky was in the backseat, the distinct odor of sweat and dirty clothes contaminated the air so badly Josie had to open the window.

  At Corky’s direction, Marge drove within a block of a rundown duplex on La Mirada just south of Fountain Avenue. The area was populated by poor, mostly illegal, immigrants and the MS street gang. Freshly painted patches of several different colors covered gang graffiti and recent tagging on fences and the walls of most houses. Property owners were fighting a losing battle to regain control of their neighborhood. Corky, Behan and Fricke walked to the rear of the back bungalow and out of Josie’s sight. When they returned to the car, Behan told them Corky had pointed out a small shed behind the rear house. The informant stood behind Marge’s car while they talked, nervously shuffling her feet and scratching at her arms. Finally, she tugged at Fricke’s sleeve and begged him to let her go before Mouse or anyone else saw her with the police.

  Fricke put a folded twenty-dollar bill in her sweater pocket and said, “Don’t let me catch you buying your shit in Hollywood.”

  Corky clutched her sweater and hurried away, cutting through the side yard of one of the houses to put as much distance as fast as she could between herself and the police car.

  “Does it look like Mouse’s in there?” Josie asked.

  “She’s a junkie. If she copped tonight like Corky says and sho
t up, she’s there,” Fricke said, starting to walk back toward the shed.

  “Hey,” Josie said and he stopped. “Get back here and stay behind us. You make sure he does,” she said, pointing at Marge. “Let’s at least try not to get all of us fired.”

  Josie took the lead with Behan. It was a familiar scenario. They’d worked well together as detectives and she always felt comfortable with him. When they got closer, he signaled he was going around to the back. There was a small window on the side of the shed where Josie could see an electrical cord had been pulled through a tear in the screen. The other end of the cord was extended into a window of the main house. The screen and window were filthy, but she could make out most of the interior of the shed. A small blond woman who appeared to be Mouse was lying on a camping cot facing away from the window, with her hype kit on a makeshift table constructed from an old crate and a piece of plywood. The electrical cord was plugged into a mechanic’s lamp hanging on the wall. The lamp was the only source of illumination in the shed, but it was enough light for what they had to do. The space was tight, maybe ten square feet, with junk cluttering the floor and stacked against the corrugated walls.

  Josie tiptoed to the front door and Marge moved to the other side with Fricke hovering over her shoulder. Behan jogged back around to the front and mouthed the words, “No exit.” She motioned for him to come closer and indicated she would try the door. If it didn’t open, he should kick it in. There was a lock, but it was flimsy and she doubted it could be secured from the inside. She pushed down on the handle, and it opened. Josie stepped inside, drew her gun and shouted, “Police, keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The doorway was narrow, but Behan was in right behind her. Mouse sat up with a drowsy groan and slowly raised her hands, barely able to keep them steady above her shoulders. Her eyelids were droopy and she seemed well under the influence of her favorite opiate. She glanced over at her kit; the bloody needle and a bent spoon containing a tiny piece of damp cotton had been left next to the still-smoldering remains of a candle. The leather strap she’d used to tie off the vein in her arm lay on her lap.