Fallen Angels (15 page)

Because both Hillary and her agent were killed in a similar manner, Josie figured it was a good guess both murders were somehow connected to the movie industry. They worked, partied and were killed in Hollywood. She worried about how many of her officers might be moonlighting, and asked Behan to check work permits for everyone who was assigned to Hollywood division. Without a department work permit, Lieutenant Owens probably used a fictitious business name, so Behan would have to look for any company that employed a lot of LAPD officers.

Within two hours, Behan had an answer. He drove downtown and personally checked the work permits. He called Josie and told her there were a couple dozen Hollywood officers who had work permits for a company name that Behan recognized.

“Carlton Buck’s a retired bunco forgery detective who started a P.I. business as soon as he signed his papers. He hires mostly police retirees for mall security, but he’s branched out and offers armed bodyguards to rich sheiks, movie stars and a lot of rappers.”

“You need to talk to him before you interview Lieutenant Owens,” Josie said.

Behan grunted. “Good idea, he’s got nothing to fear from the department. As long as we don’t threaten to pull the plug on his P.I. ticket, he’ll give up Owens like a bad habit.”

Josie said she’d talk to him later but got silence on the line.

“There’s something else, boss,” Behan said finally. His tone was concerned and hesitant.

She mentally braced herself for more bad news.

“Donnie Fricke and Frank Butler are two of Buck’s regular employees.”

It wasn’t good, but it could’ve been worse. “Aren’t most of his guys young cops? They’re the ones who usually work off-duty.”

“Looks like it, but you gotta remember there’s gonna be a few who don’t bother with work permits.”

“Talk to Buck. We need to know more before we start thinking evil thoughts,” she said and hung up.

Josie was sitting at her desk and tossed her pen onto a pile of folders. She hated cops working off-duty. They made good salaries and didn’t need to work other jobs. Their quest for the new boat, RV or jet ski that was bigger and better than the next guy’s toys was their primary motivation. Young men and women, some without a college education, making more money than they’d ever had in their lives were tempted to live way beyond their means, and they quickly figured out they were a rare sought-after commodity in this dangerous world. They came equipped with the right to carry a deadly weapon. It was a formula for careerending disaster.

By late afternoon, the station was relatively quiet. Most detectives had gone home or across the street to Nora’s restaurant for Behan’s post-Vegas celebration. The admin staff had all checked out. Josie sent her adjutant home and was trying to decide if she wanted to make an appearance at Nora’s. Behan’s marriages were almost becoming an annual event. She could always catch the next one, but knew he’d be hurt and disappointed if she didn’t meet his current wife.

“You’re not dressed.”

The voice startled Josie. She looked up at Marge Bailey peeking around the doorway.

“I’m thinking. It’s my job to do a lot of serious thinking. Dressed for what?”

Marge wore her usual jeans, tank top and leather jacket. Her blond hair was in a long French braid.

“We’re going to Red’s wedding party. I wanna meet the blushing bride,” Marge said, grinning.

“Are you and Behan playing nice together now?” Josie asked. She got up and closed the office door. At least, she could get out of her uniform and get ready to go someplace.

“We’re buds. He wants my people to stay on Mouse until he’s ready to pick her up again.”

“She still with Cory Goldman?”

“Nope, he split about an hour ago, but Red told me not to fuck with him and stick with Mouse. He can always find that asshole easy enough.”

Josie laughed. She could never reconcile Marge’s beautiful face and graceful figure with the language that came out of her mouth.

“Why’s that funny?”

“It’s not,” Josie said. “You are. You look like Princess Di and sound like Al Capone.”

“My first husband was a boxer. I was young, sweet and impressionable.” She grimaced and under her breath said, “But when he cheated, I kicked his ass.”

Josie finished changing her clothes and already knew the rest of that story, so she agreed to go to Nora’s. When they arrived, the bar area was packed with detectives and off-duty cops. A few officers in uniform had stopped by and were drinking cokes with their police radios turned on to listen for hot calls. As soon as they spotted Josie, they quickly finished their drinks and made a hasty exit.

The redheaded newlywed was standing at the bar surrounded by coworkers, but Josie didn’t see any unfamiliar face who might’ve been his new wife. She worked her way closer until Behan noticed her. He hugged Josie and Marge and thanked them for coming.

“Where’s the little woman?” Marge asked, gulping a beer one of the detectives had passed to her.

“She went someplace quiet to make a phone call. She’ll be back,” Behan said. He got a glass of red wine for Josie and whispered in her ear, “Thanks, I know how much you hate these things.”

A few minutes later, the current Mrs. Behan returned to the bar. Behan had told Josie his wife was over sixty, but it was difficult to believe. The woman was stunning. Her short hair was champagne blond. She had grey eyes and a clear complexion—without wrinkles or age spots. Her figure was terrific, and she wore a silky cream pantsuit that looked elegant and expensive. She was talkative and funny and obviously doted on Behan.

Marge pulled Josie aside. “I hate this damn woman. Nobody should look that fucking good when they’re old. It’s unnatural.”

“Lots of money and good surgeons, the secret to a long and gorgeous life,” Josie said, and turned away from the bar just as Chief Bright entered the restaurant. Josie was shocked. The deputy chief never came to any of Hollywood’s celebrations, but her surprise didn’t last long. Without a glance, he walked past the bar and into the dining area, never bothering to acknowledge any of the Hollywood officers. It was just a scheduling coincidence. A few seconds later, Councilman Goldman entered with Peter Lange and Vince Milano a step or two behind him. A waitress escorted all of them back toward the restaurant.

Voices surrounding Josie became background noise as she stared at the front door wondering who might appear next. Eventually, she maneuvered around the sea of bodies in front of the bar and worked her way back to the foyer where she had a decent view of the dining room. This is damn curious, she thought. The high-powered group sat at a table in the back of the dimly lit room and were laughing and talking like old friends. The restaurant was more upscale than the bar with a better class of clientele, mostly business types in pricey clothes with expense accounts to match. The meeting appeared to be more social than business. Josie was tempted to walk over and say hello, mostly to see their reaction, but decided against it.

“Now there’s a what-the-fuck’s-that-all-about moment,” Marge said, standing behind Josie. “Milano’s dirty little paws touch everybody, don’t they?”

“Might be nothing,” Josie said. “He donates a lot of money to buy stuff for the department.”

“Bullshit,” Marge said, sarcastically.

Josie took a step back when Lange glanced in their direction. She didn’t wait around to see if he noticed her. Instead she pushed Marge back toward the bar.

“I need a drink,” Josie said. Once they were back in the crowded bar, she stopped and asked Marge, “I’m not saying I think there’s anything going on, but how much info do you have on Milano’s businesses?”

“What’d you need?”

“Don’t know . . . everything I guess. I want you to take a good look at him and Peter Lange.”

“What am I looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Very helpful,” Marge said, taking a handful of peanuts from the closest table.

The current Mrs. Behan squeezed through a narrow opening in the wall of detectives and stood between Josie and Marge.

“I wanted to thank you personally for taking time to come, Captain Corsino,” Vicky Behan said, touching Josie’s arm and getting close enough to be heard.

“My pleasure,” Josie said, watching Marge fade into the crowd. “It’s good to see Red happy again.”

“He’s crazy about you. I think you’re the only reason he’s still sane after all he’s been through,” Vicky said, with a wry smile. Her teeth were perfect and very white, her voice melodious and soothing—somebody’s gorgeous grandma.

Josie wasn’t certain how to respond. She didn’t know what Behan had been through except his drinking bouts, and she had no idea how to fix that. She made small talk for a while, then excused herself to get another glass of wine. The new Mrs. Behan was a nice lady and Josie liked her, but knew Red Behan had left a trail strewn with nice women who thought they could either live with him or change him. It was just a matter of time, she figured, before number five discovered he wasn’t worth the effort.

The crowd was getting noisier and more raucous. She knew it was time for her exit, since the party only got going once the captain left. A commanding officer’s presence inhibited most officers, so she’d slip out and let them have their fun without worrying about how she might judge their behavior. Years of experience had taught her self-preservation would keep them from doing anything really stupid.

Outside, the cold fresh air was a welcome change. The streets of Hollywood were never empty or quiet and tonight was no exception. There were fewer tourists on this east side of Sunset, but the bars and restaurants were busy with locals. Most of the more colorful characters were up on Hollywood Boulevard, but Josie spotted familiar street denizens. She was waiting for traffic to clear before crossing the boulevard when she heard someone call her name. She turned and saw Peter Lange coming out of Nora’s.

“Captain Corsino, why don’t you join us?” he asked when he was within a few yards.

“Actually, I’m pretty tired,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I was on my way home, but thanks.”

“Too bad; we’re trying to design that campaign to educate kids about the dangers of drinking and drugs. We could use your input.”

“Looks to me like you’ve got considerable assistance already,” she said, not believing a word he said. “What’ve you decided so far?”

“Ah, not much,” he said, looking slightly perplexed. His confusion confirmed her suspicion that whatever they were discussing had nothing to do with educating kids.

“If we can’t pick your brain, can I at least buy you a nightcap?”

“Thanks, but like I said I’m really tired. Maybe another time,” she said and crossed the street, leaving him on the curb. When she reached the other side, she glanced back; he shrugged and waved lazily before returning to the restaurant. Peter Lange was a handsome, intelligent, sometimes charming man, and Josie had to admit she was tempted, but she kept imagining this big bright neon sign over his head, flashing “really stupid idea.”

T
HE
MIA’s were minimal the morning after Behan’s post-nuptial celebration. Most detectives were on automatic pilot for getting to the office at seven a.m., but their first item of business was always a big breakfast with lots of black coffee or whatever the concoction was that opened their eyes. By the time Josie arrived, they were at their desks working. She smiled at Behan as she passed the squad room door. He grinned and smugly pointed at his wedding band.

Wow, two whole days and you’re still married, she thought, and shook her head believing on occasion her favorite detective was a certifiable dork.

She had about half an hour before Susan Fletcher’s appointment, enough time to sit with her adjutant and go over the day’s schedule, including an hour meeting with Ibarra and her watch commanders to discuss crime trends. She considered not inviting Ibarra because he usually didn’t contribute much, but she needed to keep him busy and out of Behan’s hair.

Josie had just finished her first mug of coffee when she heard Councilwoman Fletcher’s booming laugh in the lobby. She opened the lobby door to the admin office and Fletcher charged through like a bull elephant and went directly into Josie’s office.

The councilwoman was accompanied by the same young man with the clipboard who’d been with her at Murray’s. He leaned against the wall as his boss sank into Josie’s couch. It would be a miracle, Josie thought, if that woman managed to get up again. Josie tried to convince the young man to sit, but he refused, and Fletcher behaved as if he wasn’t there.

Josie dragged a chair over to the couch and sat on the other side of a small wooden coffee table that cost her twenty dollars at a yard sale. It was solid mahogany and looked pretty good after she’d sanded the scratches out and refinished it. She waited while Fletcher searched through her briefcase and produced a small electronic notebook.

“I thought my position was clear on needle exchange. I’ll never agree to close that center,” Fletcher said, not looking up from the notebook.

A recitation by Josie of all the violations her officers had logged and her personal observations of drug use and indiscriminate distribution of too many syringes didn’t sway Fletcher.