Fallen Angels (21 page)

“What’d Bright do?” Josie asked, laughing.

“Well, he comes out of his briefing and the truck’s gone. He looks up and down Pico Boulevard and then at the West L.A. captain and the bomb squad supervisor who both shrug because they were inside the store with him. He comes unglued and demands they find the truck, but everybody’s gone; barricades are down; traffic’s flowing. Twenty minutes later a sergeant comes back and explains that the truck driver got sleepy and took a snooze. When he woke up he didn’t realize what was happening and just drove off. It was a bakery truck, so he passes out fresh cinnamon buns and Starbucks coffee for the cops who stopped him and everybody parts friends. ‘Not So’ is furious, and he wants the fucking driver arrested.”

“For what?” Josie asked.

“That’s what the sergeant asks, and Bright says . . .” Marge stopped to compose herself then continued, “bribery . . . the sergeant had to explain that giving away cinnamon buns and coffee wasn’t a criminal offense.”

“You’re making this up.”

“Swear to God,” Marge said, raising her right hand.

“The man’s hopeless,” Josie said and realized she felt better. Marge had a way of balancing Josie’s world by reminding her that as complicated and unruly as her life might get, at least she wasn’t Eric Bright.

ELEVEN

T
he meeting with Eli Goldman was scheduled for seven
P.M.
, but he arrived five minutes early without an attorney. Josie and Behan had decided the best place to interview the councilman was in her office. Earlier that day, she salvaged a small round conference table from the basement and it fit nicely in the corner of her room. Behan could record the interview and have plenty of space for his computer and papers. There was ample sitting room for Goldman and his lawyer because Josie couldn’t imagine he’d show up without representation. She took his solo appearance as either the absence of a guilty conscience or arrogance.

Goldman was dressed casually in a faded blue polo shirt and jeans. His complexion was still pasty white, but his long grey hair was combed and pulled back behind his ears. He looked refreshed, almost too relaxed, as if he’d gone home, taken a leisurely shower and had dinner. He immediately seized one of the bottles of water she’d set on the table and sipped while he chatted with her. She made small talk, avoiding any of the subjects Behan wanted to cover. As soon as Behan was ready, Goldman positioned his chair for some leg room, and leaned back a little.

“How can I help you, detective?” Goldman asked, grinning at Behan with a hint of smugness.

“What was your relationship with Hillary Dennis?” Behan asked.

Goldman squinted slightly as if his head hurt and said, “As I’ve mentioned before, I knew she was seeing my son and I disapproved.”

“Did you ever have a sexual relationship with Miss Dennis?” Behan asked, almost before Goldman stopped talking.

No sense beating around the bush, Josie thought.

Goldman took a deep breath and pretended to cough. “Why would you ask such a thing, Detective Behan?”

“I have information you were seen going into her apartment late at night, and did in fact have a sexual relationship with her that ended badly.”

The councilman sat up straight and put both hands on the table.

“Your information is completely wrong. I did warn her about my son. I forbid her to see him or buy him drugs, but that happened one time at Cory’s apartment. My son was there. He can tell you.”

“Do you deny following her, harassing her, and threatening to harm her?”

“Yes, I most certainly do. I’d like to know who would say such things,” Goldman’s face was flushed, but his voice remained calm, subdued. “She was a child . . . a very disturbed child . . . you can’t actually believe . . .”

Behan continued the same line of questioning. He asked about times and places, made Goldman explain what he was doing on the day Bruno claimed he had gone to Hillary’s apartment. When asked about the night Hillary was killed, Goldman said he was at an event in Hollywood, and he provided a list of people who saw him there. He denied knowing or even having met Bruno Faldi, and swore he’d never been in Hillary’s apartment or been alone with the young woman.

When the interview was over, Josie had doubts. Either the councilman was a much better actor than Hillary, or Bruno had deliberately misled them. Goldman had almost convinced her that he’d never had any sort of relationship with Hillary Dennis, and in fact, hardly knew the woman. He appeared to be a concerned father who was totally baffled by any accusation that he could or would treat Hillary as anything other than a confused child who was harming his son.

Josie listened to Behan go through a series of inquiries. He skillfully asked the same question a number of ways attempting to confuse the man, but Goldman stuck to his story. He was candid about his broken marriage and his son’s problems, but steadfastly denied any improper relationship or contact with Hillary. Josie was impressed by the way Behan kept his professional demeanor. If he was intimidated by Goldman’s position and power, he didn’t show it.

Finally, Behan stopped, turned off his recorder and thanked the councilman. He gave no indication that he believed or doubted Goldman’s statement. Goldman’s outward appearance hadn’t changed much either. His jaw muscles seemed to relax, but he showed little other emotion. He stood and coolly talked for a few seconds with Josie about Hollywood business before shaking hands with both of them and leaving.

When they were alone, Josie and Behan sat without speaking. The detective sorted through his notes and eventually looked up at her.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

“You believe him?”

“I think I might. You?” These days, Josie trusted Behan’s detective instincts more than her own.

“Don’t know. He’s a hard read.”

“He’s a politician. They manipulate the truth for a living.”

“Then why do you believe him?”

“Gut feeling, and I don’t trust Bruno. I got nothing but bad vibes from Bruno Faldi.”

Behan sighed and slumped onto the table resting his head on his arm. “Not good enough.” He sat up again. “I’m gonna talk to Lieutenant Owens tonight. Can you stay?”

She looked at her watch. It was almost time for the graveyard shift’s roll call. Owens should be in the locker room changing his clothes, but Josie was aching to go home. She was dead tired and becoming increasingly worried that no significant progress was being made in the investigation.

“Sure you wouldn’t rather do this tomorrow when we’re both fresh?” she asked.

“We’re here. He’s here. Let’s get it over with. I got a search warrant for his car and house if we need it.”

Now he had her attention. “When did you get that? Better yet, how did you get it?” From what she remembered, there wasn’t anywhere near enough probable cause to search anything belonging to Owens.

“I combined the statements by Mouse, Buck and Bruno Faldi to show that Owens had a list of officers’ names that might’ve had reason to harm Hillary Dennis.”

“Really, and what reason was that?” she asked. Josie hadn’t written a search warrant for a number of years, and couldn’t figure out how Behan had managed to tie Owens’ list to those statements.

“The short ’n’ sweet version . . . according to my informants . . . officers on Owens’ list worked off-duty with Hillary and might’ve even enabled her drug habits, and she might’ve threatened to expose one or more of them.”

“You actually found a judge who was willing to sign that fairy tale?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Behan said.

She shook her head. “I’ll stay.”

L
IEUTENANT OWENS
apparently hadn’t heard the captain was still in the station. He conducted a ten-minute roll call, didn’t give the department’s mandated training, didn’t do the weekly uniform inspection, and spent just enough time in the roll call room to count heads and assign cars. Josie had intended to go upstairs and talk to his officers because the graveyard shift rarely had an opportunity to voice their concerns to her directly, but before she could get there, they were on their way down. She noticed a couple of them were still buttoning their uniforms and securing gun belts as they picked up shotguns and radios in the kit room. Most of the officers who worked these bizarre hours liked the challenge of digging for crime on deserted city streets, but a few of the lazier ones had come to morning watch to escape L.A.’s crazy traffic, the busy radio calls, rigid rules, and hard-charging supervisors. The slower pace and lack of structure suited them fine, and Lieutenant Owens’ laid-back, hands-off style most likely completed their dream-come-true work environment.

Behan went upstairs and escorted Owens back to Josie’s office. She and Behan were hoping the lieutenant wouldn’t try to hide the list until he knew he was about to be interviewed. Behan was an experienced detective and knew human behavior was surprisingly predictable. He figured Owens was arrogant enough to think he could outsmart them, and he’d wait until it was absolutely necessary before he concealed the list. Behan was also counting on the fact that the watch commander had been around long enough to believe detectives didn’t stay up and interview anyone in the middle of the night.

“He wanted to stop at his locker before he came down,” Behan whispered to Josie, stopping her just outside the office door as Owens sat at her conference table.

Owens didn’t say anything but seemed angry. He rarely smiled, but this was different. He glared at Josie, and she almost laughed. Did this guy actually think he could intimidate her? Admittedly, there were things that frightened her, but flabby, middle-aged cops with badly styled hair and manicured nails weren’t among them. His thin-lipped sneer did however tell her this wasn’t going to be easy.

The interview started with Behan giving the administrative and Miranda admonishments. Owens immediately requested representation.

“Call somebody,” Josie said.

“Now—it’s the middle of the night. Can’t we put this off until a decent hour?” Owens complained.

“No,” she said. “If you want a rep, call somebody.”

“Can I go up to my locker and get my phone book?”

“Detective Behan can get it for you. Give him the combination.”

“Never mind, go ahead and ask your questions. I don’t need anybody.”

Behan started with a series of harmless inquiries before getting to the heart of his interview. Most of the answers should’ve been simple and straightforward but Owens was painfully slow in responding, a word miser weighing every syllable before he spoke. Finally, Behan asked him about the work permit, which at first Owen claimed he had and then admitted he might not. He denied having a list of officers that worked for him until Behan produced the search warrant.

“You’d best tell me how you operate this business,” Behan said. “Right now all you’re facing is working without a permit and that might cost you a couple a days’ suspension. False and misleading statements are a firing offense.”

Owens’s gruff expression softened slightly as if a light had gone on in his lazy brain. He straightened up, rubbed his diminishing chin and leaned his elbows on the table.

“I’m helping guys get some extra spending money, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong in that, is there?”