Authors: Connie Dial
“The question is how I kin assist you, Miss Corsini,” Demarco said with an affected lisp and lifted his chin, attempting an air of importance.
“It’s Captain Corsino, asshole,” Behan said, calmly. “The question is what the fuck do you want?”
Demarco’s little body seemed to get smaller.
“You’re the ones been looking for me,” he whined.
“Why would I be looking for you?” Josie asked. She and Behan worked well together. He pissed people off enough to make them want to talk to her just to spite him.
Demarco turned his shoulder away from Behan. “I’m the Little Joe,” he said to Josie, emphasizing “the” as if it were a badge of honor.
“So?” she asked, shrugging. He was too smug. She was going to make him work for this.
Demarco laughed without smiling. “We gonna play games, lady. I know you been asking after me.”
“And I know they just arrested you for selling heroin, and this is your third, goodbye-forever strike,” Josie countered.
“No way, that ain’t my shit. Can’t make no case stick on me.”
“Good luck in court,” Josie said. She stood and walked slowly toward the door.
“Wait, I ain’t saying we can’t talk,” Demarco said, wiggling his body to the edge of the chair and waving his free hand.
Josie sat again. “What’ve you got that’s good enough to keep you out of jail for the next few decades?”
“I got plenty to tell, but I want that immunity shit and no jail time.”
“So far you haven’t said enough to get a cigarette and a cup of coffee,” Behan said.
Demarco’s eyes narrowed. “I gotta talk to you alone,” he whispered to Josie.
“No,” she said.
He lowered his head for a few seconds and stared at the floor. “Maybe I need a lawyer to protect my rights then,” he mumbled without looking up.
“No,” Josie said. “You talk to us now or there’s no deal. You can have a lawyer when we get around to discussing the heroin.”
Demarco sighed and scratched under his hat with one long purple nail. “Damn, you are one tough bi . . .”
“Watch it,” Behan said interrupting.
“You wanna know about Hilly, right?”
“Everything,” Josie said.
“Mouse brung her to me, vouches for the pretty lady, so I get her stuff for a while. That’s all I know, and you can’t never prove that.”
“What kind of stuff?”
Demarco scratched his head again. “Mostly Mexican . . . black tar . . . maybe some brown. She likes tar . . . she’s chipping is all.”
“Did she buy it herself or have somebody else get it for her?”
“She come herself. I could see she be down already. I asked her didn’t she worry about getting caught, her being famous and all. She says she got protection. Batman won’t let nothing bad happen to her.”
“Batman?” Behan asked. “
You know, Officer Fricke.” “
Did you ever see Fricke with her?” Josie asked.
“No, but Hilly says it was Batman and that’s the only Batman ’round here.”
“What else did she tell you about Officer Fricke?”
“She fucked him . . . give him money so he looks the other way and nobody harasses her while she gets her taste.”
“She told you that?” Behan asked, shaking his head. “Why would she tell a dirtbag like you anything?”
“Junkies talk . . . can’t keep nothing to themselves. Hilly tells Mouse. Mouse tells me . . . I tell you.”
“Did Mouse see them together?”
“Don’t know, never asked.”
“So you really don’t know much of anything. You heard all this from Mouse,” Behan said.
“It was me sold the shit to her. Ain’t that worth something?”
“You and Cory Goldman partied with her. Tell me about that,” Josie said, realizing at the same time Behan did that Little Joe was nothing more than a street dealer with secondhand information. If Fricke was involved with Hillary, the savvy policeman wouldn’t be stupid enough to let this guy or Mouse see anything. Hillary might’ve confided in Mouse, but it was hearsay from a dead girl.
“Me an’ Cory been doing clubs all the time. He tags along, digs my music . . . tries to get me to hook ’em up with Hilly. He’s nothin’ but a game for her . . . never means nothing ’cuz she prefers that rich, aged meat. She’s got my man doing everything but wiping her ass before he figures out maybe Miss Hilly’s been fucking with him.” Demarco stopped, inspected his fingernails and added, “That white boy’s one dumb motherfucker.”
“You know Bruno Faldi?” Behan asked.
Josie saw it, the blink and quick look to the left before Demarco answered. She’d done enough interrogations to recognize the gesture that usually meant somebody was about to lie.
“No, can’t say I do,” he said.
Behan described Bruno, but Demarco still denied having met him.
“What if I told you he said he saw you and talked to you at Hillary’s apartment?” Behan added.
Demarco seemed to be thinking about his answer. After several seconds he looked at Josie.
“I’d have to say I can’t recollect ever meeting that particular gentleman,” Demarco said, unconvincingly, and for the first time Josie noticed something new in his demeanor. The cocky dealer appeared to be frightened.
“You’re a smart guy. Who do you think killed Hillary Dennis?” Josie asked.
Demarco didn’t respond, but snorted as if he didn’t think much of the question. Josie noticed his grip on the cross tighten as if he were struggling to come up with an answer. Finally, still staring at the ground he said, “I’d be thinking Officer Fricke my own self.”
“Why’s that?”
“Hilly, she tells Mouse about this little black book that’s gonna finance her retirement. If that policeman’s been doing what she says and she’s been keeping notes, I’d say Miss Hilly’s got him by his big white hairy balls.”
They questioned Demarco for about an hour, and both Josie and Behan knew that except for selling heroin to Hillary Dennis he didn’t have much firsthand information. He’d partied with Hillary, Cory and Mouse, but denied ever seeing Cory’s father, knowing Bruno Faldi, or observing any interaction between Fricke and Hillary. He did slip one interesting tidbit of information into his ramblings. Demarco claimed it was common knowledge in Avanti’s shortly before Hillary died that Milano would flee from his club whenever she and her entourage arrived.
It was nearly seven p.m. when they finished the interrogation and sent Demarco back to his cell with the empty promise of talking to the D.A. Josie and Behan returned to her office where they could close the door and not worry about curious officers or her eavesdropping adjutant.
“You searched her apartment. There wasn’t a diary. So, what happened to it, if it ever existed?” she asked when they were alone.
“We searched Misty’s apartment too; nothing there . . . no safety deposit boxes that we could find for either one of them.”
“Killer’s got it,” Josie said.
“Maybe, but I think we should operate as if it’s still out there somewhere. Did you see the look on Demarco’s face when I asked about Bruno? Why would he deny knowing Bruno?”
“Bruno’s connected to Milano. My guess is he’s afraid to talk about Milano. You have to get home?” she asked.
“Eventually, why?”
“I need a drink. Nora’s okay?” she asked, knowing it was an unnecessary question. She’d never known Red to turn down a drink, especially one she was paying for.
It was strange. She realized she was behaving like a detective again and all the old habits were kicking in. Work hard, drink hard and play hard. The first two were easy. The playing hard was on hold because her playmate was off fighting demons or some other stupid crap.
It was unheard of in the LAPD’s modern era for an area captain to be involved hands-on in a homicide investigation. She knew that but it didn’t matter. At the moment, Behan was the only subordinate except Marge she completely trusted. Everyone else in Hollywood had been tainted by the possibility he or she worked for Owens or Buck. Josie couldn’t confide in her boss because of his adjutant, and even Bright was a problem because he was too willing to share information with Councilman Goldman. Her son further complicated the mess, and she knew the only guaranteed way of keeping him out of it was to put herself in the middle of the investigation. Her transformation back to a working detective wasn’t something she desired, but for the time being it was unavoidable so she might as well enjoy it.
They hadn’t been at the bar in Nora’s more than ten minutes when Marge came in and sat beside Behan. She ordered a martini and Josie told her about the interview with Little Joe.
“Bullshit, that freaky midget asshole and Mouse cooked up this fucking fairy tale to get Fricke off their backs,” Marge said, chewing on an olive.
“Probably right, but I can’t ignore it. I’m gonna have to get him off the street,” Josie said.
“Damn it, no, don’t do that. It’s what they want. When Fricke’s gone they’ve got nobody messing with them.”
“Settle down, girl,” Behan said, looking at Marge. “It’s better to get him out of the line of fire. Don’t give them an opportunity to come up with worse allegations.”
“I’ll bet Fricke would rather take his chances on the street where he can still screw with those shitheads.”
“You’re probably right, but that’s why they pay me the big bucks to stop guys like Donnie Fricke from committing career suicide,” Josie said. She watched Marge gulp her drink and order another. Her friend wasn’t happy, but Josie knew leaving Fricke on the street wasn’t an option. With the new allegations, Josie also decided she’d take the personnel investigation away from her adjutant and give it to the day watch lieutenant. Marge should handle it, but she was uneasy with Marge’s blind loyalty to Fricke. Josie considered him a friend, too, but if he was dirty, as far as she was concerned his police career would be over and he’d be facing criminal charges. She figured telling Marge all that could wait until morning when there wasn’t alcohol involved.
The bar wasn’t crowded. It was an off-payroll week and most of the detectives that frequented Nora’s would be short on cash until next Wednesday when, like magic, the city deposited money in their bank accounts again. Josie took a sip of wine and glanced up just as Behan rubbed Marge’s hand with the back of his wrist. It wasn’t accidental. He kept it there for several seconds until he noticed Josie staring. Marge didn’t look up, but didn’t move her hand either.
“Jesus,” Josie blurted out, not knowing if she was disgusted or angry.
“What’s wrong with you?” Behan asked.
“You, that’s what’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?”
He didn’t respond for a moment and then said, “I gotta go.” He left money on the bar, told Josie he’d see her in the morning, and left. She didn’t attempt to keep him from paying. Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling all that generous.
Marge didn’t stay long enough for Josie to say anything. She was a few steps behind Behan, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out they were leaving together. Although Josie hardly knew the current Mrs. Behan, she felt sorry for the woman. They hadn’t been married a month and her redheaded screwup was already wandering. Big surprise, Josie thought, Red’s fucking up again.
Before Josie could pay her tab, Peter Lange slid onto the barstool Behan had abandoned and ordered two glasses of Cabernet.
“Please don’t make me drink alone,” he pleaded with a warm smile.
Curiosity not thirst made Josie stuff her money back into the pocket of her jacket. She couldn’t figure out why this guy kept popping up in her life like a poor relative. He wanted her attention. She wanted to know why.
“I have time for one drink,” Josie said, resting an elbow on the bar and staring at him. “You spend a lot of time in this place.”
He took a sip of wine and said, “Had a little business in the neighborhood. What about you?”
“What sort of business?”
“A client not happy with your accommodations.”
“We arrested one of your clients . . . who?”
“Edgar Demarco, know him?”
It took a moment for Josie’s brain to compute that he was talking about Little Joe the heroin dealer, because the wealthy entertainment lawyer and the street thug shouldn’t be operating in the same legal circles.
“You do criminal law?” she asked.
“Only when a client’s involved. Edgar’s a talented musician.”
“Who happens to sell heroin.”
“That’s a hobby. His real interest is music.”
“Better book the rest of his gigs at San Quentin. The guy’s a three-strike loser.”
“We’ll see,” Lange said. “Sometimes things aren’t what they appear to be.”
“They caught him with a mouthful of balloons packed with heroin and a pocket full of twenty dollar bills. That pretty much seems like what it is.”
Lange didn’t respond, but didn’t seem concerned either. He cocked his head and stared at her. Josie felt as if he were looking right through her clothes.
“How’d you ever get into this line of work? With your looks and brains you could’ve done anything you wanted.”
“I wanted to be a cop,” she said.
“Why? It’s so . . . sordid.”
Josie laughed and said, “And defending slimy drug dealers and guys like Vince Milano isn’t.”
He closed his eyes and put his hand over his heart as if he’d been wounded. “Touché,” he said and added, “but it pays better.”
They drank in silence for a few moments before Josie decided she’d try pushing a few buttons, see what the attorney was willing to share.
“How long have you worked for Milano?” she asked.
“A few years. How long have you been married?”
“Do you represent Bruno Faldi, too?”
“I know you and your husband aren’t living together.”
“Good for you.”
“How about I take you to dinner tonight?”
“No.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“I’m not angry; I’m married.”
Lange sighed and said, “I know Bruno because of his uncle.” He wasn’t about to give up. “Aren’t you curious how I know you’re separated?”
“No,” Josie lied. “But I am curious about your relationship with Eli Goldman.”
“Hardly talk to the man outside city hall. Your husband’s new partner and I play tennis at the same club. He told me about you and Jake.”
“Small world,” Josie said, trying to sound indifferent. Jake’s new law partner had barely worked with him a few weeks and the jerk was already gossiping about his private life. “Why did you believe Goldman’s son had something to do with Hillary Dennis’s death?”