Fallen Angels (27 page)

“Can’t Lieutenant Bailey do anything, ma’am?” Fricke asked. “She’s our supervisor.”

“I.A. took the complaint,” Josie lied. She didn’t see any point in bringing Bright into this, but was getting tired of spending so much time and effort dodging the fallout from his asinine decisions.

“Hillary Dennis was killed in Hollywood. Our complaint’s tied to Hillary. Both informants are probably in Hollywood. We work Hollywood. Doesn’t it seem strange to you I.A. took it outside this division?” Frank Butler asked. He sat back and waited.

“Yes,” Josie answered truthfully. Butler was the kind of guy who could smell fear and bullshit better than most. Since she’d always tried to avoid both, Josie agreed with him. Besides, he was right. Everything about the Dennis case was bizarre including this personnel complaint. Butler was a smart guy so she asked him again, “What’s your take on all this?”

“Somebody wanted a scapegoat and picked us. While everybody’s looking at Donnie and me, the killer and the dope dealer get a pass. We get hammered—case closed.”

Josie studied him as he talked. He was angry, but not the way Fricke would be. The veins in his neck were bulging slightly, but he spoke calmly, rationally, never raised his voice. His dark eyes locked on hers, daring her to be deceitful or dismissive. The man had been honored for his service in Afghanistan and had firsthand knowledge of death and dying in battle. If Fricke had done anything disreputable or illegal, Josie’s instincts told her Frank Butler would not knowingly be a part of it.

She took a business card out of her desk drawer and gave it to Butler.

“Call and tell him I said he should represent both of you. He’s the best lawyer I know,” she said.

“Jake Corsino, he related to you?” Fricke asked, snatching the card from Butler.

“My husband,” Josie said. “He used to be a supervisor in the district attorney’s office, but he’s in private practice now. Tell him . . .” she hesitated and then said, “Just tell him your story and give him your rep’s name. He knows when something stinks.” She smiled and added, “Tell him I promised he’d represent you pro bono. He doesn’t need the money.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fricke said, jumping up and shaking her hand.

“Thank you, Captain,” Butler said. He still wasn’t smiling, but at least he’d blinked.

“Get out of here, go home, and stay out of trouble until we can figure out what’s really going on,” she said. Josie knew Jake would represent them. He couldn’t help himself. They were the underdogs. Despite all the years they lived together and his tolerance of her conservative ravings, at heart her husband was still an idealistic bleeding-heart liberal. He encouraged their son because David was everything Jake had wanted to be but couldn’t because his real talent was practicing law not the piano. Although she hated to admit it, he probably did fit better in his new politicallycorrect law firm than he ever had as a prosecutor.

A
N HOUR
later, Josie was in the passenger seat of Behan’s car en route to Carlton Buck’s office in West L.A. She briefly told Behan about her conversation with Ibarra, but really didn’t want to talk about the meeting with Fricke and Butler, and got quiet and moody when she thought about it.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, after twenty minutes of uncharacteristic silence on her part.

“Nothing,” she mumbled.

“Right . . . what did ‘Not So’ do this time?”

“It’s not just Bright. It’s all of it,” she said, not liking the whiny sound in her voice. Josie hated complainers. Her philosophy was if you didn’t like something fix it or shut up, but her frustration level was higher than usual.

“All of what?”

“This Dennis thing . . . all the crap floating around the edges . . . doesn’t it bother you?”

“Define floating crap,” Behan said in his annoying analytical way.

“The Goldmans, Bruno Faldi, Owens, Buck . . . my own kid, for Christ sake. Mostly, it’s just so damn convenient that two informants who know each other happen to identify Fricke as the fall guy. Worst part is nobody’s really got a decent motive to kill Hillary.”

“Fricke does.”

“How do you figure that?” she shot back.

“The little black book.”

Josie snorted. “Another bullshit figment of Little Joe’s imagination.”

“What if it’s not? What if Fricke did what Little Joe said he did, and Hillary blackmailed him with her journal . . . times and places she fucked him or bought heroin with his help.”

“I just don’t see how Fricke could do it without Butler knowing or at least suspecting something. They’re practically joined at the hip, and I can’t believe Butler would allow any of it to happen. It’s the Butler piece that doesn’t fit,” Josie insisted.

“Okay, maybe I agree with you there. They’re always together and Butler’s the original Captain America.”

“So who’s being protected while we’re distracted by all those fingers pointing at Fricke?”

“Eli Goldman?” Behan asked.

“I can’t see him hanging around with street scum like Little Joe.”

“If Goldman dated Hillary, he might’ve had contact with Little Joe and Mouse, and paid them to lie about Fricke to keep the heat off himself.”

Josie slumped back against the headrest and closed her eyes. It wasn’t farfetched or the first time in Los Angeles that a city councilman had been involved with a young woman and things went terribly wrong; and Lange was the perfect mouthpiece to shield Goldman in legal camouflage . . . for a price, that is. The payoff for Little Joe and Mouse didn’t have to be more than a few hits of their favorite drug or a couple hundred dollars.

While Behan was talking, Josie was half-listening, contemplating the tattooed image of Goldman’s son that kept popping into her head. Cory Goldman, the councilman’s weird progeny, was the most vulnerable link in this chain of unsavory characters. She wondered how much he actually knew. His connection to Mouse certainly put him in a position to know more than he was telling them. If the father-son relationship was bad enough, Cory might be persuaded to reveal some dirty little family secrets. The only way to find out was to drag him back into the station and have Behan bully him. She had no intention of telling Bright, and she was certain he’d come unglued when he found out; but on the positive side, Councilwoman Fletcher would love anything that embarrassed Goldman.

“What’re you planning?” Behan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t ever play poker, Corsino. Your face is a neon sign. The right side of your mouth goes up a little when you’re about to do something sneaky.”

Josie instinctively touched her lip. “I want one of your teams to bring Cory Goldman to the station.”

“RHD’s already questioned him,” Behan said as if he were talking to a child.

“I don’t wanna question him. I want you to scare him. He’s an insecure mess. Terrorize him and make him tell you what he knows about his father.”

“He’s got a lawyer.”

“So what? Forget the lawyer. We’re not gonna use his statements anyway, so who cares if they’re admissible. I just wanna get him nervous enough to tell the truth about his father and Hillary,” Josie said.

“Great, you get the truth and I get Goldman’s ACLU buddies screaming about police fascism and marching around my desk with pickets and television cameras.”

“I’ll take the heat.”

“I know you will,” he said in the way he used to when they were dope cops together and he was in charge. “All of us know you’ll try to protect us, but at some point if a wall gets pounded on long enough it falls down and you won’t be there for us.”

“So what are you saying . . . back down?”

He groaned. “All I’m saying is we’re grown-ups; let us take some of the heat so Bright doesn’t destroy you and I end up working for some weenie bean counter.”

“Fine, I’ll tell everybody it was your idea,” she said, grinning.

“Yeah, and that has about as much chance of happening as my silver wedding anniversary.”

“As long as you bring it up, what the hell is going on with you and Marge?”

“Nothing,” he said and dropped an icy wall of silence between them.

They arrived at Carlton Buck’s office before Josie could figure out another way to approach the touchy subject. Marge was old enough to know what she was doing, but Josie had years of corroboration telling her that in the arena of stable adult emotions Red Behan was clueless.

This afternoon, the P.I.’s building was bustling with activity. It was a far different place from the uninhabited spacious office they had visited several days ago. The underground parking was nearly full, and a pretty blond receptionist greeted them inside the first set of glass doors. Behan was mesmerized by the woman’s big blue eyes—and he sounded more like Dustin Hoffman’s Rainman than a big city detective—so Josie interrupted and explained why they were there. The blond escorted them back to Buck’s private office passing through a wave of activity—every desk occupied, phones ringing and computers lit up. A few men and women in sharp tan and green private security uniforms with cloth badges sewn above their shirt pockets wandered among the desks or drank coffee in small groups at the back of the room. It had the appearance of a very successful security business.

“Disengage,” Josie whispered, as they entered Buck’s outer office and Behan’s stare locked onto the departing full-figured blond.

“Just a connoisseur of fine art,” he whispered back.

Buck greeted them as warmly as he had on their first visit, again offering food and drink. This time Josie and Behan declined. Behan pulled out a leather chair from the conference table for Buck, and then he and Josie sat on either side of him. Buck wasn’t wearing his suit jacket and had loosened his tie, but he still had the holstered semi-auto on his belt. His breathing was labored and he apologized for his appearance, explaining he’d been boxing up some old files. Josie noticed his hands were clean, and he wore a hefty gold nugget ring. His nails were manicured with a clear polish, and a Rolex watch was visible from under his starched shirtsleeve cuff when he adjusted the large-carat diamond pin stuck into his silk tie. There didn’t appear to be any financial slump for this security business, Josie thought, or the former cop had another lucrative source of income.

“Why’d you lie about Bruno Faldi?” Behan asked, before Buck could settle in and get comfortable.

Buck rested his hands on his substantial beer belly and for a moment looked like a mortified, gun-toting Buddha.

“What did I lie about?” he whined, leaning toward Behan. “I told you what I knew.”

“Owens said you fired Bruno. You told us he quit,” Josie said.

“Don’t get me wrong. I like Howard Owens, we were even partners once; but the guy’s a lazy moron. He never knows what he’s talking about.” Buck wiggled to the edge of the chair. “Even if I did fire Bruno Faldi, why would I confide that information to somebody like Howard? Howard’s a shill. He finds me cops I need for jobs.” Buck waved dismissively toward Josie and slid back. “Now he’s retired, he’s no good to me anymore.”

“Did you fire Bruno?” Josie asked.

“No, I told you he quit.”

“You also told us you didn’t know anything about him,” Behan said.

“Yeah, that’s right . . . nothing except what I already said.”

“Why is it then I’ve got this recommendation signed by you and dated more than twenty years ago telling the department recruiter that Bruno Faldi was a great guy who’d make a dynamite cop?” Behan asked in his calm voice while handing Buck a copy of Bruno Faldi’s application to the police department.

The furrows deepened in Buck’s brow and his pupils mimicked combatants in a ping pong game as his gaze darted from Behan to Josie and back several times. He shook his head and it seemed as if he wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come.

Finally, he managed to blurt out, “I swear I didn’t really know him. I mean I knew his family. He seemed like a good kid.” Buck tugged at his shirt collar, loosened his tie a little more. “I guess I didn’t remember I did that,” he said, sheepishly, staring at his signature.

“Did you fire him?”

“You don’t fire Vince Milano’s nephew.” Buck spit the words back at her, then slumped in his chair deflated. “He quit . . . don’t know why . . . just quit,” he said, softly.

“You know the Milano family?” Josie asked.

“I know the Faldi family. His mom was my wife’s bookkeeper. I found out later about Milano.”

Josie could see Buck didn’t want to talk about Bruno, but he’d been caught in a lie and cops aren’t good liars. It was a strange phenomenon; guilt made them want to confess everything they’ve ever done wrong. She had a feeling Buck was relieved. It was as if he’d never wanted to be a party to any of it in the first place and telling them was sort of liberating.

“When did you find out about Milano’s connection?” Behan asked.

“Owens told me the day he wanted me to fire Bruno. What a moron! Like I’m gonna fire Vince Milano’s nephew.”

“What did you do?”

“Whatever Bruno wanted me to do.”

“And he wanted the Hillary Dennis job.”

“Yeah, and he got it.”

“Did he say why he wanted that particular job?” Josie asked.