Fallen Angels (31 page)

SIXTEEN

W
hen they got to Pasadena, Josie invited Marge into the house to rest a while before making the long drive back across town to her apartment. Josie’s body was bruised and tired, and although Marge hadn’t complained, she noticed her friend could barely keep her eyes open.

Josie understood that despite her frequent expletives and disgruntled attitude, Marge became anxious when someone with authority other than herself didn’t play strictly by department rules. So as soon as they were in the den reclining on loungers with glasses full of a really good Cabernet, Josie tried to reassure her that holding back information from the bureau was a necessity.

“Even Bright’s not that stupid. Why do you suppose he keeps blabbing everything to Goldman?” Marge asked.

“Don’t know. At the moment, I’m more concerned about someone wanting to kill me.”

“Could’ve been a random asshole thing.”

“Don’t think so.”

“Why not? Nobody in any way connected to this case knew you were going to be there . . . not even you from what you’ve said.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Besides, what if somebody was already there watching the house.”

“Why and what does anybody in this investigation gain by blowing away your high-ranking ass?”

“Don’t know. Maybe I was getting too close to something. Mouse went there after Hillary died and I’m guessing what she took was Hillary’s diary and not some forgotten piece of clothing from her thrift store ensemble. Maybe the shooter was hoping she’d come back.”

“Anything Hillary wrote isn’t really evidence at this point,” Marge said, placing her empty glass on the floor beside her chair.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“Experts might ID the handwriting as Hillary’s, but regardless of what she wrote, with her dead, how do you validate any of it?”

“That depends on what she wrote. We might be able to prove some of it without her,” Josie said, finishing her wine. She retrieved the bottle from the coffee table and filled her glass again. Her friend’s eyes were closed and she was snoring softly.

Josie sat back and sipped the wine. She should get up and take a shower, rinse the remaining bits of glass out of her hair. The warm water against her skin would feel so good, but she couldn’t make herself get out of the recliner. She was very tired, but her eyes wouldn’t close. Alcohol usually made her sleepy, but it wasn’t working. A serious bout of frustration was the real problem. The Bright and Goldman relationship was bothering her. Was it possible Chief Bright had a reason to protect Goldman? Was her boss involved with Hillary too? She took another swallow. That was crazy, there was nothing to prove or even suggest that connection . . . too tired, too much wine.

It happened, but she couldn’t remember when or how. She’d fallen asleep with the empty wine glass on her lap. When the annoying itch on the side of her face woke her, the room was dark. Several seconds passed before she could clear her head and remember why she was here and where she was supposed to be. No headache . . . that was a plus. She reached up and pulled the chain to turn on the pole lamp over her shoulder. The recliner next to hers was empty. A handwritten note was propped up by an empty wine glass on the coffee table.

It read, “I’m gone. See you at the station. Don’t worry, I’ll catch your little rodent. Get some sleep or you’ll start doing stupid things. Oops sorry, too late. Your favorite lieutenant, MB.”

“Smartass,” Josie said, to the empty recliner.

The long nap had helped. Actually, she realized she’d slept most of the day. Her hands and face were a little tight from the healing cuts, but otherwise she felt pretty good. The red light was blinking on the phone. Marge must’ve turned down the ringer before she left. Josie hit the button and played back half a dozen messages. The last ones were from Jake and David. She called her husband and son, assured them she was fine. They told her Marge had notified them earlier that day, but she’d suggested they let Josie sleep.

A long hot shower was the best medicine. When her hair was clean, she scratched her head. Even though it really didn’t itch anymore, she’d been thinking about doing that since the shooting last night. The cuts on her face were barely visible now, but she gently patted dry that side of her face and applied a cream the nurse had given her. She dressed in jogging pants and a baggy sweatshirt, letting her damp hair hang loose to dry. Food was the primary thing on her mind now. She wasn’t eating right and getting too skinny. Another helping of Mrs. Dennis’s cobbler would taste so good, but that wasn’t going to happen.

She’d started downstairs when she heard the front door open and returned to the bedroom to retrieve her .45, but hadn’t reached the nightstand before she heard Jake calling out to her.

“Don’t shoot me, I’m bringing food,” he shouted.

She looked over the railing on the second landing. Her husband was carrying several large bags and had a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

Her stomach growled as soon as she got within range of the garlic and sausage smells.

“Don’t you ever eat anything but Italian?” Josie asked, taking one of the bags and searching through it as they went into the kitchen.

“Not often, but I usually cook it myself. I figured if you slept all day you’d be starving, and welcome quantity and speed over quality.”

She started emptying the bags while he pulled a couple of plates out of the cupboard.

Jake placed two large squares of lasagna and a couple of sausages smothered in meat sauce on a plate and grated fresh parmesan cheese over the top. She sat at the breakfast table, ate quickly and drank Chianti out of a water glass. He took a smaller portion and nibbled at the pasta, sipped his wine and watched her devour her meal.

Finally she sat back satisfied. “Thank you,” she said, topping off their glasses with the wonderful wine. “How did you know I hadn’t eaten?”

“We’ve been married over twenty years. Eating is a very low priority until you’re famished. Then you eat everything in sight. That’s why we’ve never owned a pet,” he said, peering at her over his glass.

She smiled and shook her head. “I’ve never eaten a puppy in my life.”

“I’ll take your word for that. You look much better than I expected. I can hardly see the cuts.”

“I was lucky I turned away fast enough. The doctor said those flying chips of glass could’ve done a lot of damage to my eyes, not to mention what the bullets could’ve done.”

“Why were you out there by yourself?” he asked, and looked worried, maybe a little upset with her.

“It was stupid . . . I wanted to talk to the girl’s mother again . . . and I accidentally found myself on her street.”

“Why would somebody shoot at you? They couldn’t have known who you were . . . could they?”

“I don’t know, Jake. Don’t worry; I’m not going back there.”

“I do worry. I hate you being around that kind of stuff. When you got promoted I thought you’d be isolated from the guns and violence, but it never ends . . . disgusting animals doing disgusting things to one another.”

“You’re making a living defending those disgusting animals,” she said, and then cringed a little. He was trying to be nice and she just dumped on him. “I’m sorry. I understand what you’re saying.”

“I only practice contract law now. You were right. I couldn’t do it.”

“What’d your new partner say?”

“Nothing, he needs me a lot more than I need him.”

Forgetting for a second how different they were, Josie asked, “Don’t you miss the excitement of the D.A.’s office?”

“I don’t miss the misery and human suffering.” He exhaled and put his glass on the table. “I know you don’t understand. It’s even difficult for me to explain, but I can’t tolerate that life anymore . . . the institutional indifference, adapting to other people’s pain. I’m done with all that ugliness.”

“That’s great, honey, but what planet do you intend to live on,” she said, meaning to be a touch nasty this time.

“I’m not naïve. I know evil exists, but I’m done wallowing in it or letting it consume me so I can make a living. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Do you see me as somebody who wallows in human suffering to make a living?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

“So, what you’re really saying is you can’t be around me anymore.”

“I love you. I hate what you do and it’s making me crazy. I’m trying to work it out.”

“I’m not gonna quit.”

“I know.”

Josie took one last bite of pasta, but could hardly swallow. She felt like crying but didn’t because she couldn’t decide if she was angry or sad. How does a cop avoid ugliness? Police work usually starts with ugly. Should she come home every night and pretend she arranged flowers all day? Crime and criminals were generally repulsive with few redeeming qualities. How was she supposed to sanitize that?

“Guess you’ve got a problem,” she said, her defense mechanism kicking in.

“Unless you’re ready to retire and let me support us.”

“And what am I supposed to do, start knitting?”

“Anything you want that doesn’t involve killing and maiming,” he said, getting a little more animated. He must’ve thought she was actually considering his offer.

She filled her glass about a third of the way and offered him more wine. He shook his head.

“I love you Jake and want you back in my life, but I’ll retire when I’m ready or when I can’t do it any longer. Since neither of those conditions exists at the moment, are you telling me our marriage is screwed?”

He got up and cleared the table. She drank and watched him. When he was finished, Jake leaned over the table and kissed her. It was warm and nice, but a long way from passionate.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing,” he said, and then he left.

Josie sat at the table until the wine bottle was empty. What he wanted wasn’t fair. Do it my way or not at all. She believed he was being selfish and stubborn. So, why did she feel so miserable? Her mind said “fuck you,” but her heart was broken. It hurt to think of any future without Jake, but the idea that at this stage of his life he would suddenly develop a life-changing aversion to violence almost made her laugh. He’d been a fierce, sometimes ruthless prosecutor. Maybe David was right—male menopause.

There were a lot of uncertainties in her life, but the one thing Josie knew absolutely was she had no intention of walking away from police work . . . not now, not for a very long time. So, she’d have to ride out Jake’s middle-age Gandhi transformation and hope he could find his way back to her when he tuned into the real world again.

T
HE NEXT
morning, she was up at sunrise. Despite consuming way too much wine the prior night, she was clearheaded and eager to work. There were tiny scratches on the side of her face and on her hands, but barely visible. It pretty much looked like a light rash.

She made a cheese omelet, hash browns and toast, ate, took a shower, called the watch commander for a black and white taxi with a uniformed driver, and was in her office at Hollywood station before any of the administrative staff arrived. The pile of paperwork on her desk and the emails on her computer had been whittled down considerably by the time her adjutant peeked around her file cabinet.

“You look great,” he said, taking a big step into her office. “Sleep here last night?”

“Is Behan in yet?” she asked.

“I saw him back in detectives.” He stepped closer and stared at her face. “It’s hardly noticeable. You feel okay?”

“Fine, thanks. Tell Behan I need to talk to him.” Last night was done and she wasn’t in the mood to rehash the details. Unless the conversation involved identifying the shooter, she wasn’t interested in talking about it.

A few minutes later, Behan lumbered into her office looking like how she felt yesterday. Her first impression when he sat on the couch was the guy’s homeless again. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair uncombed, and he had a full-sized set of luggage under his eyes.

“Cory Goldman’s gonna be here in half an hour,” Behan said. “What’d the old lady tell you?” he asked, but before she could answer he added, “By the way, it was idiotic to go there alone.”