Fallen Angels (18 page)

“No, and I don’t want it,” Buck said quickly. “If he screws up and gives me some psycho cop, I wanna be able to say I don’t know nothing about these people. I can fire Owens, and I’m not responsible or liable.”

Josie almost laughed. For such a smart guy he was pretty stupid. Any attorney worth his hourly rate would take one look around Buck’s office, see deep pockets and push for a nice big settlement as the price for not suing the retired cop out of business. She’d seen the piece of junk SUV that Owens drove. Her lieutenant was barely getting by. Buck’s Porsche would be caviar bait for any bottom-feeder with a law degree.

“Great plan,” Behan said, sarcastically. “But, you might wanna rethink that one. Can you remember names of any guys you’ve used for these special security details?”

“Not really.”

“Did Hillary Dennis ever use you for protection?” Josie asked.

“I’ll have my secretary check in the morning, but I’m almost certain she did a couple of times.”

“Would the officers’ names who worked her detail be in your paperwork?” Behan asked.

“Don’t know, but I can tell you tomorrow.”

“While you’re at it, check for the name Misty Skylar too,” Behan said.

Behan gave him his business card, and Buck promised to call in the morning. Like all retired cops, Buck wanted to know what was going on currently in the department. He asked about a few officers he’d worked with who were still on the job. Although he had little contact any longer with the day-to-day routine of police work, he complained that nothing was being done right, and the job couldn’t be as much fun as it was when he was working. Josie never knew a retired cop who thought the department got better after he left. It was a family. No one wanted to believe the family could function as well or be as happy without him.

It took about an hour to break away from Buck’s hospitality. The P.I. had a refrigerator full of delicious treats, and Behan could never get enough free food or cop talk. Josie finally insisted they had to leave, saying she had an early meeting in the morning. It was a lie, but the two men weren’t showing any signs of tiring and Buck had a seemingly endless supply of food. He walked them to the lobby and kept talking until the elevator doors closed.

“Nice guy,” Behan said before they reached the parking level.

“Stuffing your face doesn’t make him a nice guy,” Josie said, shaking her head. “Tell me you didn’t buy that garbage he was selling. I guarantee you he knows every cop that works for him.” She’d pegged Carlton Buck as a sleazy little liar.

“It’s hard not to like a guy that shares all that good food,” Behan said, “but no I don’t believe him. Let’s face it. He’s never gonna admit he’s got any list as long as he thinks ignorance keeps him from being sued.”

By the time Josie and Behan reached their car, they’d decided with Buck’s statement it was time to talk with Howard Owens. It was a chicken-shit charge, but they had enough to charge Owens for working off-duty without a permit, so there really wasn’t any reason for him to deny the existence of his list. Behan was certain he could frighten the watch commander into believing he was suspected of complicity in the Hillary Dennis homicide since he employed the officers who might’ve killed her.

“That’s good. Giving up a list of officers’ names will seem like a small thing compared to being an accomplice to murder,” Josie said. She stopped by the passenger door and watched as Behan removed a small notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote down the license plate numbers on the Porsche and the other car, a silver Lexus, parked in front of the elevator in spaces marked for Buck’s business.

“I didn’t see anybody else in there did you?” Behan asked.

“No, so what?”

“Maybe nothing, but I always get curious when somebody hides from me,” he said, backing out of the parking space. “Wanna grab a shot of something before we hit the freeway?”

It was nearly midnight and Josie was weary, but the thought of going anywhere but her empty house to drink alone sounded good. Years ago, she and Jake frequented a tiny hole-in-the-wall blues club, Jay D’s, on Pico Boulevard in West L.A., a few minutes from Buck’s office. It was good drinking music and dark enough inside to hide in a back booth and not be bothered or recognized. She didn’t like fraternizing with her subordinates, but Behan was more than just another employee.

“Miss Vicky not waiting up for you?” Josie asked, trying not to smile.

“Probably, but I’m thirsty.”

“Don’t screw up this one, Red. Your pension’s not big enough to divide again.” Josie was kidding, but Behan didn’t seem amused. “Don’t tell me you’re having problems already.”

“No, she’s great. I’m a shit.”

Josie really didn’t want to know but asked anyway. “What’d you do?”

“Married her . . . she deserves a lot better.”

“Probably, but it’s done, so be a good husband and go home.”

“Not yet,” he said turning onto Pico. “All that food made me thirsty.”

Behan had been to Jay D’s on numerous occasions when he worked in the Wilshire area, and he found parking before Josie could convince him it would be better to take her back to Hollywood and go home.

A few patrons were standing by the door talking to an overweight black woman in a shiny red satin dress who took the cover charge from Behan before allowing him and Josie to enter.

Nothing had changed inside since the last time Josie had been here. It was stuffy and smelled like stale beer. The floor was covered with something she hoped were peanut shells. Blue light through a cigarette smoke haze made it nearly impossible to see beyond a few feet. The musicians were between sets, but the glow from the stage helped light the way to two empty stools at the bar. Behan ordered a single malt scotch and a glass of Cabernet for her.

Before the drinks arrived, Josie heard the piano music start behind her on the stage. It was the beginning of a classical piece she’d heard before but couldn’t identify. Slowly, the notes distorted to a fractured version of the same piece but definitely had acquired a blues persona. She’d never heard anyone but David play classical music that way, and turned on the stool enough to make out the long thin torso of her son hunched over the keys of the baby grand.

She ignored the bartender when he brought her glass of wine and couldn’t stop looking at her son, at first surprised and then disappointed. Behan watched her and followed her stare over his shoulder and back toward the stage.

“Isn’t that your kid?” he asked, trying to get her attention. “He’s good.”

“This is the great job he was bragging about, some filthy dive in the middle of nowhere,” Josie said before realizing the bartender was still standing behind her. “Sorry,” she said, not wanting to insult the guy who was pouring her drinks, but she was upset. Her kid was too talented for this backroom tinkering.

The room got quiet as soon as the music started. It was a small space. There wasn’t any amplification, but the acoustics were great. Every note, every nuance could be clearly heard. She stopped thinking and listened. The performance was flawless. The composer wouldn’t have recognized his own creation, Josie thought, but the new blues version was a hit. The crowd applauded spontaneously and often. David’s eyes stayed closed as he played; his head turned slightly away from the keys. He’d slipped into that state Josie had observed for so many years when he practiced at home. Nothing around him existed but the sound. He played a dozen variations of the piece until he was done, stood to noisy, sustained applause, and disappeared from the stage as quickly as he’d come.

“You’re right,” Behan said as soon as David had left. “He’s too good for this place.”

“It had to be his father,” Josie said.

“What?”

“Jake must’ve arranged for him to play here. He did pro bono work for the owner a few years ago,” she said, tapping her fingers on the bar. Josie knew talking to David was a waste of time, but she’d find a way to make Jake get him out of here. She wouldn’t have her son wasting his life or talent playing for tips in dingy bars.

“You’re not gonna do anything stupid, are you?”

“No, why would you ask that?”

Behan finished the last of his scotch. “I’ve seen that look before, Corsino. Somebody’s in big trouble.”

TEN

T
hinking about her son’s uncertain future contributed to a fretful and less than pleasant night’s sleep, but by the next morning Josie had devised a scheme to put David’s life back on track with or without his cooperation. She’d talk to Jake and together they’d find enough money to send their son to the best art or music school of his choice, and pay all his expenses if he agreed to find a respectable steady job when he graduated, doing something like teaching where he’d have a steady income. She didn’t have much money saved, but they could get a second mortgage on the house. If David refused, they’d cut him off, stop giving him the extra cash he depended on to pay for rent, gas and food.

The only problem she saw with her plan was Jake. Josie wasn’t certain he had the heart or will to stop enabling their son’s selfindulgence. They were too much alike, her husband and son.

Her intention to devote the day to fixing David’s life was derailed as soon as she arrived at Hollywood station. Carlton Buck was waiting in the front lobby.

“Says he’s gotta talk to you,” the desk officer said, standing in her doorway.

“Send him to Detective Behan,” Josie ordered, gently pushing him aside.

The officer returned in a few seconds. “Mr. Buck says he won’t give his records to anybody except you.”

Behan wandered into Josie’s office as the officer was attempting to plead Buck’s case.

“No big deal,” Behan said. “Buck gives them to you; you give them to me.”

“I’m trying to keep the middle person, namely me, out of this. I’ve got a division to run . . . captain . . . detective,” she said, pointing at herself and then Behan.

“Sorry, guess he doesn’t trust me,” Behan said, attempting to look contrite.

“Alright, get him in here but tell him he’s got exactly ten minutes before Detective Behan drags his retired butt back to homicide.”

The desk officer retreated and returned a few seconds later followed by Buck who was wearing a dapper three-piece dark blue suit with a red tie, and carrying an expensive briefcase that looked as if it had never been used. He shook hands with everyone and sat on the couch beside Behan. He placed the briefcase on Josie’s coffee table and opened it slowly. The deliberate movements made the contents appear to be more valuable than everyone knew they were.

“Did Hillary use your people or not?” Josie asked, impatiently. She was tired of waiting for the drama to play out.

“Let me get this and I’ll show you,” Buck said, sounding a little testy. He placed what appeared to be a kind of worksheet on the table. It showed handwritten numbers that totaled forty. “Hillary Dennis used our security on and off for about a month up to the week before she was killed . . . for special events or public stuff, but never at her residence.”

“Do you have the guys’ names that guarded her?” Behan asked.

“There’s just one, a retired L.A. cop, Bruno Faldi.”

Buck explained that Faldi had been employed by him for approximately six months. He’d left the police department to become a teacher, but claimed he needed some excitement in his life and extra income. He’d worked twenty years as a cop and could carry a concealed weapon, so he took on personal security as a lucrative second job.

“He was mostly reliable, and the clients liked him. He’s a big intimidating guy. That’s all I know,” Buck said, stuffing the paper back into his briefcase.

“He’s not with you anymore?” Behan asked.

“Nope, quit a couple a days ago.”

Buck rummaged through the briefcase again and produced a company personnel folder with Faldi’s home address and phone number. Faldi’s references included his grammar school pastor and the principal at the girls’ private high school in the San Fernando Valley where he currently taught history.

As soon as Buck left, Behan called downtown to the department’s Personnel division and had them pull Faldi’s LAPD file. Throughout his career, he had good rating reports from all his supervisors, no disciplinary history, and by all accounts was destined to promote much higher than the rank of sergeant. With no explanation, he retired early to become a high school teacher.