Little Joe or anyone you know about?” Behan asked.
“Hilly pays up front, so I don’t believe so. . . .” Mouse hesitated as if she were remembering something and deciding whether or not she should speak. She looked around the room. “Is anybody besides you hearing me?”
“No, absolutely not,” Behan lied.
Josie turned up the volume. She could barely understand the little woman.
“She told me once . . . there was this Hollywood cop that hassled her some when he catched her coming outta the Palms. She weren’t worried. She had the junk hid up her pussy but he give her a hard time.”
“Did he know who she was?”
“Oh yeah, he messed with her a couple a times. She says they got to some kinda understanding. If you know what I mean,” she said, almost whispering, and winked at Behan.
“Did she say who the cop was or mention anything else about him?”
“No,” Mouse said.
Behan looked up at the hidden camera and mouthed the word, “Fuck.”
Josie turned down the volume, sat back and knew it was always foolish to think things couldn’t get worse.
FOUR
W ithout dates and times, it was nearly impossible to find out which cop had stopped Hillary Dennis. To make things even more difficult, Mouse didn’t know if the officer was in uniform or plainclothes, and it was impossible to know if he was a real or fake police officer or if Mouse was making up the whole thing. The list of possible suspects had to include Donnie Fricke since the Palms was his favorite and frequent target, but Josie wasn’t ready to believe Fricke would or could do what Mouse described.
Behan was willing to keep an open mind and although he liked Fricke, told Josie he’d seen better cops do worse and anything was possible. Just the idea one of her officers might be involved in a homicide left Josie feeling sick.
She went back to her office but couldn’t concentrate on routine tasks. She threw a stack of unsigned papers in her desk drawer and locked it. It was only seven p.m. but there weren’t any community meetings on her calendar tonight so she was done. An early dinner, a long luxurious bath and a good night’s sleep were the only plans she had until Jake called. The phone rang just as she was about to leave. He wanted to meet at a little bar in Old Town Pasadena. From the sound of his voice he’d been there a while.
The prospect of sitting in a bar with her husband—who hadn’t been home all night and had fortified his courage with alcohol—wasn’t appealing, but Josie knew they had to talk. Jake was a good man, but he wasn’t content with his life and was making hers miserable too. She was already feeling so shitty it was probably the perfect time to do this. Why ruin a good day.
The Carriage Inn was on a one-way street, three long blocks from their house. It was in a refurbished brick building with a copper-plated oversized door and green shuttered windows. It had a hand-carved mahogany bar with a black marble surface scratched and stained from nearly fifty years of service. Jake enjoyed drinking there. Although the place was small, dark, and barely surviving on a handful of locals, Josie didn’t mind—it was the perfect place for a family dispute.
Parking space was nearly nonexistent in that part of Old Town, so she decided to leave her car at home and walk to the bar. The Porsche was in the driveway, so Jake was on foot too. The late summer evenings were getting cooler. It would be a pleasant walk, a way to release some of the tension that had been building all day. She changed into a nice pair of jeans, her comfortable boots, a clean shirt and jacket to cover her .45. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea.
Josie found her husband in one of the tight straight-backed wooden booths. The bartender Stu, an older man with closecropped, dyed black hair and a large diamond stud in his left ear, was talking to two skinny young women, the only other patrons. Stu waved at Josie, and she nodded at the bottle of red
“Hilly pays up front, so I don’t believe so. . . .” Mouse hesitated as if she were remembering something and deciding whether or not she should speak. She looked around the room. “Is anybody besides you hearing me?”
“No, absolutely not,” Behan lied.
Josie turned up the volume. She could barely understand the little woman.
“She told me once . . . there was this Hollywood cop that hassled her some when he catched her coming outta the Palms. She weren’t worried. She had the junk hid up her pussy but he give her a hard time.”
“Did he know who she was?”
“Oh yeah, he messed with her a couple a times. She says they got to some kinda understanding. If you know what I mean,” she said, almost whispering, and winked at Behan.
“Did she say who the cop was or mention anything else about him?”
“No,” Mouse said.
Behan looked up at the hidden camera and mouthed the word, “Fuck.”
Josie turned down the volume, sat back and knew it was always foolish to think things couldn’t get worse.
FOUR
W ithout dates and times, it was nearly impossible to find out which cop had stopped Hillary Dennis. To make things even more difficult, Mouse didn’t know if the officer was in uniform or plainclothes, and it was impossible to know if he was a real or fake police officer or if Mouse was making up the whole thing. The list of possible suspects had to include Donnie Fricke since the Palms was his favorite and frequent target, but Josie wasn’t ready to believe Fricke would or could do what Mouse described.
Behan was willing to keep an open mind and although he liked Fricke, told Josie he’d seen better cops do worse and anything was possible. Just the idea one of her officers might be involved in a homicide left Josie feeling sick.
She went back to her office but couldn’t concentrate on routine tasks. She threw a stack of unsigned papers in her desk drawer and locked it. It was only seven p.m. but there weren’t any community meetings on her calendar tonight so she was done. An early dinner, a long luxurious bath and a good night’s sleep were the only plans she had until Jake called. The phone rang just as she was about to leave. He wanted to meet at a little bar in Old Town Pasadena. From the sound of his voice he’d been there a while.
The prospect of sitting in a bar with her husband—who hadn’t been home all night and had fortified his courage with alcohol—wasn’t appealing, but Josie knew they had to talk. Jake was a good man, but he wasn’t content with his life and was making hers miserable too. She was already feeling so shitty it was probably the perfect time to do this. Why ruin a good day.
The Carriage Inn was on a one-way street, three long blocks from their house. It was in a refurbished brick building with a copper-plated oversized door and green shuttered windows. It had a hand-carved mahogany bar with a black marble surface scratched and stained from nearly fifty years of service. Jake enjoyed drinking there. Although the place was small, dark, and barely surviving on a handful of locals, Josie didn’t mind—it was the perfect place for a family dispute.
Parking space was nearly nonexistent in that part of Old Town, so she decided to leave her car at home and walk to the bar. The Porsche was in the driveway, so Jake was on foot too. The late summer evenings were getting cooler. It would be a pleasant walk, a way to release some of the tension that had been building all day. She changed into a nice pair of jeans, her comfortable boots, a clean shirt and jacket to cover her .45. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea.
Josie found her husband in one of the tight straight-backed wooden booths. The bartender Stu, an older man with closecropped, dyed black hair and a large diamond stud in his left ear, was talking to two skinny young women, the only other patrons. Stu waved at Josie, and she nodded at the bottle of red
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