Free Fallen Angels by Connie Dial Page B

curb. Josie watched until the limo eased into traffic.
    When Josie got back to the station, Behan confirmed Peter Lange was the new owner of the Hollywood Hills party house. Detectives had verified his alibi and established he was in New York on the day Hillary was murdered. He had no idea who had commandeered his new home for the deadly gathering, didn’t know Hillary Dennis or any of the other guests, and had given no one permission to be there. The caretaker had been hired by the real estate agency. Lange had never met him until he arrived the day after the killing, whereupon he immediately fired the man and hired another caretaker the same day.
    “How does he know Goldman?” Josie asked.
    “Lange’s a big political contributor. His MO is to move in and start laying down cash to anybody that can help him, including the mayor.”
    “Actually, his house is in Susie Fletcher’s section of Hollywood,” Josie said, recalling the crazy gerrymandered districts in the city established more for political expediency than logic or convenience.
    “He bought an office building on Sunset. That’s Goldman’s domain, but I’m sure Fletcher got her tribute too.”
    She knew Behan was probably right. That’s how politics worked in L.A. Money had the loudest voice in public policy decisions.
    Despite some last minute crises around the station, she and Behan managed to get to the party house on time. Josie was surprised how much better it looked in the daylight. The outside was freshly painted, and a new six-foot wall with an electronic gate surrounded the place. She pressed the buzzer and looked up at a security camera on the roof of the garage. The gate opened, and Peter Lange was standing on the step by the open front door.
    None of these hill houses had much of a front yard, but the view of the canyon was spectacular. Josie noticed the small courtyard area inside the wall had recently been paved with Spanish tiles and looked great.
    Lange was cordial and gave her a long, firm handshake. He had a dark complexion and brown eyes. She thought he looked more Mediterranean than his name would indicate. Living with Jake all those years, she’d met hordes of her husband’s Italian relatives, and Peter Lange could easily have been one of them. He invited them inside.
    There was no trace of the gruesome murder scene in the large front room. A new black leather couch had replaced the bloody one, and the wall had been scrubbed and painted sage green. Josie noticed all the furniture was new, and included contemporary glass-topped tables and recessed lighting. The space had a more masculine look now. It wasn’t her taste, but was very well done.
    Lange sat on the couch beside her; she could smell his cologne. It was spicy, almost a fresh-cut wood scent, and she was about to ask what it was before remembering she might not have anyone to give it to.
    “I want to apologize for dragging you out here. I know you’re both busy,” Lange said after they declined anything to drink. “You can understand how disturbing it would be to have something like this happen in your home.”
    “I see you’ve added some security,” Josie said.
    “It was either that or sell the place,” he said, but those words didn’t fit the man. Josie couldn’t picture him as the sort of guy who’d run from trouble. Actually, she thought something didn’t feel right about him. He was trying too hard to be nice.
    “Do you have a new address or phone number for the former caretaker?” Behan asked.
    “Sorry no, I just wanted him out of here. Despite his denials I can’t believe he didn’t help arrange the whole party thing.”
    “Is there anything we can do for you?” Josie asked, beginning to wonder why he wanted them there.
    “I need to know who did this and why they picked my house. I saw you today at the Rotary,” he said, as an afterthought. For some reason, Josie blushed as if she’d been caught doing something bad. He continued, “I confronted