“Bill Evans?”
“Yeah. It seems like they have whole channels of the radio dedicated to playing his music.”
“Don’t tell me, you spent some time in Japan, too.”
“About two months. It’s a fascinating place.”
It looked to Bosch like she was making a risotto with chicken and asparagus in it.
“Smells good.”
“Thank you. I hope it is.”
“So what do you think you were running from?”
She looked up at him from her work at the stove. A hand held a stirring spoon steady.
“What?”
“You know, all the travel. Leaving Daddy’s law firm to go swim with sharks and dive into volcanoes. Was it the old man or the law firm the old man ran?”
“Some people would look at it as maybe I was running toward something.”
“The guy in the tuxedo?”
“Harry, take your gun off. Leave your badge at the door. I always do.”
“Sorry.”
She went back to work at the stove and Bosch came up behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed his thumbs into the indentations of her upper spine. She offered no resistance. Soon he felt her muscles begin to relax. He noticed her empty wine glass on the counter.
“I’ll go get the wine.”
He came back with his glass and the bottle. He refilled her glass and she picked it up and clicked it off the side of his.
“Whether to something or away from something, here’s to running,” she said. “Just running.”
“What happened to ‘Hold fast’?”
“There’s that, too.”
“Here’s to forgiveness and reconciliation.”
They clicked glasses again. He came around behind her and started working her neck again.
“You know, I thought about your story all last night after you left,” she said.
“My story?”
“About the bullet and the tunnel.”
“And?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Nothing. It’s just amazing, that’s all.”
“You know, after that day, I wasn’t afraid anymore when I was down in the darkness. I just knew that I was going to make it through. I can’t explain why, I just knew. Which, of course, was stupid, because there are no guarantees of that—back then and there or anywhere else. It made me sort of reckless.”
He held his hands steady for a moment.
“It’s not good to be too reckless,” he said. “You cross the tube too often, you’ll eventually get burned.”
“Hmm. Are you lecturing me, Harry? You want to be my training officer now?”
“No. I checked my gun and my badge at the door, remember?”
“Okay, then.”
She turned around, his hands still on her neck, and kissed him. Then she pulled back away.
“You know, the great thing about this risotto is that it can keep in the oven as long as we need it to.”
Bosch smiled.
Later on, after they had made love, Bosch got up from her bed and went out to the living room.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
When he didn’t answer she called out to him to turn the oven up. He came back into the room carrying the gold-framed photo. He got into the bed and turned on the light on the bed table. It was a low-wattage bulb beneath a heavy lamp shade. The room still was cast in shadow.
“Harry, what are you doing?” Julia said in a tone that warned he was treading close to her heart. “Did you turn the oven up?”
“Yeah, three-fifty. Tell me about this guy.”
“Why?”
“I just want to know.”
“It’s a private story.”
“I know. But you can tell me.”
She tried to take the photo away but he held it out of her reach.
“Is he the one? Did he break your heart and send you running?”
“Harry. I thought you took your badge off.”
“I did. And my clothes, everything.”
She smiled.
“Well, I’m not telling you anything.”
She was on her back, head propped on a pillow. Bosch put the picture on the bed table and then turned back and moved in next to her. Under the sheet he put his arm across her body and pulled her tightly to him.
“Look, you want to trade scars again? I got my heart broken twice by the same woman. And you know what? I kept her picture on a shelf in my living room for a long time. Then on New Year’s Day I decided it had been a long enough time. I put her picture away. Then I got called out to work and I met you.”
She looked at him, her eyes moving slightly back and forth as she seemed to be searching his face for something, maybe the slightest hint of insincerity.
“Yes,” she finally said. “He broke my heart. Okay?”
“No, not okay. Who is the creep?”
She started laughing.
“Harry, you’re my knight in tarnished armor, aren’t you?”
She pulled herself up into a sitting position, the sheet falling away from her breasts. She folded her arms across them.
“He was in the firm. I really fell for him—right down the old elevator shaft. And then . . . then he decided it was over. And he decided to betray me and to tell secret things to my father.”
“What things?”
She shook her head.
“Things I will never tell a man again.”
“Where was that picture taken?”
“Oh, at a firm function—probably the New Year’s banquet, I don’t remember. They have a lot of them.”
Bosch had become angled behind her. He leaned down and kissed her back, just above the tattoo.
“I couldn’t be there anymore while he was there. So I quit. I said I wanted to travel. My father thought it was a midlife crisis because I had turned thirty. I just let him think it. But then I had to do what I said I wanted to do—travel. I went to Australia first. It was the farthest place I could think of.”
Bosch pulled himself up and stacked two pillows behind his back. He then pulled her back against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and kept his nose in her hair.
“I had a lot of money from the firm,” she said. “I didn’t have to worry. I just kept traveling, going wherever I wanted, working odd jobs when I felt like it. I didn’t come home for almost four years. And when I did, that’s when I joined the academy. I was walking along the boardwalk and saw the little Venice community service office. I went in and picked up a pamphlet. It all happened pretty fast after that.”
“Your history shows impulsive and possibly reckless decision-making processes. How did that get by the screeners?”
She gently elbowed him in the side, setting off a flare of pain from his ribs. He tensed.
“Oh, Harry, sorry. I forgot.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She laughed.
“I guess all you old guys know that the department’s been pushing big time for what they term ‘mature’ women cadets the last few years. To smooth off all the hard testosterone edges of the department.”
She rocked her hips back against Bosch’s genitals to underline the point.
“And speaking of testosterone,” she said, “you never told me how it went with old bullet head himself today.”
Bosch groaned but didn’t answer.
“You know,” she said, “Irving came to address our class one day on the moral responsibilities that come with carrying the badge. And everybody sitting there knew the guy probably makes more backroom deals up there on the sixth floor than there are days in the year. The guy’s the classic fixer. You could practically cut the irony in the auditorium with a knife.”
Her use of the word “irony” made Bosch flash on what Antoine Jesper had said about coupling the bones found on the hill with the bones on the skateboard. He felt his body tensing as thoughts of the case started encroaching on what had been an oasis of respite from the
investigation.
She sensed his tightness.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“You got all tense all of a sudden.”
“The case, I guess.”
She was quiet a moment.
“I think it’s kind of amazing,” she then said. “Those bones being up there all of these years and then coming up out of the ground. Like a ghost or something.”
“It’s a city of bones. And all of them are waiting to come up.”
He paused.
“I don’t want to talk about Irving or the bones or the case or anything else right now.”
“Then what do you want?”
He didn’t answer. She turned to face him and started pushing him down off the pillows until he was flat on his back.
“How about a mature woman to smooth off all the hard edges again?”
It was impossible for Bosch not to smile.
23
BEFORE dawn Bosch was on the road. He left Julia Brasher sleeping in her bed and started on his way to his home, after first stopping at Abbot’s Habit for a coffee to go. Venice was like a ghost town, with the tendrils of the morning fog moving across the streets. But as he got closer to Hollywood the lights of cars on the streets multiplied and Bosch was reminded that the city of bones was a twenty-four-hour city.
At home he showered and put on fresh clothes. He then climbed back into his car and went down the hill to Hollywood Division. It was 7:30 when he got there. Surprisingly, a number of detectives were already in place, chasing paperwork and cases. Edgar wasn’t among them. Bosch put his briefcase down and walked to the watch office to get coffee and to see if any citizen had brought in doughnuts. Almost every day a John Q who still kept the faith brought in doughnuts for the division. A little way of saying there were still those out there who knew or at least understood the difficulties of the job. Every day in every division cops put on the badge and tried to do their best in a place where the populace didn’t understand them, didn’t particularly like them and in many instances outright despised them. Bosch always thought it was amazing how far a box of doughnuts could go in undoing that.
He poured a cup and dropped a dollar in the basket. He took a sugar doughnut out of a box on the counter that had already been decimated by the patrol guys. No wonder. They were from Bob’s Donuts in the farmers’ market. He noticed Mankiewicz sitting at his desk, his dark eyebrows forming a deep V as he studied what looked like a deployment chart.
“Hey, Mank, I think we pulled a grade A lead off the call-in sheets. Thought you’d want to know.”
Mankiewicz answered without looking up.
“Good. Let me know when my guys can give it a rest. We’re going to be short on the desk the next few days.”
Bosch knew this meant he was juggling personnel. When there weren’t enough uniforms to put in cars—due to vacations, court appearances or sick-outs—the watch sergeant always pulled people off the desk and put them on wheels.
“You got it.”
Edgar still wasn’t at the table when Bosch got back to the detective squad room. Bosch put his coffee and doughnut down next to one of the Selectrics and went to get a search warrant application out of a community file drawer. For the next fifteen minutes he typed out an addendum to the search warrant he had already delivered to the records custodian at Queen of Angels. It asked for all records from the care of Arthur Delacroix circa 1975 to 1985.
When he was finished he took it to the fax machine and sent it to the office of Judge John A. Houghton, who had signed all the hospital search warrants the day before. He added a note requesting that the judge review the addendum application as soon as possible because it might lead to the positive identification of the bones and therefore swing the investigation into focus.
Bosch returned to the table and from a drawer pulled out the stack of missing person reports he had gathered while fiche-ing in the archives. He started looking through them quickly, glancing only at the box reserved for the name of the missing individual. In ten minutes he was finished. There had been no report in the stack about Arthur Delacroix. He didn’t know what this meant but he planned to ask the boy’s sister about it.
It was now eight o’clock and Bosch was ready to leave to visit the sister. But still no Edgar. Bosch ate the remainder of his doughnut and decided to give his partner ten minutes to show before he would leave on his own. He had worked with Edgar for more than ten years and still was bothered by his partner’s lack of punctuality. It was one thing to be late for dinner. It was another to be late for a case. He had always taken Edgar’s tardiness as a lack of commitment to their mission as homicide investigators.
His direct line rang and Bosch answered it with an annoyed rasp, expecting it to be Edgar announcing he was running late. But it wasn’t Edgar. It was Julia Brasher.
“So, you just leave a woman high and dry in bed, huh?”
Bosch smiled and his frustration with Edgar quickly drained away.
“I got a busy day here,” he said. “I had to get going.”
“I know but you could’ve said good-bye.”
Bosch saw Edgar making his way through the squad room. He wanted to get going before Edgar started his coffee, doughnut and sports-page ritual.
“Well, I’m saying good-bye now, okay? I’m in the middle of something here and I gotta run.”
“Harry . . .”
“What?”
“I thought you were going to hang up on me or something.”
“I’m not, but I gotta go. Look, come by before you go up for roll call, okay? I’ll probably be back by then.”
“All right. I’ll see you.”
Bosch hung up and stood up just as Edgar got to the homicide table and dropped the folded sports page at his spot.
“You ready?”
“Yeah, I was just going to get—”
“Let’s go. I don’t want to keep the lady waiting. And she’ll probably have coffee there.”
On the way out Bosch checked the incoming tray on the fax machine. His search warrant addendum had been signed and returned by Judge Houghton.
“We’re in business,” Bosch said to Edgar, showing him the warrant as they walked to the car. “See? You come in early, you get stuff done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Is that a crack on me?”
“It means what it means, I guess.”
“I just want some coffee.”
24
SHEILA Delacroix lived in a part of the city called the Miracle Mile. It was a neighborhood south of Wilshire that wasn’t quite up to the standards of nearby Hancock Park but was lined with nicely kept homes and duplexes with modest stylistic adjustments to promote individuality.
Delacroix’s home was the second floor of a duplex with pseudo–Beaux Arts styling. She invited the detectives into her home in a friendly manner, but when the first question Edgar asked was about coffee, she said it was against her religion. She offered tea, and Edgar reluctantly accepted. Bosch passed. He wondered which religion outlawed coffee.
They took seats in the living room while the woman made Edgar his tea in the kitchen. She called out to them, saying she only had an hour and then had to leave for work.
“What is it you do?” Bosch asked as she came out with a mug of hot tea, the tag from the tea bag looped over the side. She put it down on a coaster on a side table next to Edgar. She was a tall woman. She was slightly overweight with blonde hair cut short. Bosch thought she wore too much makeup.
“I’m a casting agent,” she said as she took a seat on the couch. “Mostly independent films, some episodic television. I’m actually casting a cop show this week.”
Bosch watched Edgar sip some tea and make a face. He then held the mug so he could read the tea bag tag.
“It’s a blend,” Delacroix said. “Strawberry and Darjeeling. Do you like it?”
Edgar put the mug down on its coaster.
“It’s fine.”
“Ms. Delacr
oix? If you’re in the entertainment business, did you by any chance know Nicholas Trent?”
“Please, just call me Sheila. Now, that name, Nicholas Trent. It sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it. Is he an actor or is he in casting?”
“Neither. He’s the man who lived up on Wonderland. He was a set designer—I mean, decorator.”
“Oh, the one on TV, the man who killed himself. Oh, no wonder it was familiar.”
“So you didn’t know him from the business, then?”
“No, not at all.”
“Okay, well I shouldn’t have asked that. We’re out of order here. Let’s just start with your brother. Tell us about Arthur. Do you have a picture we can look at?”
“Yes,” she said, as she stood up and walked behind his chair. “Here he is.”
She went to a waist-high cabinet Bosch hadn’t noticed behind him. There were framed photos on it displayed in much the same way he had seen the photos on Julia Brasher’s mantel. Delacroix chose one and turned around and handed it to Bosch.
The frame contained a photo of a boy and a girl sitting on a set of stairs Bosch recognized as the stairs they had climbed before knocking on her door. The boy was much smaller than the girl. Both were smiling at the camera and had the smiles of children who have been told to smile—a lot of teeth but not a legitimately turned-up mouth.
Bosch handed the photo to Edgar and looked at Delacroix, who had returned to the couch.
“Those stairs . . . was that taken here?”
“Yes, this is the home we grew up in.”
“When he disappeared, it was from here?”
“Yes.”
“Are any of his belongings still here in the house?”
Delacroix smiled sadly and shook her head.
“No, it’s all gone. I gave his things to the charity rummage sale at church. That was a long time ago.”
“What church is that?”
“The Wilshire Church of Nature.”
Bosch just nodded.
“They’re the ones who don’t let you have coffee?” Edgar asked.
“Nothing with caffeine.”
Edgar put the framed photo down next to his tea.
Michael Connelly Page 14