Bosch ignored it.
“I take it you know that Howard Elias was murdered last night?” he asked.
“Course I know. Been sittin’ here watchin’ it all got-damned day.”
“Then why’d you say you wouldn’t talk to us without your lawyer if you knew your lawyer was dead?”
“I got more than one lawyer, dumbshit. I also got a crim’nal lawyer and I got a entertainment lawyer. I got lawyers, don’t worry. And I’ll get another to take Howie’s place. I’m gonna need ’em, man, ’specially after they start cuttin’ up in South Central. I’mma have my own riot like Rodney. That’ll put me on top.”
Bosch could barely follow Harris’s line of thought but he understood enough to know Harris was on a power trip at his own community’s expense.
“Well, let’s talk about your late lawyer, Howard Elias. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night, but you already know that, right Chet?”
“Till when?”
“Till we walked out the muthafuckin’ door. Are you throwin’ down on me, man?”
“What?”
“You in-ter-OH-gatin’ me, man?”
“I’m trying to find out who killed Elias.”
“You did that. You people got him.”
“Well, that’s a possibility. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Harris laughed as if what Bosch had said was absurd.
“Yeah, you know that thing they say about the kettle and the pot, that’s what that is.”
“We’ll see. When did you two part company? You and Howard Elias.”
“When he went to his apartment and I went home.”
“Which was when?”
“I don’t know, Chet. Quarter to ’leven, ’leven a’clock. I don’t wear a watch. People tell me the time when I want to know it. They say on the news he got his ass shot at ’leven, so we left quarter of.”
“Had he mentioned any threats? Was he afraid of anyone?”
“He wasn’t afraida shit. But he knew he was a dead man.”
“What do you mean?”
“You people is what I mean. He knew you would come gunnin’ for him someday. Somebody finally did. Prob’ly come for me, too, one day. Tha’s why as soon as I get my money I’m splittin’ this place. All you cops can have it. And tha’s all I got to say, Chet.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Because that’s what you are. You’re a Chet, Chet.”
Harris’s smile was a challenge. Bosch held his gaze for a moment, then turned to Entrenkin and nodded. She took it from there.
“Michael, do you know who I am?”
“Sure, I seen ya on the TV. Just like Mr. Elias. I know you.”
“Then you know I am not a police officer. My job is to make sure the police officers in this city are honest and do their jobs the way they should be done.”
Harris snickered.
“You got a lot a work ’head you, lady.”
“I know that, Michael. But the reason I am here is to tell you that I think these three detectives want to do what is right. They want to find the person who killed Howard Elias, whether it is a cop or not. And I want to help them. You should want to help as well. You owe Howard that much. So will you please answer a few more questions?”
Harris looked around the room and at the gun in his hand. It was a Smith & Wesson 9 millimeter with a satin finish. Bosch wondered if Harris would have brandished it in front of them if he knew the murder weapon was a nine. Harris shoved the weapon into the crack between the seat cushion and the arm of the big chair.
“Okay, I guess. But not Chet. I don’ talk to white cops or Tom boys. You ask me.”
Entrenkin looked back at Bosch and then back to Harris.
“Michael, I want the detectives to ask the questions. They are better at it than me. But I think it’s okay for you to answer.”
Harris shook his head.
“You don’t unnerstand, lady. Why should I help these fuckers? These people tortured me for no fucking reason. I ain’t got forty percent of my hearing because of the L-A-P-D. I ain’t cop-eratin’. Now if you got a question, then you ask it.”
“Okay, Michael, that’s fine,” Entrenkin said. “Tell me about last night. What did you and Howard work on?”
“We worked on my testimony. Only you know how the cops call it testi-lying on account they never tell the damn truth when it comes to the brothers? Well, I call it my testi-money ’cause the LAPD is going to pay my ass for framin’ me and then fuckin’ with me. Damn right.”
Bosch picked up the questioning as though Harris had never said he wouldn’t speak to him. “Did Howard tell you that?”
“Sure did, Mr. Chet.”
“Did he say he could prove it was a frame?”
“Yeah, ’cause he knew who really done the murder a that little white girl and then put her in the lot near my place. An’ it wudn’t me. He was goin’ to court Monday to start to ’zonerate me completely and get my money, my man Howard.”
Bosch waited a beat. The next question and answer would be crucial.
“Who?”
“Who what?”
“Who really did the murder? Did he tell you?”
“Nope. He said I didn’t need to know. Said it was dangerous to know that shit. But I bet it’s in there in his files. He ain’t gonna get away again.”
Bosch glanced at Entrenkin.
“Michael, I spent all day with the files. Yes, there are indications that Howard knew who killed Stacey Kincaid but no name was recorded anywhere. Are you sure he never told you a name or gave you any indication of who this person was?”
Harris was momentarily nonplussed. He evidently realized that if Elias went down with the murderer’s name kept to himself, his case might have gone down a few notches as well. He would always carry the stigma of being a murderer who got off because a slick defense lawyer knew how to play a jury.
“Got-damn,” he said.
Bosch came over and sat on the corner of the coffee table, so that he could be close to Harris.
“Think hard,” he said. “You spent a lot of time with him. Who would it be?”
“I don’t know,” Harris said defensively. “Whyn’t you ask Pelfry about it, man?”
“Who is Pelfry?”
“Pelfry’s his leg man. His investigator.”
“You know his whole name?”
“I think it’s somethin’ like Jenks or somethin’.”
“Jenks?”
“Yeah, Jenks. Tha’s what Howard call him.”
Bosch felt a finger poke his shoulder and he turned to see Entrenkin give him a look. She knew who Pelfry was. He could let it go. Bosch stood up and looked down at Harris.
“You came back here last night after you left Elias?”
“Yeah, sure. Why?”
“Anybody with you? You call anybody?”
“What the fuck is this? You’re throwin’ down on me, man.”
“It’s routine. Relax. We ask everybody where they’ve been. Where were you?”
“I was here, man. I was beat. I came home and got in my bed. Ain’t nobody with me.”
“Okay. Mind if I have a look at your pistola for a second?”
“Jesus Christ, I shoulda known you people weren’t on the level. Got-damn.”
He pulled the gun out from the side of the chair cushion and handed it to Bosch. Bosch kept his eyes on Harris’s until the gun was safely in his hand. He then studied the weapon and smelled the barrel. He smelled no oil or burned gunpowder. He ejected the cartridge and thumbed out the top bullet. It was a Federal, full metal jacket. A very popular brand and make of ammunition, Bosch knew, and the same brand used in the Angels Flight murders. He looked back down at Harris.
“You’re a convicted felon, Mr. Harris. You realize it is a crime for you to have this weapon?”
“Not in my house, man. I need protection.”
“Anywhere, I’m afraid. This could send you back to p
rison.”
Harris smiled at him. Bosch could see one of his incisors was gold with a star etched on the front.
“Then take me away, man.”
He raised his arms, offering his wrists for the handcuffs.
“Take me away and watch this muthafuckin’ place burn, baby, burn.”
“No. Actually I was thinking of cutting you a break, seeing how you’ve been so helpful tonight. But I’m going to have to keep the weapon. I’d be committing a crime if I left it here with you.”
“Be my gues’, Chet. I can always get what I need from my car. Know what I mean?”
He said Chet the way some white people say the word nigger.
“Sure. I know what you mean.”
They waited for the elevator in silence. Once they were inside and descending Entrenkin spoke.
“Does that gun match?”
“It’s the same kind. Ammo’s the same. We’ll have the lab check it, but I sort of doubt he would have kept it around if he killed Elias with it. He’s not that stupid.”
“What about his car? He said he could get anything from his car.”
“He didn’t mean his car car. He meant his crew. His people. Together they’re a car, driving somewhere together. It’s a saying that comes from county lockup. Eight people to a cell. They call them cars. What about Pelfry? You know him?”
“Jenkins Pelfry. He’s a PI. An independent. I think he’s got an office over in the Union Law Center in downtown. A lot of the civil rights lawyers use him. Howard was using him on this.”
“We have to talk to him then. Thanks for telling us.”
There was annoyance in Bosch’s voice. He looked at his watch. He figured it was too late to try to run down Pelfry.
“Look, it’s in the files I gave you,” Entrenkin protested. “You didn’t ask me about it. How was I to know to tell you.”
“You’re right. You didn’t know.”
“If you want, I could put a call — ”
“No, that’s okay. We’ve got it from here, Inspector. Thanks for your help with Harris. We probably wouldn’t have gotten up there to see him without you along.”
“You think he had anything to do with the murders?”
“I’m not thinking anything yet.”
“I seriously doubt he’s involved.”
Bosch just looked at her, hoping his eyes conveyed that he believed she was treading into areas where she had neither expertise nor a mandate to be.
“We’ll give you a ride back,” he said. “Your car at the Bradbury?”
She nodded. They were crossing the lobby to the doors.
“Detective, I want to be kept apprised of the case and any significant developments.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to Chief Irving in the morning and see how he wants to do that. He might prefer to keep you informed himself.”
“I don’t want the whitewashed version. I want to hear it from you.”
“Whitewashed? You think that whatever I tell you won’t be whitewashed? I’m flattered, Inspector.”
“A poor choice of words. But my point being I would rather hear it from you than after it has been processed by the department’s management.”
Bosch looked at her as he held the door.
“I’ll remember that.”
19
KIZ Rider had run the telephone number from the Mistress Regina web page through the criss-cross directory contained on a CD-ROM in the squad room computer. The phone was assigned to an address on North Kings Road
in West Hollywood. This did not mean that the address would be where they would find the woman, however. Most prostitutes, late-night masseuses and so-called exotic entertainers used elaborate call-forwarding systems to make it hard for law enforcement agencies to find them.
Bosch, Rider and Edgar pulled to the curb at the intersection of Melrose and Kings and Bosch used his phone to call the number. A woman answered after four rings. Bosch went into his act.
“Mistress Regina?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“My name is Harry. I was wondering if you were available tonight?”
“Have we had a session before?”
“No. I saw your web page and thought . . .”
“Thought what?”
“I thought I might want to try a session.”
“How advanced are you?”
“I don’t under — ”
“What are you into?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’d like to try it out.”
“You know there is no sex, right? No physical contact. I play mind games with people. Nothing illegal.”
“I understand.”
“Do you have a secure phone number that I can call you back at?”
“What do you mean secure?”
“I mean no pay phones!” she said harshly. “You have to give me a real number.”
Bosch gave her his cell phone number.
“Okay. I’ll call you back in one minute. Be there.”
“I will.”
“I will ask for three-six-seven. That is you. You are not a person to me. You do not have a name. You are simply a number.”
“Three-six-seven. I understand.”
He closed the phone and looked at his partners.
“We’ll know if it worked in about a minute.”
“You sounded nice and subservient, Harry,” Rider said.
“Thank you. I try my best.”
“You sounded like a cop to me,” Edgar said.
“We’ll see.”
Bosch turned the car on, just to be doing something. Rider yawned and then he had to. Then Edgar joined in.
The phone rang. It was Mistress Regina. She asked for him by number.
“You can come to me in one hour. I require a donation of two hundred dollars for a one-hour session. Cash only and in advance. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Uh, yes, Mistress Regina.”
“That’s very good.”
Bosch looked over at Rider, who was in the front passenger seat, and winked. She smiled back at him.
Regina gave the address and apartment number. Bosch turned the overhead light on and looked over at Rider’s notes. The address he had just been given was the same one Rider had but the apartment number was different. He told Regina he would be there and they ended the call.
“It’s a go. But not for an hour. She uses a different apartment in the same building.”
“We gonna wait?” Edgar asked.
“Nope. I want to get home and get some sleep.”
Bosch turned the car onto Kings Road
and cruised a half block up until they found the address. It was a small apartment building made of wood and stucco. There was no parking anywhere so he pulled into a red zone in front of a fireplug and they got out. He didn’t really care if Regina had a front apartment and saw the slickback. They weren’t coming to make an arrest. All they wanted was information.
Apartments six and seven were in the back of the building anyway. Their doors were side by side. Bosch guessed the woman who called herself Mistress Regina lived in one apartment and worked in the other. They knocked on the work door.
And got no answer.
Edgar hit the door again, harder, and this time kicked it a couple times as well. Finally, a voice was heard from the other side.
“What is it?”
“Open up. Police.”
Nothing.
“Come on, Regina, we need to ask you some questions. That’s all. Open the door or we’ll have to break the lock. Then what are you gonna do?”
It was a baseless threat. Bosch knew he had no legal power to do anything if she didn’t want to open her door.
Finally, Bosch heard the locks turning and the door opened to reveal the angry face of the woman Bosch recognized from the photo print he had found in Howard Elias’s office.
“What do you want? Let me see some ID.”
Angels Flight (1998) Page 21