“No. We usually didn’t speak when he was over there.”
“And how often was it that he went?”
“Once or twice a month.”
“For how long each time?”
“Anywhere from two days to once he spent a week. Like I said, it all depended on how he was doing.”
“And you never called him there?” Rider asked.
“Rarely. Not at all this time.”
“Was it business or pleasure that took him there?” Bosch asked.
“He always told me it was both. He said he had investors to see. But it was an addiction. That’s what I believed. He loved to gamble and could afford to do it. So he went.”
Bosch nodded but didn’t know why.
“This last time, when did he go?”
“He went Thursday. After leaving the studio.”
“You saw him last then?”
“Thursday morning. Before he went to the studio. He left for the airport from there. It’s closer.”
“And you had no idea when to expect him back.”
He said it as a statement. It was out there for her to challenge if she wanted to.
“To be honest, I was just beginning to wonder tonight. It usually doesn’t take long for that place to separate a man from his money. I thought it was a little long, yes. But I didn’t try to track him down. And then you came.”
“What did he like to play over there?”
“Everything. But poker the most. It was the only game where you weren’t playing against the house. The house took a cut, but you were playing against the other players. That’s how he explained it to me once. Only he called the other players schmucks from Iowa.”
“Was he always alone over there, Mrs. Aliso?”
Bosch looked down at his notebook and acted as if he was writing something important and that her answer wasn’t. He knew it was cowardly.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Did you ever go with him at all?”
“I don’t like to gamble. I don’t like that city. That city is a horrible place. They can dress it up all they want, it’s still a city of vices and whores. Not just the sexual kind.”
Bosch studied the cool anger in her dark eyes.
“You didn’t answer the question, Mrs. Aliso,” Rider said.
“What question?”
“Did you ever go to Las Vegas with him?”
“At first, yes. But I found it boring. I haven’t been in years.”
“Was your husband in any kind of serious debt?” Bosch asked.
“I don’t know. If he was, he didn’t tell me. You can call me Veronica.”
“You never asked if he was getting into trouble?” Rider asked.
“I just assumed that he would tell me if he was.”
She turned the hard dark eyes on Rider now, and Bosch felt a weight lift off him. Veronica Aliso was challenging them to disagree.
“I know this probably makes me some kind of a suspect, but I don’t care,” she said. “You have your job to do. It must be obvious to you that my husband and I . . . let’s just say we coexisted here. So as to your questions about Nevada, I couldn’t tell you whether he was a million up or a million down. Who knows, he could’ve beaten the odds. But I think he would have bragged about it if he had.”
Bosch nodded and thought about the body in the trunk. It didn’t seem like that of a man who had beaten any odds.
“Where did he stay in Las Vegas, Mrs. Aliso?”
“Always at the Mirage. I do know that. You see, not all of the casinos have poker tables. The Mirage has a classy one. He always said that if I needed to call, call there. Ask for the poker pit if there was no answer in the room.”
Bosch took a few moments to write this down. He found that often silence was the best way to get people to talk and reveal themselves. He hoped Rider realized that he was leaving holes of silence in the interview on purpose.
“You asked if he went there alone.”
“Yes?”
“Detectives, in the course of your investigation I believe you will undoubtedly learn that my husband was a philanderer. I ask only one thing of you, please do your best to keep that information from me. I simply don’t want to know.”
Bosch nodded and was silent a moment while he composed his thoughts. What kind of woman wouldn’t want to know, he wondered. Maybe one who already did. He looked back at her and their eyes connected again.
“Aside from gambling, was your husband in any other kind of trouble as far as you know?” he asked. “Work-related, financial?”
“As far as I know he wasn’t. But he kept the finances. I could not tell you what our situation is at the moment. When I needed money I asked him, and he always said cash a check and tell him the amount. I have a separate account for household expenses.”
Without looking up from the notebook, Bosch said, “Just a few more and we’ll leave you alone for now. Did your husband have any enemies that you know of? Anybody who would want to harm him?”
“He worked in Hollywood. Back stabbing is considered an art form there. Anthony was as skilled at it as anyone else who has been in the industry twenty-five years. Obviously that means there could always be people who were unhappy with him. But who would do this, I don’t know.”
“The car . . . the Rolls-Royce is leased to a production company over at Archway Studios. How long had he worked there?”
“His office was there, but he didn’t work for Archway per se. TNA Productions is his . . . was his own company. He simply rented an office and a parking spot on the Archway lot. But he had about as much to do with Archway as you do.”
“Tell us about his production company,” Rider said. “Did he make films?”
“In a manner of speaking. You could say he started big and ended small. About twenty years ago he produced his first film. The Art of the Cape. If you saw it, you were one of the few. Bullfight movies are not popular. But it was critically acclaimed, played the film festival circuit and then the art houses and it was a good start for him.”
She said that Aliso had managed to make a couple more films for general release. But after that his production and moral values steadily declined, until he was producing a procession of exploitative dreck.
“These films, if you want to call them that, are notable only for the number of exposed breasts in them,” she said. “In the business, it’s called straight-to-video stock. In addition to that Tony was quite successful in literary arbitrage.”
“What is that?”
“He was a speculator. Mostly scripts, but he did manuscripts, books on occasion.”
“And how would he speculate on them?”
“He’d buy them. Wrap up the rights. Then when they became valuable or the author became hot, he’d go to market with them. Do you know who Michael St. John is?”
The name sounded familiar but Bosch could not place it. He shook his head. Rider did the same.
“He’s one of the screenwriters of the moment. He’ll be directing studio features within a year or so. He’s the flavor-of-the-month, so to speak.”
“Okay.”
“Well, eight years ago when he was in the USC film school and was hungry and was trying to find an agent and trying to catch the attention of the studios, my husband was one of the vultures who circled overhead. You see, my husband’s films were so low-budget that he’d get students to shoot them, direct them, write them. So he knew the schools and he knew talent. Michael St. John was one he knew had talent. Once when he was desperate, he sold Anthony the rights to three of his student screenplays for two thousand dollars. Now, anything with St. John’s name on it goes for at least six figures.”
“What about these writers, how do they take this?”
“Not well. St. John was trying to buy his scripts back.”
“You think he could have harmed your husband?”
“No. You asked me what he did and I told you. If you are asking who would kill him, I don’t know.”
&
nbsp; Bosch jotted a couple of notes down.
“You mentioned that he said that he saw investors when he went to Las Vegas,” Rider said.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us who they were?”
“Schmucks from Iowa, I would assume. People he would meet and persuade to invest in a movie. You’d be surprised how many people jump at a chance to be part of a Hollywood movie. And Tony was a good salesman. He could make a two-million budget flick sound like the sequel to Gone With the Wind. He convinced me.”
“How so?”
“He talked me into being in one of his movies once. That’s how I met him. Made it sound like I was going to be the new Jane Fonda. You know, sexy but smart. It was a studio picture. Only the director was a coke addict and the writer couldn’t write and the movie was so bad it was never released. That was it for my career and Tony never made a studio picture again. He spent the rest of his life making video garbage.”
Looking around the tall-ceilinged room at the paintings and furniture, Bosch said, “Doesn’t look like he did too badly at it.”
“No, he didn’t,” she responded. “I guess we have those people from Iowa to thank for that.”
Her bitterness was stifling. Bosch looked down at his notebook just so he could avert his eyes from her.
“All this talk,” she said then. “I need some water. Do either of you want something?”
“Water would be fine,” Bosch said. “We’re not going to be much longer.”
“Detective Rider?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.”
While she was gone Bosch stood up and looked around the living room in a manner that suggested he wasn’t really interested. He said nothing to Rider. He was standing near a side table looking at a carved glass figurine of a nude woman when Veronica Aliso came back in with two glasses of ice water.
“I just want to ask you a few more questions about this past week,” Bosch said.
“Fine.”
He sipped from his glass and remained standing.
“What would your husband have taken with him to Las Vegas as far as luggage went?”
“Just his overnighter.”
“What did it look like?”
“It was a hanging bag that, you know, folded over. It was green with brown leather trim and straps. He had a name tag on it.”
“Did he take a briefcase or any work with him?”
“Yes, his briefcase. It was one of those aluminum shell kind. You know, they are lightweight but impossible to break into or something. Is the luggage missing?”
“We’re not sure. Do you know where he kept the key to the briefcase?”
“On his key chain. With the car keys.”
There had been no car keys in the Rolls or on Aliso’s body. Bosch realized that the reason they might have been taken was to open the briefcase. He put the glass down next to the figurine and looked at it again. He then began writing the descriptions of the briefcase and hanging bag in his notebook.
“Did your husband wear a wedding ring?”
“No. He did wear quite an expensive watch, though. It was a Rolex. I gave it to him.”
“The watch was not taken.”
“Oh.”
Bosch looked up from his notebook.
“Do you remember what your husband was wearing on Thursday morning? When you last saw him?”
“Um, just clothes . . . uh, he had on his white pants and a blue shirt and his sport coat.”
“His black leather sport coat?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Aliso, do you remember if you hugged him or kissed him good-bye?”
This seemed to fluster her, and Bosch immediately regretted the way he had phrased the question.
“I’m sorry. What I meant was that we found some fingerprints on the jacket. On the shoulder. And if you might have touched him there on the day he left, it could explain this piece of evidence.”
She was quiet a moment and Bosch thought that she was finally going to begin to cry. But instead, she said, “I might have but I don’t remember. . . . I don’t think I did.”
Bosch opened his briefcase and looked for a print screen. He found one in one of the pockets. It looked like a photo slide but the center was a double-sided screen with ink between the screens. A thumb could be pressed on the A side and a fingerprint would be imprinted on a card held against the B side.
“I want to take your thumbprint so we can compare it to the print taken off the jacket. If you did not touch him there, then it might be a good lead for us.”
She stepped over to him and he pressed her right thumb down on the print screen. When he was done she looked at her thumb.
“No ink.”
“Yes, that’s nice. No mess. We just started using these a few years ago.”
“The print on the jacket, did it belong to a woman?”
He looked at her and held her eyes for a moment.
“We won’t know for sure until we get a match.”
As he put the card and the print screen back in the briefcase, he noticed the evidence bag containing the poppers. He took it out and held it up for her to look at.
“Do you know what these are?”
She narrowed her eyes and shook her head no.
“Amyl nitrate poppers. Some people use them to enhance sexual performance and satisfaction. Do you know if your husband ever used these?”
“You found them with him?”
“Mrs. Aliso, I’d rather that you’d just answer my questions. I know this is difficult, but there are some things I can’t tell you yet. I will when I can. I promise.”
“No, he didn’t use them . . . with me.”
“I’m sorry that I have to be so personal, but we want to catch the person who did this. We both want that. Now, your husband was about ten or twelve years older than you.” He was being charitable here. “Did he have problems performing sexually? Is there any chance he might have been using poppers without your knowledge?”
She turned to go back to her chair. When she was seated again she said, “I wouldn’t know.”
Now Bosch narrowed his eyes. What was she trying to say? His silence worked. She answered before he had to ask, but as she spoke she looked directly at Rider, the unspoken message being that as a woman Rider might sympathize.
“Detective, I haven’t had . . . I guess, sexual relations is the way it is said in these matters. My husband and I . . . not in almost two years.”
Bosch nodded and looked down at his notebook. The page was blank but he couldn’t bring himself to write this latest piece of information down with her watching them. He folded the notebook closed and put it away.
“You want to ask me why, don’t you?”
He just looked at her and she answered with a measure of defiance in her face and voice.
“He had lost interest.”
“Are you sure?”
“He told me that to my face.”
Bosch nodded.
“Mrs. Aliso, I’m sorry for the loss of your husband. I’m also sorry for the intrusion and the personal questions. I’m afraid, though, that there will be more as the investigation progresses.”
“I understand.”
“There is one other thing I’d like to cover.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Did your husband have a home office?”
“Yes.”
“Could we take a quick look at it?”
She stood up and they followed her down the second hallway to the office. They both stepped into the room and Bosch looked around. It was a small room with a desk and two file cabinets. There was a TV on a cart in front of a wall of shelves. Half were filled with books and the rest stacked with scripts, the titles written with Magic Markers on the edges of the pages. There was a golf bag leaning in the corner.
Bosch walked over and studied the desk. It was spotless. He came around and saw that the desk contained two file drawers. He opened the
se and found one empty and one containing several files. He quickly looked through the file tabs and saw that they apparently were files containing personal finance records and tax documents. He closed the drawers, deciding that a search of the office could probably keep.
“It’s late,” he said. “This is not the time. I want you to understand, though, that investigations like this often shoot off into many directions. But we have to follow up on everything. We’re going to need to come in here tomorrow and go through your husband’s things. We’ll probably take a lot with us. We’ll have a warrant so everything will be perfectly legal.”
“Yes. Of course. But can’t I just give you permission to take what you need?”
“You could, but it would be better this way. I’m talking about check books, savings account records, credit card statements, insurance, everything. We’ll probably need the records on your household account, too.”
“I understand. What time?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll call first. Or someone will. Do you know, did your husband leave a will?”
“Yes. Both of us made wills. They’re with our attorney.”
“How long ago was that?”
“The will? Oh, a long time. Years.”
“In the morning, I’d like you to call the attorney and tell him we’ll need a copy of it. Are you up to doing that?”
“Of course.”
“What about insurance?”
“Yes, we have policies. The attorney, Neil Denton in Century City, will have them also.”
“Okay, we’ll worry about that tomorrow. I need to seal this room now.”
They stepped back into the hallway and Bosch closed the door. From his briefcase he took a sticker that said
CRIME SCENE
DO NOT ENTER PREMISES
CALL LAPD 213 485-4321
Bosch pressed the sticker across the doorjamb. If anyone entered the room now, they would have to cut the sticker or peel it off. Bosch would know.
“Detective?” Veronica Aliso said quietly from behind him.
Bosch turned around.
“I am the suspect, aren’t I?”
Bosch put the two papers he had peeled off the back of the sticker in his pocket.
“I suppose everyone and no one is a suspect at this point. We’re looking at everything. But, yes, Mrs. Aliso, we’re going to be looking at you.”
The Harry Bosch Novels, Volume 2 Page 44