“You’ve never even seen her.”
“I’ve seen her picture.”
“What?” Edgar said. “What’s going on?”
“Do you think Tony Aliso knew who she was?” Rider asked, ignoring Edgar.
“Hard to say,” Bosch said. “If he did, it makes what happened to him easier to understand, easier to take. Maybe he was flaunting it with Veronica. Maybe it’s what sent her over the edge.”
“And Layla-slash-Gretchen?”
Edgar’s head was swiveling back and forth between them and the road, a look of confusion on his face.
“Something tells me she didn’t know. I think if she did, she would have told her grandmother. And the old lady didn’t know.”
“If he was just using her to get to Veronica, why’d he move all the money into her box?”
“He could’ve been using her but he also could’ve been in love with her. We’ll never know. Might’ve just been coincidence that it happened on the day he got killed. He could’ve just transferred the cash because he had the IRS on him. Maybe he was afraid they’d find out about the box and freeze his access to it. It could’ve been a lot of things. But we’ll never know now. Everybody’s dead.”
“Except for the girl.”
Edgar made a hard stop, pulling to the side of the road. Coincidentally, they happened to be across the street from Dolly’s on Madison.
“Is somebody gonna tell me what the hell is going on?” he demanded. “I do you people a favor and keep the car cool while you two go inside for a chat and then I’m left in the dark. Now what the hell are you two talking about?”
He was looking at Bosch in the rearview mirror.
“Just drive, Jed. Kiz will tell you when we get to the Flamingo.”
They drove into the front circle of the Hilton Flamingo and Bosch left them there. He moved quickly through the football field-sized casino, dodging rows of slot machines, until he reached the poker room, where Eleanor had said she would be when they were done. They had dropped her at the Flamingo that morning after she had shown them the bank she had once seen Tony Aliso going into with Gretchen Alexander.
There were five tables going in the poker room. Bosch quickly scanned the faces of the players but did not see Eleanor. Then, as he turned to look back across the casino, she was there, just as when she had appeared on the first night he’d gone looking for her.
“Harry.”
“Eleanor. I thought you’d be playing.”
“I couldn’t play while thinking about you out there. Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. We’re leaving.”
“Good. I don’t like Las Vegas anymore.”
He hesitated for a moment before saying anything. He almost faltered but then the resolve came back to him.
“There is that one stop I’d still like to make before we leave. The one we talked about. That is, if you’ve decided.”
She looked at him for a long moment and then a smile broke across her face.
IX
Bosch walked across the polished linoleum on the sixth floor of Parker Center, purposely driving his heels down with each step. He wanted to put scuff marks on the carefully tended finish. He turned into the alcove entrance to the Internal Affairs Division and asked the secretary behind the counter for Chastain. She asked if he had an appointment and Bosch told her he didn’t make appointments with people like Chastain. She stared at him a moment and he stared back until she picked up a phone and punched in an extension. After whispering into the line, she held the phone to her chest and looked up at Bosch and then eyed the shoebox and file he held in his hands.
“He wants to know what it’s about.”
“Tell him it’s about his case against me falling apart.”
She whispered some more and then Bosch was finally buzzed through the counter’s half door. He went into the IAD squad room, where several of the desks were occupied by investigators. Chastain stood up from behind one of these.
“What are you doing here, Bosch? You’re on suspension for letting that prisoner escape.”
He said it loudly so that the others in the squad room would know that Bosch was a guilty man.
“The chief cut it down to a week,” Bosch said. “I call that a vacation.”
“Well, that’s only round one. I still got your file open.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Chastain pointed to the interview room Bosch had been in the week before with Zane.
“Let’s talk in there.”
“No,” Bosch said. “We’re not talking, Chastain. I’m just showing.”
He dropped the file he was carrying on the desk. Chastain remained standing and looked at it without opening it.
“What is this?”
“It’s the end of the case. Open it.”
Chastain sat down and opened the file, exhaling loudly, as if he were embarking on a distasteful and worthless chore. On top was a copy of a page from the department’s manual of procedure and officer conduct. The manual was to IAD dicks what the state penal code was to the rest of the officers and investigators in the department.
The page in the file pertained to officers associating with known criminals, convicted felons and members of organized crime. Such association was strictly forbidden and punishable by dismissal from the department, according to the code.
“Bosch, you didn’t need to bring me this, I’ve got the whole book,” Chastain said.
He was trying out some light banter because he didn’t know what Bosch was doing and was well aware that his peers were watching from their desks while trying to act as if they weren’t.
“Yeah? Well, you better get your book out and read the bottom line there, pal. The exception.”
Chastain looked down at the bottom of the page.
“Says, ‘Exception to this code can be established if the officer can show to the satisfaction of superior officers a family relationship through blood or marriage. If that is established, officer must —’”
“That’s enough,” Bosch said.
He reached down and took the page so that Chastain could see what was in the rest of the file.
“What you have there, Chastain, is a marriage certificate issued in Clark County, Nevada, attesting to my marriage to Eleanor Wish. If that’s not good enough for you, beneath it are two affidavits from my partners. They witnessed the marriage. Best man and maid of honor.”
Chastain kept his eyes on the paperwork.
“It’s over, man,” Bosch said. “You lose. So get the fuck out of my life.”
Chastain leaned back. His face was red and he had an uncomfortable smile on his face. Now he was sure the others were watching.
“You’re telling me you got married just to avoid an IAD beef?”
“No, asshole. I got married because I love somebody. That’s why you get married.”
Chastain didn’t have a reply. He shook his head, looked at his watch and shuffled some papers while trying to act as though this was just a minor interruption in his day. He did everything but look at his nails.
“Yeah, I thought you’d run out of things to say,” Bosch said. “I’ll see you around, Chastain.”
He turned to walk away but then turned back to Chastain.
“Oh, and I almost forgot, you can tell your source our deal is done with, also.”
“What source, Bosch? Deal? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Fitzgerald or whoever you get your information from at OCID.”
“I don’t —”
“Sure you do. I know you, Chastain. You couldn’t have come up with Eleanor Wish on your own. You’ve got a pipeline over there to Fitzgerald. He told you about her. It was him or one of his people. Doesn’t matter to me who. Either way I’m out of a deal I made with him. You can tell him that.”
Bosch held the shoebox up and shook it. The videotape and audiotapes rattled inside it, but he could tell Chastain had no idea what was in the box or
what it meant.
“You tell him, Chastain,” he said again. “See you around.”
He finally left then, pausing only at the counter to give the secretary a thumbs-up sign. In the hallway, rather than turn left toward the elevators, he took a right and headed through the double doors of the chief of police’s office suite. The chief’s adjutant, a lieutenant in uniform, sat behind the reception desk. Bosch didn’t know him, which was good. He walked up and put the shoebox down on the desk.
“Can I help you? What’s this?”
“It’s a box, Lieutenant. It’s got some tapes the chief will want to watch and listen to. Right away.”
Bosch made a move to leave.
“Wait a minute,” the adjutant said. “Will he know what this is about?”
“Tell him to call Deputy Chief Fitzgerald. He can explain what it’s about.”
Bosch left then, not turning around when the adjutant called after him for his name. He slipped through the double doors and headed down to the elevator. He felt good. He didn’t know if anything would come of the illegal tapes he had given the police chief, but he felt that all decks were cleared. His show with the box earlier with Chastain would ensure that the word got back to Fitzgerald that this was exclusively Bosch’s play. Billets and Rider should be safe from recriminations by the OCID chief. He could come after Bosch if he wanted, but Bosch felt safe now. Fitzgerald had nothing on him anymore. No one did.
X
It was their first day on the beach after spending two days almost exclusively in their room. Bosch couldn’t get comfortable on the chaise lounge. He didn’t understand how people did this, just sit in the sun and bake. He was covered with lotion and there was sand caked between his toes. Eleanor had bought him a red bathing suit that he thought made him look foolish and that made him feel like a target. At least, he thought, it wasn’t one of those slingshot things some of the men on the beach were wearing.
He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. Hawaii was unbelievable. So beautiful it was like a dream. And the women were beautiful, too. Especially Eleanor. She lay beside him on her own lounge. Her eyes were closed and there was a small smile on her face. She wore a one-piece black bathing suit that was cut high on her hips and showed off her tanned and nicely muscled legs.
“What are you looking at?” she said without opening her eyes.
“Nothing. I just . . . I can’t get comfortable. I think I’m going to take a walk or something.”
“Why don’t you get a book to read, Harry? You have to relax. That’s what honeymoons are about. Sex, relaxation, good food and good company.”
“Well, two out of four isn’t bad.”
“What’s wrong with the food?”
“The food’s great.”
“Funny.”
She reached out and hit him in the arm. Then she, too, propped herself up on her elbows and gazed out at the shimmering blue water. They could see the spine of Molokini rising in the distance.
“It’s so beautiful here, Harry.”
“Yes, it is.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the people walking by at the water’s edge. Bosch brought his legs up, leaned forward and sat with his elbows on his knees. He could feel the sun burning into his shoulders. It was beginning to feel good.
He noticed a woman walking languidly along the edge. She had the attention of every man on the beach. She was tall and lithe and had long brownish-blond hair that was wet from the sea. Her skin was copper and she wore the smallest of bathing suits, just a few strings and triangles of black cloth.
As she passed in front of him, the glare dropped off Bosch’s sunglasses and he studied her face. The familiar lines and tilt of the jaw were there. He knew her.
“Harry,” Eleanor whispered then. “Is that . . . it looks like the dancer. The girl in that photo you had, the one I saw Tony with.”
“Layla,” Bosch said, not answering her but just to say the name.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t used to believe in coincidences,” he said.
“Are you going to call the bureau? The money’s probably right here on the island with her.”
Bosch watched the woman moving away. Her back was to him now and from that angle it was almost as if she were naked. Just a few strings from her suit were visible. The glare came back on his glasses at this angle and his vision of her was distorted. She was disappearing in the glare and the mist coming in from the Pacific.
“No, I’m not calling anybody,” he finally said.
“Why not?”
“She didn’t do anything,” he said. “She let some guy give her money. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe she was even in love with him.”
He watched for another moment, thinking about Veronica’s last words to him.
“Anyway, who’s going to miss the money?” he said. “The bureau? The LAPD? Some fat old gangster in a Chicago suburb with a bunch of bodyguards around him? Forget it. I’m not calling anybody.”
He took one last look at her. She was far away now and as she walked she was looking out to sea, the sun holding her face. Bosch nodded to her, but of course she didn’t see this. He then lay back down on the lounge and closed his eyes. Almost immediately he felt the sun begin penetrating his skin, doing its healing work. And then he felt Eleanor’s hand on top of his. He smiled. He felt safe. He felt like nobody could ever hurt him again.
Angels
Flight
This is for McCaleb Jane Connelly
1
The word sounded alien in his mouth, as if spoken by someone else. There was an urgency in his own voice that Bosch didn’t recognize. The simple hello he had whispered into the telephone was full of hope, almost desperation. But the voice that came back to him was not the one he needed to hear.
“Detective Bosch?”
For a moment Bosch felt foolish. He wondered if the caller had recognized the faltering of his voice.
“This is Lieutenant Michael Tulin. Is this Bosch?”
The name meant nothing to Bosch and his momentary concern about how he sounded was ripped away as an awful dread entered his mind.
“This is Bosch. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Hold please for Deputy Chief Irving.”
“What is —”
The caller clicked off and there was only silence. Bosch now remembered who Tulin was—Irving’s adjutant. Bosch stood still and waited. He looked around the kitchen; only the dim oven light was on. With one hand he held the phone hard against his ear, the other he instinctively brought up to his stomach, where fear and dread were twisting together. He looked at the glowing numbers on the stove clock. It was almost two, five minutes past the last time he had looked at it. This isn’t right, he thought as he waited. They don’t do this by phone. They come to your door. They tell you this face-to-face.
Finally, Irving picked up on the other end of the line.
“Detective Bosch?”
“Where is she? What happened?”
Another moment of excruciating silence went by as Bosch waited. His eyes were closed now.
“Excuse me?”
“Just tell me, what happened to her? I mean . . . is she alive?”
“Detective, I’m not sure what it is you are talking about. I’m calling because I need to muster your team as soon as possible. I need you for a special assignment.”
Bosch opened his eyes. He looked through the kitchen window into the dark canyon below his house. His eyes followed the slope of the hill down toward the freeway and then up again to the slash of Hollywood lights he could see through the cut of the Cahuenga Pass. He wondered if each light meant someone awake and waiting for someone who wasn’t going to come. Bosch saw his own reflection in the window. He looked weary. He could make out the deep circles etched beneath his eyes, even in the dark glass.
“I have an assignment, Detective,” Irving repeated impatiently. “Are you able to work or are you —”
“Well, I’m sorry if I woke you. But you should be used to it.”
“Yes. It’s no problem.”
Bosch didn’t tell him that he hadn’t been awakened by the call. That he had been roaming around in his dark house waiting.
“Then get it going, Detective. We’ll have coffee down here at the scene.”
“What scene?”
“We’ll talk about it when you get here. I don’t want to delay this any further. Call your team. Have them come to Grand Street between Third and Fourth. The top of Angels Flight. Do you know where I’m talking about?”
“Bunker Hill? I don’t —”
“It will be explained when you get here. Seek me out when you are here. If I am at the bottom come down to me before you speak with anyone.”
“What about Lieutenant Billets? She should —”
“She will be informed about what is happening. We’re wasting time. This is not a request. It is a command. Get your people together and get down here. Am I making myself clear to you?”
“You’re clear.”
“Then I will be expecting you.”
Irving hung up without waiting for a reply. Bosch stood with the phone still at his ear for a few moments, wondering what was going on. Angels Flight was the short inclined railroad that carried people up Bunker Hill in downtown—far outside the boundaries of the Hollywood Division homicide table. If Irving had a body down there at Angels Flight the investigation would fall under the jurisdiction of Central Division. If Central detectives couldn’t handle it because of caseload or personnel problems, or if the case was deemed too important or media sensitive for them, then it would be bumped to the bulls, the Robbery-Homicide Division. The fact that a deputy chief of police was involved in the case before dawn on a Saturday suggested the latter possibility. The fact that he was calling Bosch and his team in instead of the RHD bulls was the puzzle. Whatever it was that Irving had working at Angels Flight didn’t make sense.
The Harry Bosch Novels, Volume 2 Page 79