Trunk Music

by Michael Connelly

  “My mother, now my sister, who’s next, my wife?”

  “Yeah, I got something planned for her. I’ll—”

  “Shut up, would you? It’s not working, understand? You’re not getting to me. You can’t get to me. So save your strength.”

  “Everybody can be gotten to, Bosch. Remember that.”

  Bosch looked at him and then stepped into the master bathroom. It was a large room with a separate shower and tub, almost in the same configuration as the room Tony Aliso had used at the Mirage. The toilet was in a small closet-size room behind a door with a slatted grill. Bosch started there. He quickly lifted the top of the water tank and found nothing unusual. Before putting the porcelain top back in place he leaned over the toilet and looked down the wall behind the tank. What he saw made him immediately call for the uniform in the bedroom.

  “Yes, sir?” the cop said.

  He looked like he wasn’t yet twenty-five. His black skin had almost a bluish tint to it. He kept his hands on his equipment belt in a relaxed mode, his right just a few inches from his gun. It was the standard pose. Bosch saw that the nameplate above his breast pocket said Fontenot.

  “Fontenot, take a look down here behind the tank.”

  The cop did as he was asked without even taking his hands off his belt.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I think it’s a gun. Why don’t you step back and let me pull it out.”

  Bosch flattened his hand and reached it down into the two-inch space between the wall and the tank. His fingers closed on a plastic bag attached to the back of the tank with gray duct tape. He managed to pull it free and get the bag out. He held it up for Fontenot to see. The bag contained a blue metal pistol equipped with a three-inch screw-on silencer.

  “A twenty-two?” Fontenot asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Bosch said. “Go get Felton and Iverson, would you?”

  “Right away.”

  Bosch followed Fontenot out of the bathroom. He was holding the bag containing the gun the way a fisherman holds a fish by its tail. When he stepped into the bedroom he couldn’t help but smile at Goshen, whose eyes noticeably widened.

  “That ain’t mine,” Goshen immediately protested. “That’s a plant, you fuck! I don’t be—Get me my goddamned lawyer, you son of a bitch!”

  Bosch let the words go by but studied the look. He saw something flash in Goshen’s eyes. It was there for only a second and then he covered up. It wasn’t fear. He didn’t think that was something Goshen would let slip into his eyes. Bosch believed he had seen something else. But what? He looked at Goshen and waited a moment for the look to return. Was it confusion? Disappointment? Goshen’s eyes showed nothing now. But Bosch believed he knew the look. What he had seen had been surprise.

  Iverson, Baxter and Felton then filed into the room. They saw the gun and Iverson yelped in triumph.

  “Sayonara, bay-bee!”

  His glee showed on his face. Bosch explained how and where he had found the weapon.

  “These fuckhead gangsters,” Iverson said, looking at Goshen. “Think the cops never saw The Godfather? Who’d you put it there for, Goshen? Michael Corleone?”

  “I said get me my fucking lawyer!” Goshen yelled.

  “You’ll get your lawyer,” Iverson said. “Now get up, you piece of shit. You gotta get dressed for the ride in.”

  Bosch held him at gunpoint while Iverson took one of the cuffs off. Then they both pointed guns at him while he got dressed in black jeans, boots and T-shirt—the shirt manufactured for a much smaller man.

  “You guys are always tough in numbers,” Goshen said as he went about putting the clothes on. “You ever come up against me alone, then it’s going to be wet ass time.”

  “Come on, Goshen, we don’t have all day,” Iverson said.

  When he was done, they cuffed him and stuffed him into the back of Iverson’s car. Iverson locked the gun in the trunk, then they went back inside the house. In a short meeting inside the front hallway it was decided that Baxter and two of the other detectives would stay behind to finish the search of the house.

  “What about the women?” Bosch asked.

  “The uniforms will watch them until these boys are done,” Iverson said.

  “Yeah, but as soon as they leave they’ll be on the phone. We’ll have Goshen’s lawyer down our throat before we even get started.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Goshen’s got one car here, right? Where’s the keys?”

  “Kitchen counter,” one of the other detectives said.

  “Okay,” Iverson said. “We’re out of here.”

  Bosch followed him through the kitchen, watching him pocket the keys that were on the counter, and then out into the carport by the Corvette. There was a little workroom here with tools hanging on a peg board. Iverson selected a shovel and then stepped out of the carport and around to the back yard.

  Bosch followed and watched as Iverson found the spot where the telephone line came in from a pole at the street and connected to the house. He swung the shovel up and with one strike disconnected the line.

  “Amazing how strong the wind can get out here in the open desert,” he said.

  He looked around behind the house.

  “Those girls have no car and no phone,” he said. “Nearest house is a half mile, city’s about five. My guess is they’ll stay put a while. That’ll give us time. All we need.”

  Iverson took a baseball swing with the shovel and launched it out over the property wall and into the scrub brush. He started walking toward the front of the house and his car.

  “What do you think?” Bosch asked.

  “I think the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Goshen’s ours, Harry. Yours.”

  “No. I mean about the gun.”

  “What about it?”

  “I don’t know.…It seems too easy.”

  “Nobody said criminals gotta be smart. Goshen’s not smart. He’s just been lucky. But not anymore.”

  Bosch nodded but he still didn’t like it. It wasn’t really a question of being smart or not. Criminals followed routines, instincts. This didn’t make sense.

  “I saw something in his eyes when he saw the gun. Like he was just as surprised to see it as we were.”

  “Maybe. Maybe he’s just a good actor. And maybe it’s not even the right gun. You’ll have to take it back with you to run tests. Find out if it’s the gun, Harry, then worry about if it’s too easy.”

  Bosch nodded. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  “I don’t know. I feel like I’m missing something.”

  “Look, Harry, you want to make a case or not?”

  “I want a case.”

  “Then let’s take him in and put him in a room, see what he has to say.”

  They were at the car. Bosch realized he had left the photo of Layla inside. He told Iverson to start the car and he’d be right back. When he came back with the photo and got in, he checked Goshen in the back and saw a trickle of blood running down from the corner of his mouth. Bosch looked at Iverson, who was smiling.

  “I don’t know, he must’ve bumped his face getting in. Either that or he did it on purpose to make it look like I did it.”

  Goshen said nothing and Bosch just turned around. Iverson pulled the car out onto the road and they headed back toward the city. The temperature was climbing rapidly and Bosch could already feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his back. The air conditioner labored to overcome the heat that had built up in the car while they were inside the house. The air was as dry as old bones. Bosch finally took out the Chap Stick and rolled it across his sore lips. He didn’t care what Iverson or Goshen thought about it.

  They took Goshen up to the detective bureau in a back elevator in which Goshen audibly farted. Then Bosch and Iverson walked him down a hallway off the squad room and into an interview room barely larger than a rest-room stall. They handcuffed him to a steel ring bolted to the center of the table and locked him in. Then they left him ther
e. As Iverson closed the door, Goshen called after him that he wanted to make his phone call.

  Bosch noticed that the squad room was almost deserted as they walked back toward Felton’s office.

  “Somebody die?” Bosch asked. “Where is everybody?”

  “They’re out picking up the others.”

  “What others?”

  “The captain wanted to bring in your pal, Gussie, throw a scare at him. They’re bringing in the girl, too.”

  “Layla? They found her?”

  “No, not her. The one you had us run last night. The one that played with your victim at the Mirage. Turns out she’s got a jacket.”

  Bosch reached over and yanked Iverson’s arm to stop him.

  “Eleanor Wish? You’re bringing in Eleanor Wish?”

  He didn’t wait for Iverson’s reply. He broke away from the man and charged into Felton’s office. The captain was on the phone and Bosch paced anxiously in front of the desk waiting for him to hang up. Felton pointed at the door but Bosch shook his head. He could see Felton’s eyes start to smolder as he told whoever was on the other end of the line he had to go.

  “I can’t talk right now,” he said. “You don’t have to worry, it’s under control. I’ll talk to you.”

  He hung up and looked at Bosch.

  “What is it now?”

  “Call your people. Tell them to leave Eleanor Wish alone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She had nothing to do with this. I checked her out last night.”

  Felton leaned forward and clasped his hands together as he thought.

  “When you say you checked her out, what does that mean?”

  “I interviewed her. She had a passing acquaintance with the victim, that’s it. She’s clean.”

  “Do you know who she is, Bosch? I mean, do you know her history?”

  “She was an FBI agent assigned to the L.A. bank robbery squad. She went to prison five years ago on a conspiracy charge stemming from a series of burglaries involving bank safe deposit vaults. It doesn’t matter, Captain, she’s clean on this.”

  “I think it might be good to sweat her a little bit and take another go at her with one of my guys. Just to be sure.”

  “I’m already sure. Look, I—”

  Bosch looked back at the office door and saw Iverson hanging around, trying to listen in. Bosch walked over and closed the door, then pulled a chair away from the wall and sat right in front of Felton’s desk and leaned across to him.

  “Look, Captain, I knew Eleanor Wish in L.A. I worked that case with the bank vaults. I…we were more than just partners on it. Then it all turned to shit and she went away. I hadn’t seen her in five years until I saw her on the surveillance tape at the Mirage. That’s why I called you last night. I wanted to talk to her but not because of the case. She’s clean. She did her time and she’s clean. Now call your people.”

  Felton was quiet. Bosch could see the wheels turning.

  “I’ve been up most of the night working on this. I called your room a half dozen times to bring you in on it but you weren’t there. I don’t suppose you want to tell me where you were?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Felton thought some more and then shook his head.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t cut her loose yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there is something about her you apparently don’t know.”

  Bosch closed his eyes for a moment like a boy expecting to get slapped by an angry mother but steadying himself to take it.

  “What don’t I know?”

  “She might’ve only had a passing acquaintance with your victim, but she’s got more than that with Joey Marks and his group.”

  It was worse than he expected.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I put her name up for discussion with some of my people last night after you called. We’ve got her in a file. On numerous occasions she has been seen in the company of a man named Terrence Quillen who works for Goshen who works for Marks. Numerous times, Detective Bosch. In fact, I’ve got a team out looking for Quillen now. See what he has to say.”

  “In the company of, what does that mean?”

  “Looked like strictly business, according to the reports.”

  Bosch felt like he’d been punched. This was impossible. He had spent the night with the woman. The sense of betrayal was building in him but a deeper gut sense told him she was true, that this was all some huge mix-up.

  There was a knock on the door and Iverson poked his head in.

  “FYI, the others are back, boss. They’re puttin’ them in the interview rooms.”

  “Okay.”

  “You need anything?”

  “No, we’re fine. Close the door.”

  After Iverson left, Bosch looked at the captain.

  “Is she arrested?”

  “No, we asked her to come in voluntarily.”

  “Let me talk to her first.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “I don’t care if it’s wise. Let me go talk to her. If she’ll tell anybody, she’ll tell me.”

  Felton thought a moment and then finally nodded his head.

  “Okay, go ahead. You get fifteen minutes.”

  Bosch should have thanked him but didn’t. He just got up quickly and went to the door.

  “Detective Bosch?” Felton said.

  Harry looked back from the door.

  “I’ll do what I can for you on this. But this cuts us in in a big way, you understand that?”

  Bosch stepped out without answering. Felton had no finesse. It was understood without being said that Bosch was now beholden to him. But Felton had to say it anyway.

  In the hallway, Bosch passed the first interview room, where they had placed Goshen, and opened the door to the second. Sitting there handcuffed to the table was Gussie Flanagan. His nose was misshapen and looked like a new potato. He had cotton jammed into the nostrils. He looked at Bosch with bloodshot eyes and recognition showed on his face. Bosch backed out and closed the door without saying a word.

  Eleanor Wish was behind door number three. She was disheveled, obviously dragged from sleep by the Metro cops. But her eyes had the alert and wild quality of a cornered animal and that cut Bosch to the bone.

  “Harry! What are they doing?”

  He closed the door and moved quickly into the tiny room, touching her shoulder in a consoling manner and taking the seat across from her.

  “Eleanor, I’m sorry.”

  “What? What did you do?”

  “Yesterday when I saw you on the tape at the Mirage I asked Felton, he’s the captain here, to get me your number and address because you were unlisted. He did. But then without my knowledge he ran your name and pulled up your package. Then on his own he had his people get you this morning. It’s all part of this Tony Aliso thing.”

  “I told you. I didn’t know him. I had one drink with him once. Just because I happened by chance to be at the same table with him they bring me in?”

  She shook her head and looked away, the distress written on her face. This was the way it would always be, she now knew. The criminal record she carried would guarantee it.

  “I’ve got to ask you something. I want to get this cleared up and get you out of here.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about this man Terrence Quillen.”

  He saw the shock in her eyes.

  “Quillen? What does he—is he the suspect?”

  “Eleanor, you know how this works. I can’t tell you things. You tell me. Just answer the question. Do you know Terrence Quillen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He came up to me about six months ago when I was leaving the Flamingo. I had been out here four or five months. I was settling in, playing six nights a week by then. He came up to me and in his words told me what’s what. He somehow knew about me. Who I was, that I’d
just gotten out. He said there was a street tax. He said I had to pay it, that all the locals paid it, and that if I didn’t there’d be trouble. He said that if I did pay it, he’d watch out for me. Be there if I ever got in a jam. You know how it goes, extortion plain and simple.”