Angels Flight

by Michael Connelly

  Bosch drove for a little bit, thinking about things.

  ‘Why don’t you get some stuff from your place and come stay at my house? The reporters won’t find you. Until this blows over.’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. Your house is the size of a box of Girl Scout cookies. I’m already claustrophobic from being in that room all day. Besides, I never met your wife, you know? She’s not going to want some stranger sleeping on your couch.’

  Bosch looked at the Capitol Records building as the freeway cut past it. It was supposed to resemble a stack of records with a phonograph stylus on top. But like most of Hollywood time had passed it by. They didn’t make records anymore. Music came on compact discs. They sold record albums in secondhand stores now. Sometimes all of Hollywood seemed like a secondhand story to Bosch.

  ‘My house got wrecked in the earthquake,’ Bosch said. ‘It’s rebuilt now. I even have a guest room ... and, Frankie, my wife left me, too.’

  It felt strange to say it out loud. As if it was some form of confirmation of the death of his marriage.

  ‘Oh, shit, Harry, you guys only got married a year or so ago. When did this happen?’

  Bosch looked over at him and then back at the road.

  ‘Recently.’

  There were no reporters waiting outside Sheehan’s home when they got there twenty minutes later. Bosch said he was going to wait in the car and make some calls while Sheehan got his things. When he was alone he called his house to check for messages, so he wouldn’t have to play them in front of Sheehan when they got there. But there were none. He put the phone away and just sat. He wondered if his inviting Sheehan to stay at his house had been a subconscious effort to avoid facing the emptiness of the place. After a while he decided it wasn’t. He had lived alone most of his life. He was used to places that were empty. He knew the real shelter of a home was inside yourself.

  Light washing across the mirrors caught Bosch’s eyes. He checked the side view and saw the lights of a car that was being parked against the curb a block or so back. He doubted it was a reporter. A reporter would have pulled right into Sheehan’s driveway, made no effort at concealment. He started thinking about what he wanted to ask Sheehan.

  A few minutes later his former partner came out of the house carrying a grocery bag. He opened the back door and tossed it in, then got in up front. He was smiling.

  ‘Margie took all the suitcases,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize that till tonight.’

  They took Beverly Glen up the hill to Mulholland and then took it east to Woodrow Wilson. Bosch usually loved driving Mulholland at night. The curving road, the city lights coming in and out of view. But along the way they drove by The Summit and Bosch studied the gate and thought about the Kincaids somewhere behind it in the safety of their home with jetliner views.

  ‘Frankie, I have to ask you something,’ he said.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Back on the Kincaid thing, during the investigation, did you talk to Kincaid much? Sam Kincaid, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Guy like that you handled with kid gloves. Him and the old man. You be careful, else it might come back on you.’

  ‘Yeah. So you were pretty much keeping him informed on what was happening?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much. What about it? You’re sounding like those bureau guys who were all over me all day, Harry.’

  ‘Sorry, just asking. Did he call you a lot or did you call him?’

  ‘Both ways. He also had a security guy who was talking to us, staying in touch.’

  ’D.C. Richter?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him. Harry, you going to tell me what’s goin’ on or what?’

  ‘In a minute. Let me ask you something first. How much did you tell Kincaid or Richter about Michael Harris, you remember?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, I’m not saying you did anything wrong. A case like that, you keep the principals involved and informed. So did you go to them and tell them you had brought Harris in on the fingerprints and, you know, that you were smoking him in the rooms?’

  ‘Sure we did. Standard operating procedure.’

  ‘Right. And did you tell them about who Harris was and where he came from, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I suppose I did.’

  Bosch let it go for a while. He turned onto Woodrow Wilson and drove the winding road down to the house. He pulled into the carport.

  ‘Hey, this looks nice,’ Sheehan said.

  Bosch put the car into park but paused before getting out.

  ‘Did you tell the Kincaids or Richter specifically where Harris lived?’ he asked.

  Sheehan looked over at him.

  ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘I’m asking you. Did you tell any of them where Harris lived?’

  ‘I might have. I don’t remember.’

  Bosch got out and headed to the kitchen door. Sheehan got his stuff out of the back seat and followed.

  ‘Talk to me, Hieronymus.’

  Bosch unlocked the door.

  ‘I think you made a mistake.’

  He went inside.

  ‘Talk to me, Hieronymus.’

  Bosch led Sheehan to the guest room and Sheehan threw his bag onto the bed. Back out in the hall Bosch pointed into the bathroom and headed back into the living room. Sheehan was silent, waiting.

  ‘The toilet handle in that one is broken,’ Bosch said, not looking at him. ‘You have to hold it down the whole time it’s flushing.’

  He now looked at his former partner.

  ‘We can explain Harris’s fingerprints. He didn’t abduct or kill Stacey Kincaid. In fact, we don’t even think there was an abduction. Kincaid killed his stepdaughter. He was abusing her and killed her, then staged the abduction scene. He got lucky when the prints on the book tied in Harris. He then used it. We think it was him — or his man, Richter — who dumped the body near Harris’s place because he knew where that place was. So think, Francis. I don’t want probablys. I need to know if you told Kincaid or his security man where Harris lived.’

  Sheehan looked dumbfounded and his eyes wandered to the floor.

  ‘You’re saying we were wrong about Harris ...’

  ‘You guys had blinders on, man. Once those prints came up, you could only see Harris.’

  Sheehan kept his eyes on the floor and slowly nodded his head.

  ‘We all make mistakes, Frankie. Sit down and think about what I just asked. What did you tell Kincaid and at what point did you tell him? I’ll be right back.’

  While he left Sheehan to ponder what he had just been told, Bosch went back down the hall to his bedroom. He stepped in and looked around. It looked the same. He opened the door to the walk-in closet and hit the light. Eleanor’s clothes were gone. He looked down at the floor. Her shoes had been cleared out as well. On the rug he saw a little bundle of netting tied with a blue ribbon. He bent down and picked it up. The netting was wrapped around a handful of rice. He remembered that the chapel in Las Vegas had provided the rice bundles as part of the wedding package — for tossing at the happy couple. Eleanor had kept one as a keepsake. Now Bosch wondered if she had mistakenly left it behind or had simply discarded it.

  Bosch dropped the bundle into his pocket and turned off the light.

  28

  Edgar and Rider had rolled the television out of the lieutenant’s office and were watching the news when Bosch walked into the squad room after leaving Sheehan at his house. They barely looked up to acknowledge him.

  ‘What?’ Bosch asked.

  ‘I guess people didn’t like us cutting Sheehan loose,’ Edgar said.

  ‘Sporadic looting and arson,’ Rider said. ‘Nothing like last time. I think we’ll make it if we get through this night. We got roving platoons out there and they’re coming down on anything that moves.’

  ‘No bullshit like last time,’ Edgar added.

  Bosch nodded and stared at the TV for a few moments. The screen showed firefighters aiming three-inch h
oses into the balling flames pouring through the roof of another strip mall. It was too late to save it. It almost seemed as though it was being done for the media.

  ‘Urban redevelopment,’ Edgar said. ‘Get rid of all the strip malls.’

  ‘Problem is, they just put strip malls back,’ Rider said.

  ‘At least they look better than before,’ Edgar said. ‘Real problem is the liquor stores. These things always start in the liquor stores. We put a squad out front of every liquor store, no riot.’

  ‘Where are we on the warrants?’ Bosch asked.

  ‘We’re done,’ Rider said. ‘We just have to take them over to the judge.’

  ‘Who are you thinking about?’

  ‘Terry Baker. I already called and she said she’d be around.’

  ‘Good. Let’s have a look.’

  Rider got up and walked over to the homicide table while Edgar stayed behind and continued to watch the television. Stacked neatly at her spot were the search warrant applications. She handed them to Bosch.

  ‘We’ve got the two houses, all cars, all offices and on Richter we have his car at the time of the killing and his apartment — we threw that in, too,’ she said. ‘I think we’re set.’

  Each petition was several pages stapled together. Bosch knew that the first two pages were always standard legalese. He skipped these and quickly read the probable cause statements of each package. Rider and Edgar had done well, though Bosch knew it was likely Rider’s doing. She had the best legal mind of the team. Even the PC statements on the proposed search of Richter’s apartment and car were going to fly. Using clever language and selected facts from the investigation, the PC statement said the evidence of the case indicated two suspects were involved in the disposal of Stacey Kincaid’s body. And by virtue of the close employer/employee relationship that existed at the time between Sam Kincaid and D.C. Richter, Richter could be considered a second suspect. The petition asked permission to search all vehicles operated or accessible by the two men at the time of the crime. It was a carefully worded tap dance but it would work, Bosch believed. Asking to search all cars ‘accessible’ by the two men was a masterstroke by Rider. If approved, this essentially would allow them access to any car on any one of the car lots owned by Kincaid because he most certainly had access to those cars.

  ‘Looks good,’ Bosch said when he had finished reading. He handed the stack back to Rider. ‘Let’s get them signed tonight so tomorrow we can move when we want to.’

  A search warrant was good for twenty-four hours following approval from a judge. In most cases it could be extended another twenty-four hours with a phone call to the signing judge.

  ‘What about this Richter guy?’ Bosch asked then. ‘We get anything on him yet?’

  ‘A little,’ Edgar said.

  He finally got up, turned the sound down on the television and came over to the table.

  ‘Guy was a washout at the academy. This is way back, fall of eighty-one. He then went to one of those bullshit private eye academies in the Valley. Got his state license in eighty-four. Apparently went to work for the Kincaid family after that. He worked his way up to the top, I guess.’

  ‘Why was he a washout?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. It’s Sunday night, Harry. Nobody’s over at the academy. We’ll pull the records tomorrow.’

  Bosch nodded.

  ‘You check the computer, see if he’s got a concealed license?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, we did. He’s got a license to carry. He’s strapped.’

  ‘With what? Tell me it’s a nine.’

  ‘Sorry, Harry. The ATF was closed tonight. We’ll get that tomorrow, too. All we know now is that he’s got a license to carry a concealed weapon.’

  ‘Okay, remember that, you two. Remember how good the shooter was on Angels Flight.’

  Rider and Edgar nodded.

  ‘So you think Richter’s doing Kincaid’s bidding?’ Rider asked.

  ‘Probably. The rich don’t get themselves dirty like that. They call the shots, they don’t take ’em. Right now I like Richter.’

  He looked at his partners a moment. He felt that they were very close to breaking this thing open. They’d know in the next twenty-four hours. He hoped the city could wait that long.

  ‘What else?’ he asked.

  ‘You get Sheehan all tucked in?’ Rider asked.

  Bosch noted the tone of her voice.

  ‘Yeah, he’s tucked in. And, uh, look, I apologize about the press conference. Irving wanted you there but I probably could’ve gotten you out of it. I didn’t. I know it wasn’t a good move. I apologize.’

  ‘Okay, Harry,’ Rider said.

  Edgar nodded.

  ‘Anything else before we go?’

  Edgar started shaking his head, then said, ‘Oh, yeah. Firearms called with an FYI. They took a look at Michael Harris’s gun this morning and it looks clean. They said it probably hasn’t been fired or cleaned in months, judging by the dust buildup in the barrel. So he’s clear.’

  ‘They going to go ahead with it anyway?’

  ‘That’s what they were calling for. They got an ASAP from Irving to do Sheehan’s gun tomorrow morning as soon as they get the slugs from the autopsy. They wanted to know if you wanted them to go ahead with Harris’s piece. I told them they might as well.’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  Edgar and Rider shook their heads.

  ‘Okay then,’ Bosch said. ‘Let’s go see Judge Baker and then we’ll call it a day. I have a feeling tomorrow’s gonna be a long one.’

  29

  It had started to rain. Bosch pulled into his carport and shut off his car. He was looking forward to a couple of beers to take the caffeine edge off his nerves. Judge Baker had served them coffee while she reviewed the search warrant petitions. She had reviewed the search warrants slowly and thoroughly and Bosch had drunk two full cups. In the end, though, she had signed every warrant and Bosch didn’t need the caffeine to feel jazzed. The next morning they would be ‘hunting and confronting,’ as Kiz Rider called it — the put-up or shut-up phase of an investigation, the point where theories and hunches culminated in hard evidence and charges. Or they disintegrated.

  Bosch went in through the kitchen door. Besides the beer, he was already thinking about Kate Kincaid and how he would handle her the next day. He was looking forward to it the way a confident quarterback who has digested all the film and known strategies of the opposition looks forward to the next day’s game.

  The light was already on in the kitchen. Bosch put his briefcase on the counter and opened the refrigerator. There was no beer.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  He knew there had been at least five bottles of Anchor Steam in the refrigerator. He turned and saw the five bottle caps on the counter. He started further into the house.

  ‘Hey, Frankie!’ he called. ‘Don’t tell me you drank everything!’

  There was no reply. Bosch moved through the dining room and then the living room. The place appeared as he had left it earlier that evening, as if Sheehan had not made himself at home. He checked the rear deck through the glass doors. The light was off outside and he saw no sign of his former partner. He walked down the hallway and leaned close to the closed door of the guest room. He heard nothing. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet eleven.

  ‘Frankie?’ he whispered.

  No reply, only the sound of the rain on the roof. He knocked lightly on the door.

  ‘Frankie?’ he said louder.

  Still nothing. Bosch reached to the knob and slowly opened the door. The lights were off in the room but light from the hallway cut across the bed and Bosch could see it was not occupied. He flicked the wall switch and a bed table lamp came on. The bag Sheehan had carried his belongings in was empty on the floor. His clothes had been dumped onto the bed in a pile.

  Bosch’s curiosity turned into a low-grade concern. He quickly moved back into the hallway and made a quick search of his own bedroom and the bathroo
ms. There was no sign of Sheehan.

  Back in the living room Bosch paced about for a few moments wondering what Sheehan might have done. He had no car. It was unlikely he would have tried to walk down the hill into the city and where would he be going anyway? Bosch picked up the phone and hit redial to see if by chance Sheehan had called a cab. It sounded like more than seven tones to Bosch but the redial was so fast he wasn’t sure. After one ring the phone was answered by the sleepy voice of a woman.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Uh, who is this, please?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m sorry. My name is Detective Harry Bosch of the LAPD. I am trying to trace a call that was made from — ’

  ‘Harry, it’s Margie Sheehan.’

  ‘Oh ... Margie ...’

  He realized he should have guessed Sheehan would have called her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Harry?’

  ‘Nothing, Margie, nothing. I’m trying to find Frankie and I thought maybe he called a cab or something. I’m sorry to — ’

  ‘What do you mean, find him?’

  He could read the rising concern in her voice.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Margie. He was staying with me tonight and I had to go out. I just got home and he isn’t here. I’m just trying to figure out where he went. He talked to you tonight?’

  ‘Earlier.’

  ‘How’d he seem, okay?’

  ‘He told me what they did to him. How they’re trying to blame him.’

  ‘No, not anymore. That’s why he’s staying with me. We got him out of there and he’s going to hide out here a few days, till it blows over. I’m really sorry that I woke — ’

  ‘He said they’d come back for him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He doesn’t believe they’re going to let him go. He doesn’t trust anybody, Harry. In the department. Except you. He knows you’re his friend.’

  Bosch was silent. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘Harry, find him, would you? Then call me back. I don’t care what time it is.’

  Bosch looked through the glass doors to the deck and from this angle saw something on the deck railing. He stepped over to the wall and flipped on the outside light. He saw five amber beer bottles lined up on the railing.