“How’s it look?” Bosch asked.
“Real good. We’re going to get something off this. Howdy, Lieutenant.”
“Hello there,” Billets said.
Bosch could tell she didn’t remember Donovan’s name.
“Listen, Art,” he said, “when you get those together, get them over to the print lab and then call me or Edgar and tell us. We’ll get somebody over there to do them code three.”
Code three was a patrol response code meaning lights and siren authorized. Bosch needed the prints to be handled quickly. So far, they were the best lead.
“Will do, Harry.”
“What about the Rolls? Can I get in it yet?”
“Well, I’m not quite through with it. You can go in. Just be careful.”
Bosch began searching the interior of the car, checking the door and seat pockets first and finding nothing. He checked the ashtray and found it empty, not even an ash. He made a mental note that the victim apparently didn’t smoke.
Billets stood nearby, watching but not helping. She had risen to detective bureau commander primarily on the success of her skills as an administrator, not as an investigator. She knew when to watch and not get in the way.
Bosch checked under the seats and found nothing of interest. He opened the glove compartment last and a small square piece of paper fell out. It was a receipt for an airport valet company. Holding it by the corner, Bosch walked it over to the workbench and told Donovan to check it for prints when he got the chance.
He went back to the glove compartment and found the lease agreement and registration of the car, its service records and a small tool kit with a flashlight. There was also a half-used tube of Preparation H, a hemorrhoid medication. It seemed like an odd place to keep it, but Bosch guessed that maybe Aliso kept the tube handy for long drives.
He bagged all of the items from the compartment separately and while doing so noticed an extra battery in the tool kit. It struck him as odd because the flashlight obviously took two batteries. Having one extra would not do much good.
He pressed the flashlight’s on/ off switch. It was dead. He unscrewed the cap and one battery slid out. Looking into the barrel, Bosch saw a plastic bag. He used a pen to reach in and pull the bag out. It contained about two dozen brown capsules.
Billets stepped closer.
“Poppers,” Bosch said. “Amyl nitrate. Supposed to help you get it up and keep it there. You know, improve your orgasm.”
He suddenly felt the need to explain his knowledge was not based on personal experience.
“It’s come up in other cases before.”
She nodded. Donovan walked over with the valet ticket in a clear plastic envelope.
“A couple smudges. Nothing we can work with.”
Bosch took it back. He then carried the various plastic evidence bags he had to the counter.
“Art, I’m taking the receipt, the poppers and the car’s service records, okay?”
“You got it.”
“I’ll leave you the plane ticket and the wallet. You are also going to put some speed on the prints from the jacket and what else? Oh yeah, those sparkles. What do you think?”
“Hopefully tomorrow. The rest of the fiber stuff I’ll take a look at, but it’s probably going to be exclusionary.”
That meant most of the material they had collected would sit in storage after a quick examination by Donovan, and come into play only if a suspect was identified. It would then be used either to tie that suspect to the crime scene or to exclude him.
Bosch took a large envelope off a shelf over the counter, put all the pieces of evidence he was taking into it, then put it in his briefcase and snapped it closed. He headed for the curtain with Billets.
“Good to see you again, Art,” she said.
“Likewise, Lieutenant.”
“You want me to call OPG to come get the car?” Bosch asked.
“Nah, I’m going to be here a while,” Donovan said. “Gotta use the vac and I might think of something else to do. I’ll take care of it, Harry.”
“Okay, man, later.”
Bosch and Billets stepped through the curtain and then through the door. Outside he lit a cigarette and looked up at the dark, starless sky. Billets lit one of her own.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Next of kin. You want to come? It’s always a fun thing.”
She smiled at his sarcasm.
“No, I think I’ll pass on that. But before you leave, what’s your gut on this, Harry? I mean, OCID passing without taking a look, that kind of bothers me.”
“Me, too.” He took a long drag and exhaled. “My gut is that this one’s going to be tough. Unless something good comes out of those prints. That’s our only real break so far.”
“Well, tell your people that I want everybody in at eight for a roundtable on what we’ve got so far.”
“Let’s make it nine, Lieutenant. I think by then we should have something back from Donovan on the prints.”
“Okay, nine then. I’ll see you then, Harry. And from now on, when we’re talking like this, you know, informally, call me Grace.”
“Sure, Grace. Have a nice night.”
She expelled her smoke in a short burst that sounded like the start of a laugh.
“You mean, what’s left of it.”
On the way up to Mulholland Drive and Hidden Highlands Bosch paged Rider and she called back from one of the houses she was visiting. She said it was the last of the houses overlooking the clearing where the Rolls was parked. She told him the best she could come up with was a resident who remembered seeing the white Rolls-Royce from the back deck of his home on Saturday morning about ten. The same resident also believed the car had not been there on Friday evening when he was out on the deck to watch the sunset.
“That fits with the time frame the ME’s looking at and the plane ticket. I think we’re zeroing in on Friday night, sometime after he got in from Vegas. Probably on his way home from the airport. Nobody heard any shots?”
“Not that I’ve found. There’s two houses where I got no answer. I was going to go back and try them now.”
“Maybe you can catch them tomorrow. I’m heading up to Hidden Highlands. I think you should go with me.”
They made arrangements to meet outside the entrance to the development where Aliso had lived, and Bosch closed the phone. He wanted Kiz along when he told Aliso’s next of kin he was dead because it would be good for her to learn the grim routine and because the percentages called for whoever that next of kin was to be considered a possible suspect. It was always good to have a witness with you when you first spoke to the person who later could become your quarry.
Bosch looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. Taking care of the notification meant they probably wouldn’t be getting to the victim’s office until midnight. He called the communications center and gave the operator the address on Melrose and had her look it up in the cross directory. It came back to Archway Pictures, as Bosch had guessed. He knew they had caught a bit of a break. Archway was a midsize studio that largely rented offices and production facilities to independent filmmakers. As far as Bosch knew, it hadn’t made its own films since the 1960s. The break was that he knew someone in security over there. Chuckie Meachum was a former Robbery-Homicide bull who had retired a few years earlier and taken a job as assistant director of security at Archway. He would be useful in smoothing their way in. Bosch considered calling ahead and arranging for Chuckie Meachum to meet them at the studio but decided against it. He decided he didn’t want anyone to know he was coming until he got there.
He got to Hidden Highlands fifteen minutes later. Rider’s car was parked on the shoulder off Mulholland. Bosch pulled up and she got in his car. Then he pulled into the entrance lane next to the gatehouse. It was a small brick structure with a single guard inside. Hidden Highlands was maybe a little richer but not that different from many of the other small, wealthy and scared enclaves nestled in the hills and va
lleys around Los Angeles. Walls and gates, guardhouses and private security forces were the secret ingredients of the so-called melting pot of southern California.
A guard in a blue uniform stepped out of the gatehouse carrying a clipboard and Bosch had his badge wallet out and open. The guard was a tall, thin man with a worn, gray face. Bosch didn’t recognize him, though he had heard in the station that most of the guards working here were off-duty uniforms from Hollywood Division. In the past he had seen postings for part-time jobs on the bulletin board outside the roll call room.
The guard gave Bosch a once-over in a laconic manner, avoiding a look at the badge on purpose.
“Kenahepyou?” he finally said.
“I need to go to the home of Anthony Aliso.”
He gave the address on Hillcrest that had been on the victim’s driver’s license.
“Your names?”
“Detective Harry Bosch, LAPD. Says it right here. This is Detective Kizmin Rider.”
He proffered the badge wallet, but it was still ignored. The guard was writing on his clipboard. Bosch saw his name tag said Nash. He also saw that the tin badge said CAPTAIN across it.
“They expecting you at the Aliso place?”
“I don’t think so. It’s police business.”
“Okay, but I’ve got to call ahead. It’s the development’s rules, you know.”
“I prefer you didn’t do that, Captain Nash.”
Bosch hoped his use of the security guard’s title would win him over. Nash thought a moment.
“Tell you what,” he said. “You go on ahead and I’ll come up with a reason for delaying making the call a few minutes. I’ll just say I’m up here by myself t’night and I got kind of busy, if there’s a complaint.”
He stepped back and reached in the open door of the gatehouse. He pressed a button on the inside wall and the crossguard went up.
“Thanks, Captain. You work out of Hollywood?”
Bosch knew he didn’t. He could tell Nash wasn’t even a cop. He didn’t have the cold eyes of a cop. But Bosch was playing to him, just in case he became a useful source of information later on.
“Nah,” Nash said. “I’m full-time. That’s why they made me captain of the watch. Everybody else is part-time out of Hollywood or West Hollywood sheriffs. I run the schedule.”
“Then how’d you get stuck on the night shift on Sunday night?”
“Everybody can use some OT now and then.”
Bosch nodded.
“You’re right about that. Hillcrest, where’s that?”
“Oh, yeah, forgot. Take your second left. That’s Hillcrest. The Aliso place is about the sixth house on the right. Nice view of the city from the pool.”
“Did you know him?” Rider asked, leaning down so she could see Nash through Bosch’s window.
“Aliso?” Nash said, bending further to look in at her. He thought a moment. “Not really. Just like I know people when they come through here. I’m just the same to them as the pool man, I guess. I notice you asked did I know him. Am I not going to get the chance?”
“Smart man, Mr. Nash,” Rider said.
She straightened up, finished with the conversation. Bosch nodded his thanks and drove through the gate to Hillcrest. As he passed the broad, manicured lawns surrounding houses the size of apartment buildings, he filled Rider in on what he had learned at the print shed and from Edgar. He also admired the properties they were passing. Many of them were surrounded by walls or tall hedges that looked as though they were trimmed into sharp edges every morning. Walls within walls, Bosch thought. He wondered what the owners did with all of their space besides fearfully guard it.
It took them five minutes to find the Aliso house on a cul-de-sac at the top of the hill. He passed through the open gates of an estate with a Tudor-style mansion set behind a circular driveway made of gray paver stones. Bosch got out with his briefcase and looked up at the place. It was intimidating in its size, but its style was not much to speak of. He wouldn’t want it, even if he had the money.
After getting to the door and pushing the doorbell button, he looked at Rider.
“You ever done this before?”
“No. But I grew up in South L.A. A lot of drive-bys. I was around when people got the news.”
Bosch nodded.
“Not to belittle that experience, but this is different. What is important is not what you hear said, it’s what you observe.”
Bosch pushed the lighted button again. He could hear the bell sound from inside the house. He looked at Rider and could tell she was about to ask a question, when the door was opened by a woman.
“Mrs. Aliso?” Bosch asked.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Aliso, I’m Detective Harry Bosch with the LAPD. This is my partner, Detective Kizmin Rider. We need to speak with you concerning your husband.”
He held out his badge wallet and she took it from his hand. Usually, they didn’t do that. Usually, they recoiled from it or looked at it like it was some strange and fascinating object not to be touched.
“I don’t under—”
She stopped when the sound of a phone ringing began somewhere behind her in the big house.
“Would you excuse me a moment. I have to—”
“That’s probably Nash at the gate. He said he had to call ahead, but there was a lineup of cars behind us. I guess we beat him here. We need to come in to talk to you, ma’am.”
She stepped back in and opened the door wide for him. She looked about five to ten years younger than her husband had been. She was maybe forty, attractive, with dark straight hair and a trim build. She wore a lot of makeup on a face Bosch guessed had been sculpted at times by the surgeon’s knife. Still, through the makeup she looked tired, worn. He could see her face was flushed pink, as though she might have been drinking. She wore a light blue dress that showed off her legs. They were tan and the muscles still taut. Bosch could see she had been considered very beautiful at one time but was sliding into that stage when a woman believes her beauty may be leaving— even if it isn’t. Maybe that was why she had all the makeup on, Bosch guessed. Or maybe it was because she was still expecting her husband to show up.
Bosch closed the door after they entered and they followed the woman into a large living room with an incongruous mix of modern prints on the walls and French antiques on the thick white carpet. The phone was still ringing. She told Bosch and Rider to sit down and then walked through the living room into another hallway, which she crossed to what looked like a den. He heard her answer the phone, tell Nash that the delay was all right and hang up.
She came back into the living room then and sat on a couch with a muted flower print. Bosch and Rider took nearby chairs with a matching pattern. Bosch took a quick look around and saw no photographs in frames. Only the artwork. It was always one of the first things he looked for when he had to quickly judge a relationship.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Veronica Aliso. What about my husband, Detective? Is he hurt?”
Bosch leaned forward in his chair. No matter how many times he did this, he never got used to it and he was never sure he was doing it the right way.
“Mrs. Aliso . . . I am very sorry, but your husband is dead. He was the victim of a homicide. I am sorry to have to tell you this.”
He watched her closely and she said nothing at first. She instinctively crossed her arms in front of her and brought her face down in a pained grimace. There were no tears. Not yet. In his experience, Bosch had seen them come either right away— as soon as they opened the door and saw him and knew— or much later, when it sank in that the nightmare was reality.
“I don’t . . . How did this happen?” she asked, her eyes staring down at the floor.
“He was found in his car. He’d been shot.”
“In Las Vegas?”
“No. Here. Not far. It looks like he was coming home from the airport when . . . when he was somehow stopped by
somebody. We’re not sure yet. His car was found off Mulholland Drive. Down by the Bowl.”
He watched her a little more. She still had not looked up. Bosch felt a sense of guilt pass over him. Guilt because he was not watching this woman with sympathy. He had been in this place too many times for that. Instead, he watched her with an eye for false mannerisms. In these situations his suspicion outweighed his compassion. It had to.
“Can I get you anything, Mrs. Aliso?” Rider asked. “Water? Do you have coffee? Do you want something stronger?”
“No. I’m fine. Thank you. It’s just a terrible shock.”
“Do you have any children in the house?” Rider asked.
“No, we . . . no children. Do you know what happened? Was he robbed?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Bosch said.
“Of course. . . . Can you tell me, was there much pain?”
“No, there was no pain,” Bosch said.
He thought of the tears welled in Tony Aliso’s eyes. He decided not to tell her about that.
“It must be hard, your job,” she said. “Telling people this sort of thing.”
He nodded and looked away. For a moment he thought of the old squad room joke about the easiest way to do next-of-kin notification. When Mrs. Brown opens the door, you say, “Are you the widow Brown?”
He looked back at the widow Aliso.
“Why did you ask if it happened in Las Vegas?”
“Because that was where he was.”
“How long was he supposed to be there?”
“I don’t know. He never scheduled it with a return. He always bought open-ended tickets so he could come back when he wanted to. He always said he’d be back when his luck changed. For the worse.”
“We have reason to believe he came back to Los Angeles on Friday night. His car wasn’t found until this evening. That’s two days, Mrs. Aliso. Did you try to call him in Las Vegas during that time?”
Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2 Page 43
