Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2

by Michael Connelly

“The prints were more than enough for a warrant to search the premises and arrest your man,” Felton said. “We took it to a judge first thing this morning. We also had our own information, which I think Iverson told you about.”

  “Look, his prints were on the guy but it doesn’t mean he did it. It doesn’t make a case. We’re acting too quickly here. My guy was put down in L.A. I’ve got nothing putting Luke Goshen there. And your own information? That’s a joke. You’ve got an anonymous call, that’s it. It doesn’t mean shit.”

  They all looked at Bosch as if he had just belched at the debutante ball.

  “Harry, let’s get another cup,” Felton said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Let’s get one anyway.”

  He put his arm on Bosch’s shoulder and led him back toward the station. Inside at the kitchen counter, where there was a coffee urn, Felton poured himself another cup before speaking.

  “Look, Harry, you gotta go with this. This is a major opportunity for us and for you.”

  “I know that. I just don’t want to blow it. Can’t we hold off on this until we’re sure of what we’ve got? It’s my case, Captain, and you’re still running the show.”

  “I thought we had that all straightened out.”

  “I thought we did, too, but I might as well be pissing in the wind.”

  “Look, Detective, we’re going to go up the road and take this guy down, search his place and put him in a little room. I guarantee that if he isn’t your man, he’s going to give him to you. And he’s going to give us Joey Marks along the way. Now, come on, get with the program and get happy.”

  He cuffed Bosch on the shoulder and headed back out to the lot. Bosch followed in a few moments. He knew that he was whining over nothing. You find somebody’s prints on a body, you bring him in. That’s a given. You sweat the details later. But Bosch didn’t like being a bystander. That was the real rub and he knew it. He wanted to run the show. Only out here in the desert, he was a fish out of water, flopping on the sand. He knew he should call Billets, but it was too late for her to do anything and he didn’t like the idea of telling her he had let this one get away from him.

  The patrol car with the two uniforms was there when Bosch stepped out of the fire station and back into the oven.

  “All right,” Felton said. “We’re all here. Mount up and let’s go get this fucker.”

  They were there in five minutes. Goshen lived in a house that rose out of the scrubland on Desert View Avenue. It was a large house but not one that looked particularly ostentatious. The one thing that looked out of the ordinary was the concrete-block wall and gate that surrounded the half-acre property. The house was in the middle of nowhere but its owner needed to put a security wall around it.

  They all stopped their cars on the shoulder of the road and got out. Baxter had come prepared. From the trunk of his Caprice he pulled out two stepladders that they would use to scale the wall next to the driveway gate. Iverson was the first to go over. When he got to the top of the wall, he put the other ladder in place on the other side but hesitated before climbing down into the front yard.

  “Anybody see any dogs?”

  “No dogs,” Baxter said. “I checked this morning.”

  Iverson went down and the others followed him over. While he waited for his turn, Bosch looked around and could just see the neon demarcation of the Strip several miles to the east. Above this the sun was a neon red ball. The air had gone from warm to hot and was as dry and rough as sandpaper. Bosch thought of the cherry-flavored Chap Stick in his pocket that he had bought at the hotel gift shop. But he didn’t want to use it in front of the local boys.

  After Bosch had scaled the wall and was approaching the house behind the others, he looked at his watch. It was now almost nine but the house seemed dead. No movement, no sound, no lights, nothing. Curtains were closed across every window.

  “You sure he’s here?” Bosch whispered to Baxter.

  “He’s here,” Baxter replied without lowering his voice. “I jumped the wall about six and touched the hood of the Vette. It was warm. He hadn’t been home long. He’s in there asleep, I guarantee it. Nine o’clock to this guy is like four in the morning for normal people.”

  Bosch looked over at the Corvette. He remembered it from the night before. As he looked around further, he realized the confines within the walls of the compound were carpeted in lush, green grass. It must have cost a fortune to plant and another one to keep it watered. The property sat in the desert like a towel on the beach. Bosch was drawn from his wonder by the sound of Iverson hitting the front door with his foot.

  With weapons drawn, Bosch and the others followed Iverson into the dark opening to the house. They went in screaming the usual identifiers—Police! and Don’t move!—and quickly moved down a hallway to the left. Bosch followed the sharp slashes of light from their flashlights. Almost immediately he heard female screams and then a light came on in a room at the end of the hall.

  By the time he got in there, he saw Iverson kneeling on a king-size bed, holding his Smith & Wesson short barrel six inches from the face of Luke Goshen. The big man Bosch had encountered the night before was wrapped in the bed’s black silk sheets and looked as calm about the situation as Magic Johnson used to look while shooting free throws with the game on the line. He even took the time to glance up at the ceiling to view the reflection of the scene in the mirror.

  It was the women who weren’t calm. Two of them, both nude, stood on either side of the bed, oblivious to their nakedness but fully in the latter stages of fright. Finally, Baxter quieted them with a loud shout of “Shut up!”

  It took a few moments for the silence to sink in. Nobody moved. Bosch never took his eyes off Goshen. He was the only danger in the room. He sensed that the other cops, who had branched off to search the house, had now moved into the room behind him along with the two uniform cops.

  “On your face, Luke,” Iverson finally ordered. “You girls get some clothes on. Now!”

  One of the women said, “You can’t just —”

  “Shut up!” Iverson cut her off. “Or you go in to town like that. Your choice.”

  “I’m not go —”

  “Randy!” Goshen boomed with a voice as deep as a barrel. “Shut the fuck up and get dressed. They’re not taking you anywhere. You, too, Harm.”

  All the men but Goshen instinctively looked at the woman he had called Harm. She looked like she weighed about ninety pounds. She had soft blond hair, breasts she could hide in a child’s teacups and a gold hoop piercing one of the folds of her vulva. There was a look of fright etched on her face that had completely crowded out any hint of beauty.

  “Harmony,” she whispered, understanding their dilemma.

  “Well, get dressed, Harmony,” Felton said. “Both of you. Turn to the wall and get dressed.”

  “Just get ’em their clothes and get ’em out of here,” Iverson said.

  Harmony was stepping into a pair of jeans when she stopped and looked at the men giving conflicting orders.

  “Well, which is it?” Randy asked in an irritated voice. “You people got your shit together or what?”

  Bosch recognized her as the woman who had been dancing in Dolly’s the night before.

  “Get ’em out of here!” Iverson yelled. “Now.”

  The uniforms moved in to usher the naked women out.

  “We’re going,” Randy yelped. “Don’t touch me.”

  Iverson yanked the sheets off Goshen and began cuffing his hands behind his back. Goshen’s blond hair ran in a thin and tightly braided ponytail down his back. Bosch hadn’t noticed that the night before.

  “Whatsa matter, Iverson?” he said, his face against the mattress. “You got a problem with a little poon hangin’ around? You a little punk or something?”

  “Goshen, do yourself a favor, shut your fuckin’ hole.”

  Goshen laughed off the threat. He was a deeply tanned man who seemed even larger than Bosch recalled from th
e night before. He was completely buffed, his arms the size of hams. For a short moment, Bosch thought he understood Goshen’s desire to sleep with two women. And why they willingly went with him in twos.

  Goshen faked a yawn to make sure everyone knew he wasn’t the least bit threatened by what was happening. He wore only black bikini underwear that matched the sheets. There were tattoos on his back. A one percent sign on the left shoulder blade, a Harley Davidson insignia on the right. On the upper left arm there was another tattoo. The number eighty-eight.

  “What’s this, your IQ?” Iverson said as he sharply slapped the arm.

  “Fuck you, Iverson, and the phony fuckin’ warrant you rode in on.”

  Bosch knew what the tattoo meant. He had seen it enough in L.A. The eighth letter of the alphabet was H. Eight-eight meant HH, short for Heil Hitler. It meant Goshen had spent some time with white supremacists. But most of the assholes Bosch came across with similar tattoos had gotten them in prison. It was amazing to him that Goshen apparently had no criminal record and had spent no time in stir. If he had, his name would have come up when the prints from Tony Aliso’s jacket had been run through the AFIS computer. He put thoughts of this contradiction aside when Goshen managed to turn his head so that he was looking at Bosch.

  “You,” he said. “You’re the one they should be arresting. After what you did to Gussie.”

  Bosch bent over the bed to reply.

  “This ain’t about last night. This is about Tony Aliso.”

  Iverson roughly turned Goshen over on the bed.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Goshen asked angrily. “I’m clean on that, man. What are you —”

  He tried to pull himself up into a sitting position but Iverson pushed him back down hard.

  “Just sit tight,” Iverson said. “We’ll hear your sorry side of things. But we’re going to have a look around first.”

  He took the warrant out of his pocket and dropped it on Goshen’s chest.

  “There’s your warrant.”

  “I can’t read it.”

  “Not my fault you didn’t stay in school.”

  “Just hold it up for me.”

  Iverson ignored him and looked at the others.

  “Okay, let’s split up and see what we’ve got here. Harry, you take this room, okay, keep our friend here company?”

  “Right.”

  Iverson then addressed the two uniforms.

  “I want one of you guys in here. Just stand out of the way and keep your eyes on douche bag here.”

  One of the uniforms nodded and the others left the room. Bosch and Goshen looked at each other.

  “I can’t read this thing,” Goshen said.

  “I know,” Bosch said. “You said that.”

  “This is bullshit. It’s just a roust. You couldn’t possibly have anything on me because I didn’t do it.”

  “Then who’d you have do it? Gussie?”

  “No, man, nobody. There’s no way you’ll be able to pin this on me. No fucking way. I want my lawyer.”

  “As soon as you’re booked.”

  “Booked for what?”

  “For murder, Lucky.”

  Goshen continued his denials and demands for a lawyer while Bosch ignored him and started looking around the room, checking the drawers of the dresser. He glanced back at Goshen every few seconds. It was like walking around a lion’s cage. He knew he was safe but that didn’t stop him from checking. He could tell Goshen was watching him in the mirror over the bed. When the big man finally quieted, Bosch waited a few moments and then started asking questions. He did it casually while he continued the search, as if he didn’t really care about the answers.

  “So where were you Friday night?”

  “Fuckin’ your mother.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I know it. It wasn’t all that good.”

  Bosch stopped what he was doing and looked at him. Goshen wanted him to hit him. He wanted the violence. It was the playing field he understood.

  “Where were you, Goshen? Friday night.”

  “Talk to my lawyer.”

  “We will. But you can talk, too.”

  “I was working the club. I have a fucking job, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. When did you work till?”

  “I don’t know. Four. I go home after that.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Where were you, in that office?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Anybody see you? You ever come out before four?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to my lawyer.”

  “Don’t worry. We will.”

  Bosch went back to the search and opened the closet door. It was a walk-in but it was only a third lined with clothes. Goshen lived light.

  “Fuckin’ A it’s right,” Goshen called from the bed. “You go check. Check it out.”

  The first thing Bosch did was to turn over the two pairs of shoes and the Nikes that were lined on the floor. He studied the sole patterns and none of them appeared even remotely like the pattern found on the bumper of the Rolls and Tony Aliso’s hip. He glanced back out at Goshen to make sure the big man wasn’t moving. He wasn’t. Bosch next reached to the shelf above the clothes rod. He took a box down and found it full of photos. They were eight by ten publicity shots of dancers. They weren’t nudes. Each young woman was posed provocatively in a skimpy costume. Each one’s name was printed in the white border below the photo, accompanied by the name and number of Models A Million, which Bosch guessed was a local agency that provided dancers to clubs. He looked through the box until he found a photo with the name Layla on it.

  He studied the photo of the woman he had been looking for the previous night. She had long flowing brown hair with blond highlights, a full figure, dark eyes and bee sting lips. In the photo they were parted just enough to show a hint of white teeth. She was a beautiful woman and there was something familiar about her but he couldn’t place it. He decided that maybe the familiarity was the sexual malice that all the women in the photos and those whom he had seen the night before in the club seemed to convey.

  Bosch took the box out of the closet and dropped it on the bureau. He held the picture of Layla out of it.

  “What’s with the pictures, Lucky?”

  “They’re all the girls I’ve been with. How ’bout you, cop? You had that many? I bet the ugliest one in there is better than the best one you’ve ever had.”

  “So what do you want to do, compare pricks, too? I’m glad you’ve had your fill of women, Lucky, ’cause there aren’t going to be any more. I mean, sure, you’ll be able to fuck or be fucked. It just won’t be with women is all I’m saying.”

  Goshen was quiet while he contemplated this. Bosch put the photo of Layla on the bureau next to the box.

  “Look, Bosch, just tell me what you guys’ve got and I’ll tell you what I know so we can get this straightened out. You’re wrong on this. I didn’t do anything, so let’s get this over with, stop wasting each other’s time.”

  Bosch didn’t answer. He went back into the closet and hiked up on his toes to see if there was anything else on the shelf. There was. A small cloth folded like a handkerchief. He took it down and unfolded it. It was soiled with oil. He smelled it and recognized it.

  Bosch came out of the closet, tossed the rag so it hit Goshen in the face and fell onto the bed.

  “What’s this?”

  “I don’t know. What is it?”

  “It’s a rag with gun oil on it. Where’s the gun?”

  “I don’t have a gun and that isn’t mine, either. Never saw it before.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you mean, okay? I never fuckin’ saw it before.”

  “I mean, okay, Goshen. That’s all. Don’t get nervous.”

  “It’s hard with you people sticking your nose up my ass.”

  Bosch bent over the night table. He opened the top drawer, found an empty
cigarette box, a set of pearl earrings and an unopened box of condoms. Bosch threw the box at Goshen. It bounced off his huge chest and fell to the floor.

  “You know, Goshen, just buying them ain’t safe sex. You gotta put ’em on.”

  He opened the bottom drawer. It was empty.

  “How long you lived here, Goshen?”

  “Moved in right after I kicked your sister out on her ass. Put her on the street. Last I seen, she was selling it over on Fremont outside the Cortez.”

  Bosch straightened up and looked at him. Goshen was smiling. He wanted to provoke something. He wanted to control things, even handcuffed on the bed. Even if it cost him some blood.

  “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.