“Right. Carbone didn’t see the camera or we wouldn’t know any of this.”
“That prick. When this is over, the first thing I’m going to do is give it all to the chief.”
“Uh . . .”
Bosch wasn’t sure how to say it.
“What is it?”
“Fitzgerald could see that coming. I cut a deal with him.”
“What?”
“I cut a deal. He gave me everything, the tapes, the letter. But their activities go no further than you and me. The chief never knows.”
“Harry, how could you? You had no—”
“He’s got something on me, Lieutenant. He’s got something on you, too . . . and Kiz.”
A long silence followed and Bosch watched the anger flush her cheeks.
“That arrogant bastard,” she said.
Bosch told her what it was Fitzgerald had come up with. Since Bosch now was privy to her secret, he thought it was only fair that he tell her about Eleanor. Billets just nodded. She was clearly thinking more about her own secret and the consequences of Fitzgerald having knowledge of it.
“Do you think he actually put people on me? A tail?”
“Who knows? He’s the kind of guy who sees opportunities and acts on them. He keeps information like money in a bank. In case of a rainy day. This was a rainy day for him and he pulled it out. I made the deal. Let’s forget about it and move on with the case.”
She was silent a moment and Bosch watched her for any sign of embarrassment. There was none. She looked directly at Bosch, her eyes searching him for any sign of judgment. There was none. She nodded.
“What else did they do after the letter came?”
“Not much. They put Aliso on a loose surveillance. I have the logs. But they weren’t watching him Friday night. They knew he’d gone to Las Vegas, so they were planning to pick him up again after the holiday if he was back. They were really just getting started when it all went down.”
She nodded again. Her mind wasn’t on the subject. Bosch stood up.
“I’ll listen to the tapes tonight. There’s about seven hours but Fitzgerald said it’s mostly Aliso talking to his girlfriend in Vegas. Nothing much else. But I’ll listen anyway. You need anything else, Lieutenant?”
“No. Let’s talk in the morning. I want to know about the ballistics as soon as you know.”
“You got it.”
Bosch headed to the door but she stopped him.
“It’s weird, isn’t it, when sometimes you can’t tell the good guys from the bad.”
He looked back at her.
“Yeah, it’s weird.”
The house still smelled of fresh paint when Bosch finally got home. He looked at the wall he had started to paint three days before and it seemed long ago. He didn’t know when he’d finish now. The house had been a ground-up rebuilding job after the earthquake. He’d only been back a few weeks after more than a year of living in a residence hotel near the station. The earthquake, too, seemed long ago. Things happened fast in this city. Everything but the moment seemed like ancient history.
He got out the number Felton had given him for Eleanor Wish and called it but there was no answer, not even a machine picking up. He hung up and wondered if she had gotten the note he left for her. His hope was that they would somehow be together after this case was over. But if it came to that, he realized, he wasn’t sure how he’d deal with the department’s prohibition against associating with a convicted felon.
His thoughts about this spun into the question of how Fitzgerald had found out about her and the night they had spent together in her apartment. It seemed to him it was likely that Fitzgerald would maintain contacts with Metro, and he guessed that maybe Felton or Iverson had informed the deputy chief about Eleanor Wish.
Bosch made two sandwiches of lunch meat from the refrigerator and then took them, two bottles of beer and the box of tapes Fitzgerald had given him over to the chair next to his stereo. As he ate, he arranged the tapes in chronological order and then started playing them. There was a photocopy of a log and pen register with entries showing what time of day Aliso either received or made the calls and what number he had called.
More than half the calls were between Aliso and Layla, either placed to the club—Bosch could tell because of the background music and noise—or a number he assumed was her apartment. She never identified herself on any of the calls, but on the occasions Tony called her at the club he asked for her by her stage name, Layla. Other than that, he never used her name. Most of their conversations were about the minutia of daily life. He called her most often at home in the midafternoon. In one call to her home, Layla was angry at Aliso for waking her up. He complained that it was already noon and she reminded him that she had worked until four at the club. Like a chastened boy, he apologized and offered to call back. He did, at two.
In addition to the conversations with Layla there were calls to other women involving the timing of a scene that needed to be reshot for one of Tony’s movies and various other film-related business calls. There were two calls placed by Aliso to his home but both of his conversations with his wife were quick and to the point. One time he said he was coming home and the other time he said he was going to be held up and wouldn’t be home for dinner.
When Bosch was done it was after midnight and he had counted only one of the conversations as being of even marginal interest. It was a call placed to the dressing room at the club on the Tuesday before Aliso was murdered. In the midst of their rather boring, innocuous conversation, Layla asked him when he was coming out next.
“Comin’ out Thursday, baby,” Aliso replied. “Why, you miss me already?”
“No—I mean, yeah, sure, I miss you and all, Tone. But Lucky was asking if you were coming. That’s why I asked.”
Layla had a soft, little-girl voice that seemed unpracticed or fake.
“Well, tell him I’ll be in Thursday night. You working then?”
“Yeah, I’m working.”
Bosch turned off the stereo and thought about the one call that mattered. It meant Goshen knew, through Layla, that Aliso was coming out. It wasn’t much, but it could probably be used by a prosecutor as part of an argument for premeditation. The problem was that it was tainted evidence. In legal terms, it did not exist.
He looked at his watch. It was late but he decided to call. He took the number off the log where Layla’s number had been recorded by a pen register which read the tones that sounded when a number was punched into a phone. After four rings it was answered by a woman with a slow voice laced with practiced sexual intent.
“Layla?”
“No, this is Pandora.”
Bosch almost laughed but he was too tired.
“Where’s Layla?”
“She isn’t here.”
“This is a friend of hers. Harry. She tried to call me the other night. You know where she is or where I could reach her?”
“No. She hasn’t been around for a couple days. I don’t know where she is. Is this about Tony?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, she’s pretty upset. I guess if she wants to talk to you, she’ll call you again. You in town?”
“Not right now. Where d’you guys live?”
“Uh, I don’t think I’m going to tell you that.”
“Pandora, is Layla scared of something?”
“Of course she is. Her old man gets killed. She thinks people might think she knows something, but she doesn’t. She’s just scared.”
Bosch gave Pandora his home number and told her to have Layla call if she checked in.
After he hung up he looked at his watch and took out the little phone book he kept in his jacket. He called Billets’s number and a man answered. Her husband. Bosch apologized for the late call, asked for the lieutenant and wondered while he waited what the husband knew about his wife and Kizmin Rider. When Billets picked up, Bosch told her about his review of the tapes and how little value they had.
“The
one call establishes Goshen’s knowledge of Aliso’s trip to Vegas, as well as his interest in it. But that’s about it. I think it’s kind of marginal and we’ll be okay without it. When we find Layla, we should be able to get the same information from her. Legally.”
“Well, that makes me feel better.”
Bosch heard her exhale. Her unspoken worry had obviously been that if the tapes contained any vital information, they would have to have been brought forward to prosecutors, thereby alienating Fitzgerald and ending her own career.
“Sorry for the late call,” Bosch said, “but I thought you might want to know as soon as I knew.”
“Thanks, Harry. I’ll see you in the morning.”
After he hung up he tried Eleanor Wish’s line once more and again there was no answer. Now the slight worry he’d had in his chest bloomed into a full-fledged concern. He wished he was still in Vegas so he could go to her apartment to see if she was there and just not answering or if it was something worse.
Bosch got himself another beer from the refrigerator and went out to the back deck. The new deck was larger than its predecessor and offered a deeper view into the Pass. It was dark and peaceful out. The usual hiss of the Hollywood Freeway far below was easily tuned out. He watched the spotlights from Universal Studios cut across the starless sky and finished his beer, wondering where she was.
On Wednesday morning, Bosch got to the station at eight and typed out reports detailing his moves and investigation in Las Vegas. He made copies and put them in the lieutenant’s mailbox and then clipped the originals into the already inch-thick murder book that Edgar had started. He filed no report on his conversations with Carbone and Fitzgerald or his review of the tapes OCID had made off Aliso’s office phone. His work was only interrupted by frequent walks to the watch office for coffee.
He had completed these chores by ten o’clock but waited another five minutes before calling the department’s gun shop. He knew from experience that he should not call before the time the report on the bullet comparisons was to be finished. He threw in the extra five minutes just to make sure. It was a long five minutes.
As he called, Edgar and Rider gravitated toward his spot at the homicide table so that they could immediately get the comparison results. It was a make-or-break point in the investigation and they all knew it. Bosch asked for Lester Poole, the gun tech assigned the case. They had worked together before. Poole was a gnomish man whose whole life revolved around guns, though as a civilian employee of the department he did not carry one himself. But there was no one more expert at the gun shop than he. He was a curious man in that he would not acknowledge anyone who called him Les. He insisted on being called Lester or even just Poole, never the diminutive of Lester. Once he confided to Bosch that this was because he feared that if he became known as Les Poole, it would only be a matter of time before some smartass cops started calling him Cess Poole. It was his intention never to let that happen.
“Lester, it’s Harry,” Bosch said when the tech picked up. “You’re the man this morning. What have you got for me?”
“I’ve got good and bad news for you, Harry.”
“Give me the bad first.”
“Just finished with your case. Haven’t written the report yet but this is what I can tell you. The gun has been wiped clean of prints and is not traceable. Your doer used acid on the serial and I couldn’t bring it up with any of my magic tricks. So that’s that.”
“And the good?”
“I can tell you that you’ve got yourself a match between the weapon and the bullets extracted from your victim. It’s a definite match.”
Bosch looked up at Edgar and Rider and gave the thumbs-up sign. They exchanged a high five and then Bosch watched as Rider gave Lieutenant Billets the thumbs-up through the glass of her office. Bosch then saw Billets pick up her phone. Bosch presumed she was calling Gregson at the DA’s office.
Poole told Bosch that the report would be finished by noon and shipped through intradepartmental courier. Bosch thanked him and hung up. He stood up smiling and then walked with Edgar and Rider into the lieutenant’s office. Billets spent another minute on the phone and Bosch could tell she was talking to Gregson. She then hung up.
“That’s a very happy man there,” she said.
“He should be,” Edgar said.
“All right, so now what?” Billets asked.
“We go over there and drag that desert dirtbag’s ass back here,” Edgar said.
“Yes, that’s what Gregson said. He’s going to go over to babysit the hearing. It’s tomorrow morning, right?”
“Supposed to be,” Bosch said. “I’m thinking of heading over there today. There are a couple loose ends I want to square away, maybe take another shot at finding the girlfriend, and then I want to make the arrangements so we can get out of there with him as soon as the judge says go.”
“Fine,” Billets said. Then to Edgar and Rider, she asked, “Did you two decide who is going with Harry?”
“Me,” Edgar said. “Kiz is more plugged in on the financial stuff. I’ll go with Harry to get this sucker.”
“Okay, fine. Anything else?”
Bosch told them about the gun being untraceable, but this didn’t seem to dent the euphoria engendered by the ballistics match. The case was looking more and more like a slam dunk.
They left the office after a few more self-congratulatory statements and Bosch went back to his phone. He dialed Felton’s office at Metro. The captain picked up right away.
“Felton, it’s Bosch in L.A.”
“Bosch, what’s up?”
“Thought you might want to know. The gun checks out. It fired the bullets that killed Tony Aliso.”
Felton whistled into the phone.
“Damn, that’s nice and neat. Lucky ain’t going to feel so lucky when he hears about that.”
“Well, I’m coming out in a little while to tell him.”
“Good. When you going to be here?”
“Haven’t set it up yet. What about the extradition hearing? We still on for tomorrow morning?”
“Absolutely, as far as I know. I’ll have somebody double-check to make sure. His lawyer might be trying to make waves but that won’t work. This added piece of evidence will help, too.”
Bosch told him that Gregson would be coming out in the morning to aid the local prosecutor if needed.
“That’s probably a wasted trip but he’s welcome just the same.”
“I’ll tell him. Listen, if you’ve got a spare body, there’s still one loose end bugging me.”
“What?”
“Tony’s girlfriend. She was a dancer at Dolly’s till she got fired by Lucky on Saturday. I still want to talk to her. She goes by the name Layla. That’s all I have. That and her phone number.”
He gave Felton the number and the captain said he’d have somebody check into it.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, one other thing. You know Deputy Chief Fitzgerald out here, don’t you?”
“Sure do. We’ve worked cases together.”
“You talked to him lately?”
“Uh, no . . . no. Not in—it’s been a while.”
Bosch thought he was lying but decided to let it go. He needed the man’s cooperation for at least another twenty-four hours.
“Why do you ask, Bosch?”
“No reason. Just thought I’d ask. He’s been advising us from this end, that’s all.”
“Good to hear that. He’s a very capable individual.”
“Capable. Yeah, that he is.”
Bosch hung up and then immediately set about making travel arrangements for himself and Edgar. He booked two rooms at the Mirage. They were above the department’s maximum allowance for hotel rooms but he was sure Billets would approve the vouchers. Besides, Layla had called him once at the Mirage. She might try again.
Last, he reserved round-trip tickets for himself and Edgar out of Burbank. On the Thursday afternoon return he reserved one more
seat for Goshen.
Their flight out left at three-thirty and got them into Las Vegas an hour later. He figured that would give them plenty of time to do what they had to do.
Nash was in the gatehouse and came out to greet Bosch with a smile. Harry introduced Edgar.
“Looks like you guys’ve got yourself a real whodunit, eh?”
“Looks that way,” Bosch said. “You got any theories?”
“Not a one. I gave your girl the gate log, she tell you that?”
“She’s not my girl, Nash. She’s a detective. Pretty good one, too.”
“I know. I didn’t mean nothing.”
“So, is Mrs. Aliso home today?”
“Let’s take a look.”
Nash slid the door of the gatehouse back open, went inside and picked up a clipboard. He scanned it quickly and flipped back to the prior page. After scanning it he put the clipboard down and came back out.
“She should be there,” he said. “Hasn’t been out in two days.”
Bosch nodded his thanks.
“I gotta call her, you know,” Nash said. “Rules.”
“No problem.”
Nash raised the gate and Bosch drove through.
Veronica Aliso was waiting at the open door of her house when they got there. She was wearing tight gray leggings beneath a long loose T-shirt with a copy of a Matisse painting on it. She had on a lot of makeup again. Bosch introduced Edgar and she led them to the living room. They declined an offer for something to drink.
“Well, then, what can I do for you men?”
Bosch opened his notebook and tore out a page he had already written on. He handed her the page.
“That’s the number of the coroner’s office and the case number,” he said. “The autopsy was completed yesterday and the body can be released to you now. If you are already working with a funeral home, just give that case number to them and they’ll take care of it.”
She looked at the page for a long moment.
“Thank you,” she finally said. “You came all the way up here to give me this?”
“No. We also have some news. We’ve arrested a man for your husband’s murder.”
Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2 Page 58
