Lost Light

by Michael Connelly

  “It’s me. Call me but use all precautions.”

  I knew that meant a pay phone. The next message was from Roy Lindell. He also followed the standard of brevity.

  “All right, asshole, I’ve got something for you. Call me.”

  I looked around. I was parked in front of a post office on San Vicente. My meter was up and I was out of change for both the parking and the calls I needed to make. But I figured there would be a phone inside the post office and a machine for getting change to buy stamps from other machines. I got out and went in.

  The main post office was closed but in an outer room that was open after hours I found the machine and pay phone I was looking for. I called Langwiser first because I figured that I had already moved the investigation past the information I had asked Lindell to get for me.

  I got Langwiser on her cell but she was still in her office.

  “What did you get from Foreman?” I asked, getting right to the point.

  “This has to remain highly confidential, Harry. I did talk to Jim and when I explained the circumstances he didn’t mind talking to me about it. The caveat being that this information goes into no reports and you never reveal its source.”

  “No problem. I don’t write reports anymore, anyway.”

  “Don’t be so quick and cavalier about it. You’re not a cop anymore and you’re no lawyer. You have no legal shield.”

  “I have a private eye ticket.”

  “Like I said, you have no shield. If a judge ever ordered you to reveal your source you would have to do it or face contempt. That would mean possibly going to jail. Ex-cops in jail don’t do so well.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I just did.”

  “Okay, I understand. It’s still no problem.”

  The truth was, I couldn’t see how this would ever come up in a court and with a judge. I wasn’t worried about the possibility of jail.

  “Okay, as long as we’re clear. Jim told me that Simonson settled for fifty thousand dollars.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s it and it really isn’t that much. He was represented by a thirty-five percenter. He also had to pay filing costs.”

  He’d had a lawyer who took a 35 percent cut of any settlement in exchange for working the case without hourly billing. It meant that Simonson probably cleared a little over thirty grand. It wasn’t a lot when it came to quitting your day job and starting a late-night lounge empire.

  The sense of anxiety I had been feeling ticked into a higher gear. I had suspected that the settlement would be low but not that low. I was beginning to convince myself.

  “Did Foreman say anything else about the case?”

  “Just one other thing. He said that it was Simonson who insisted on the confidentiality agreement and that the agreement itself was unusual. It required that there be not only no public announcement about the settlement but no public record of it.”

  “Well, it never went to court anyway.”

  “I know, but BankLA is a publicly held corporation. So what the confidentiality agreement entailed was that Simonson be carried under a pseudonym on all financial records related to the payout. He’s carried, again at his request, as Mr. King.”

  I didn’t respond as I thought about this.

  “So how did I do, Harry?”

  “You did real good, Janis. Which reminds me, you’ve been doing a hell of a lot of work on this. Are you sure you don’t want to bill me?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I still owe you.”

  “Well, now I’ll owe you. I want you to do one last thing for me. I just decided that tomorrow I’m going to give what I’ve got to the powers that be. It might be good if you were there. You know, to sort of make sure I don’t step across any lines with these people.”

  “I’m there. Where?”

  “You want to check your calendar first?”

  “I already know I have the morning free. You want to do it here or are you going into the police station?”

  “No, I’ve got butting jurisdictions. I’d like to do it at your place. You have a room we can put about six or seven people in?”

  “I’ll book the conference room. What time?”

  “How about nine o’clock?”

  “Fine. I’ll be here early if you want to come in and talk first and go over everything.”

  “That would be good. I’ll see you about eight-thirty.”

  “I’ll be here. Do you think you have it?”

  I knew what she meant. Did I have the story, if not the actual evidence that would push the LAPD and FBI into running with the case again.

  “It’s coming together. There’s maybe one more thing I can do and then I’ve got to give it to somebody who can get warrants and knock down doors.”

  “I get it. I’ll see you tomorrow. And I’m glad you made it through on this. I really am.”

  “Yeah, me too. Thanks, Janis.”

  After hanging up I realized I had forgotten about the parking meter. I went out to feed it but it was too late. West Hollywood Parking Enforcement had beat me there. I left the ticket on the windshield and went back inside. I got Lindell in his office just before he was leaving for the day.

  “What do you got?”

  “Herpes simplex five. What do you got?”

  “Come on, man.”

  “You’re an asshole, Bosch, asking me to wash your dirty laundry.”

  I realized what he was mad about.

  “The plate number?”

  “Yeah, the plate number. As if you didn’t know. It belongs to your ex-wife, man, and I really don’t appreciate being pulled into your bullshit. I mean, either kill her or get over her, you know what I mean?”

  I agreed that I knew what he meant but not what he had suggested. I could tell that I had seriously put him out with the plate check.

  “Roy, all I can tell you is that I didn’t know. I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t drag you in and I am sorry I did.”

  There was silence and I thought that I had placated him.

  “Roy?”

  “What?”

  “Did you write down the address from the registration?”

  “You fucking asshole.”

  He vented for another minute but eventually, grudgingly gave me the address Eleanor’s car was registered to. There was no apartment number with it. It looked like she had not only come up a level in wheels. She was living in a house now.

  “Thanks, Roy. It’s the last time on that. I promise. Anything come up on the other thing I asked about?”

  “Nothing good, nothing useful. The guy’s record is pretty clean. There is some juvenile stuff but it’s all sealed. I didn’t go any further with it.”

  “Okay.”

  I wondered if the juvenile stuff involved his former Beverly Hills High classmates and now partners.

  “The only other thing is that he’s a junior. There is another Linus Simonson on the computer. Going by the age it looks like Daddy.”

  “What’s he on there for?”

  “He’s got an IRS rap and a bankruptcy. It’s all old stuff.”

  “How old?”

  “The IRS came first, like they usually do. That was in ’ninety-four. The old man went bankrupt two years later. Who is this guy Linus and why did you want me to check him for a tail?”

  I didn’t answer as I found myself looking into a Most Wanted picture on the post office wall. A serial rapist. But I wasn’t really looking at him. I was looking at Linus. I was working the interior circuits as another piece fell into place. Linus said he wasn’t going to make the same mistakes as his father, who had gone belly-up and broke, an IRS collar around his neck. The question that poked through all of that was, how does a guy with no job and no backing from Daddy parlay the thirty grand he’s got in his pocket into the purchase and major renovation of a bar? And then another, and then another.

  Loans maybe—if he qualified. Or maybe with a $2 million bank withdrawal.

  “Bos
ch, you there?”

  I came out of it.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I asked you a question. Who is this guy? Is he on the movie deal?”

  “It’s looking like it, Roy. What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

  “I’m doing what I’m always doing. Why?”

  “If you want a piece of this be at my lawyer’s office at nine. And don’t be late.”

  “Is this guy connected to Marty? If he’s the guy I don’t want a piece. I want all of it.”

  “I don’t know yet. But he’ll get us closer, that’s for sure.”

  Lindell wanted to ask more questions but I cut him off. I had more calls to make. I gave him Langwiser’s name and address and he finally said he would be at the law office at nine. I hung up and then called Sandor Szatmari and left a message inviting him to the same meeting.

  Lastly I called Kiz Rider in the administration office at Parker Center and extended the invitation to her as well. She went from zero to sixty on the anger speedometer in about five seconds.

  “Harry, I warned you about this. You are going to find yourself in a lot of trouble. You can’t just work a case and then call in a gang bang when you think it’s time we were made privy to your private investigations.”

  “Kiz, I already did. You just have to decide if you want to be there or not. There will be a nice piece of this for somebody at the LAPD. As far as I’m thinking, it might as well be you. But if you’re not interested, I’ll call RHD.”

  “Goddamnit, Harry.”

  “In or out?”

  There was a long pause.

  “I’m in. But, Harry, I’m not going to protect you.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it.”

  “Who is your lawyer?”

  I gave her the information and was ready to hang up. I felt a sense of dread about the damage to our relationship. It seemed permanent to me.

  “Okay, see you then,” I finally said.

  “Yes, you will,” she replied sternly.

  I remembered something I needed.

  “Oh, and Kiz? See if you can find the original of the currency report. It should be in the murder book.”

  “What currency report?”

  I explained and she said she would look for it. I thanked her and hung up. I went out to my car and grabbed the parking ticket off the windshield. I got in and threw it over my shoulder into the backseat for good luck.

  It was almost seven on the dashboard clock. I knew things didn’t get going in the Hollywood club scene until ten or later. But I had forward momentum and didn’t want it to ebb away while I just went home and waited. I sat there thinking with my hand over the top of the wheel, ticking my fingertips on the dashboard. Soon they were going through the phrasing that Quentin McKinzie had taught me, and when I realized this, I knew how I could spend the next few hours. I opened up the cell phone again.

  37

  Sugar Ray McK was waiting for me in his chair in his room at the Splendid Age. The only indication that he knew he was going out was the porkpie hat he was wearing. He once told me he only wore it when he went out to hear music, which meant he rarely wore it anymore. Under the brim his eyes were sharper than I had seen them in a long while.

  “This is going to be fun, dog,” he said and I wondered if he’d been watching too much MTV.

  “I hope they’ve got a decent crew for the first set. I didn’t even check.”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

  He drew out the last word.

  “Before we go can I borrow that magnifying glass you use to read the TV guide?”

  “Sure can. What do you need?”

  He dug the glass out of a pocket on the arm of his chair while I took the last page of the currency report out of my shirt pocket and unfolded it. Sugar Ray handed me the glass and I went over to the bed table and turned on the lamp. I held the page over the top of the shade and then studied Jocelyn Jones’s signature with the magnifier. I got a confirmation of something I had seen earlier while in her office.

  “What is it, Harry?” Sugar Ray asked.

  I handed him the glass back and started refolding the paper.

  “Just something I’ve been working on. Something called forger’s tremor.”

  “Hmmm. Man, I got tremors all over.”

  I smiled at him.

  “We’ve all got ’em, one way or the other. Come on, let’s go. Let’s hear some music.”

  “I’m going. You turn that lamp off. That costs money.”

  We headed out. As we went down the hallway I thought of Melissa Royal and wondered if she might be visiting her mother. I doubted it. A moment of dread spiked me because I knew the day was coming when I would have to sit down with Melissa and tell her I was the wrong guy.

  A porter from the center helped me get Sugar Ray into the car. The Mercedes SUV was probably too high for him to climb into. I realized I would have to think about that if I took him out on any more field trips.

  We went over to the Baked Potato and had dinner and watched the first set of the first act, a quartet of journeymen called Four Squared. They were decent but maybe a little tired. They were partial to Billy Strayhorn’s stuff and so am I, so it didn’t matter.

  It didn’t matter to Sugar Ray either. His face lit up and he kept the beat in his shoulders as he listened. He never spoke while they played and he clapped with enthusiasm after every song. Reverence is what I saw in his eyes. Reverence for the sound and the form.

  The players didn’t recognize him. Few people would now that he was down to just skin and bones. But that didn’t bother Sugar Ray. It didn’t diminish our evening by one note.

  After the first set, I could see him starting to flag. It was after nine and time for him to sleep and dream. He’d told me once that he still could play in his dreams. I thought we should all be so lucky.

  It was also time for me to look into the face of the man who had taken Angella Benton from this world. I had no badge and no official standing. But I knew things and believed that I still stood for her. I spoke for her. In the morning they could take it all away from me, make me sit down and watch from the sidelines. But I still had until then. And I knew I was not going home just yet. I was going to confront Linus Simonson and take his measure. I was going to let him know who put the bead on him. And I was going to give him the chance to answer for Angella Benton.

  When we got back to the Splendid Age I left Sugar Ray dozing in the front seat while I went in to get the porter. Getting him into the Mercedes outside the Baked Potato by myself had been a chore.

  I gently shook him awake and then we got him down onto the sidewalk. We walked him in and then down the hall to his room. Sitting on his bed, trying to shake off the sleep, he asked me where I’d been.

  “I’ve been right here with you, Sugar Ray.”

  “You’ve been practicing?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  I realized that he may have already forgotten our evening’s outing. He may have thought I was there for a lesson. I felt bad about him being robbed of the memory so soon.

  “Sugar Ray, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got some work to do.”

  “Okay, Henry.”

  “It’s Harry.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Oh. You want me to turn on the box or are you going to go to sleep?”

  “Nah, put the box on for me if you don’t mind. That’d be good.”

  I turned on the television that was mounted on the wall. It was on CNN and Sugar Ray said to leave it there. I went over and squeezed his shoulder and then headed for the door.

  “‘Lush Life,’” he said to my back.

  I turned around to look at him. He was smiling. “Lush Life” was the last song of the set we had heard. He did remember.

  “I love that song,” he said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  I left him to his memories of a lush life while I headed out into the night to see a king about a stolen life. I was unarme
d but unafraid. I was in a state of grace. I carried the last prayer of Angella Benton with me.

  38

  Shortly after ten o’clock I approached the doorway to Nat’s on Cherokee, a half block south of Hollywood Boulevard. It was still early but there was no line of people waiting to get in. There was no velvet rope. There was no doorman selecting who got in and who didn’t. There was no collector of a cover charge. When I got inside, there also were almost no customers.