Angels Flight (1998)

by Michael Connelly

  Bosch nodded once. Irving turned and glanced quickly at Garwood before leaving the room.

  4

  HARRY, you have a smoke?”

  “Sorry, Cap, I’m trying to quit.”

  “Me, too. I guess all that really means is that you borrow ’em rather than buy ’em.”

  Garwood stepped away from the corner and blew out his breath. With his foot he moved a stack of boxes away from the wall and sat down on them. He looked old and tired to Bosch but then he had looked that way twelve years before when Bosch had gone to work for him. Garwood didn’t raise any particular feelings in Bosch. He had been the aloof sort of supervisor. Didn’t socialize with the squad after hours, didn’t spend much time out of his office and in the bullpen. At the time, Bosch thought maybe that was good. It didn’t engender a lot of loyalty from Garwood’s people, but it didn’t create any enmity either. Maybe that was how Garwood had lasted in the spot for so long.

  “Well, it looks like we really got our tit in the wringer this time,” Garwood said. He then looked at Rider and added, “Excuse the saying, Detective.”

  Bosch’s pager sounded and he quickly pulled it off his belt, disengaged the beep and looked at the number. It was not his own number as he had hoped it would be. He recognized it as the home number of Lieutenant Grace Billets. She probably wanted to know what was going on. If Irving had been as circumspect with her as he had been with Bosch on the phone, then she knew next to nothing.

  “Important?” Garwood asked.

  “I’ll take care of it later. You want to talk in here or should we go out to the train?”

  “Let me tell you what we have first. Then it’s your scene to do with what you want.”

  Garwood reached into the pocket of his coat, took out a softpack of Marlboros and began opening it.

  “I thought you asked me for a smoke,” Bosch said.

  “I did. This is my emergency pack. I’m not supposed to open it.”

  It made little sense to Bosch. He watched as Garwood lit a cigarette and then offered the pack to Bosch. Harry shook his head. He put his hands in his pockets to make sure he wouldn’t take one.

  “This going to bother you?” Garwood asked, holding up the cigarette, a taunting smile on his face.

  “Not me, Cap. My lungs are probably already shot. But these guys . . .”

  Rider and Edgar waved it off. They appeared as impatient as Bosch did in getting to the story.

  “Okay, then,” Garwood finally said. “This is what we know. Last run of the night. Man named Elwood . . . Elwood . . . hold on a sec.”

  He pulled a small pad from the same pocket he had replaced the cigarette package in and looked at some writing on the top page.

  “Eldrige, yeah, Eldrige. Eldrige Peete. He was running the thing by himself — it only takes one person to run the whole operation — it’s all computer. He was about to close her down for the night. On Friday nights the last ride is at eleven. It was eleven. Before sending the top car down for the last ride he goes out, gets on it, closes and locks the door. Then he comes back in here, puts the command on the computer and sends it down.”

  He referred to the pad again.

  “These things have names. The one he sent down is called Sinai and the one he brought up was Olivet. He says they’re named after mountains in the Bible. It looked to him when Olivet got up here that the car was empty. So he goes out to lock it up — ’cause then he has to send them one more time and the computer stops them side by side in the middle of the track for overnight. Then he’s done and out of here.”

  Bosch looked at Rider and made a signal as if writing on his palm. She nodded and took her own pad and a pen out of the bulky purse she carried. She started taking notes.

  “Only Elwood, I mean, Eldrige, he comes out to lock up the car and he finds the two bodies onboard. He backs away, comes in here and calls the police. With me?”

  “So far. What next?”

  Bosch was already thinking of the questions he would have to ask Garwood and then probably Peete.

  “So we’re covering for Central dicks and the call eventually comes to me. I send out four guys and they set up the scene.”

  “They didn’t check the bodies for ID?”

  “Not right away. But there was no ID anyway. They were going by the book. They talked to this Eldrige Peete and they went down the steps and did a search for casings and other than that held tight until the coroner’s people arrived and did their thing. Guy’s wallet and watch are missing. His briefcase, too, if he was carrying one. But they got an ID off a letter the stiff had in his pocket. Addressed to Howard Elias. Once they found that, my guys took a real good look at the stiff and could tell it was Elias. They then, of course, called me and I called Irving and he called the chief and then it was decided to call you.”

  He had said the last part as if he had been part of the decision process. Bosch glanced out the window. There was still a large number of detectives milling about.

  “I’d say those first guys made more than just a call to you, Captain,” Bosch said.

  Garwood turned to look out the window as if it had never occurred to him that it was unusual to see as many as fifteen detectives at a murder scene.

  “I suppose,” he said.

  “Okay, what else?” Bosch said. “What else did they do before they figured out who it was and that they weren’t long for the case?”

  “Well, like I said, they talked to this fellow Eldrige Peete and they searched the areas outside the cars. Top and bottom. They — ”

  “Did they find any of the brass?”

  “No. Our shooter was careful. He picked up all the casings. We do know that he was using a nine, though.”

  “How?”

  “The second victim, the woman. The shot was through and through. The slug hit a steel window bracket behind her, flattened and fell on the floor. It’s too mashed for comparison but you can still tell it was a nine. Hoffman said if he was guessing he’d say it was a Federal. You’ll have to hope for better lead from the autopsies as far as ballistics go. If you ever get that far.”

  Perfect, Bosch thought. Nine was a cop’s caliber. And stopping to pick up the shells, that was a smooth move. You didn’t usually see that.

  “The way they see it,” Garwood continued, “Elias got it just after he stepped onto the train down there. The guy comes up and shoots him in the ass first.”

  “The ass?” Edgar said.

  “That’s right. The first shot is in the ass. See, Elias is just stepping on so he’s a couple steps up from the sidewalk level. The shooter comes up from behind and holds the gun out — it’s at ass level. He sticks the muzzle in there and fires off the first cap.”

  “Then what?” Bosch asked.

  “Well, we think Elias goes down and sort of turns to see who it is. He raises his hands but the shooter fires again. The slug goes through one of his hands and hits him in the face, right between the eyes. That’s probably your cause-of-death shot right there. Elias drops back down. He’s facedown now. The shooter steps into the car and puts one more in the back of his head, point-blank. He then looks up and sees the woman, maybe for the first time. He hits her from about twelve feet. One in the chest, through and through, and she’s gone. No witness. The shooter gets the wallet and watch off Elias, picks up his shells and is gone. A few minutes later Peete brings the car up and finds the bodies. You now know what I know.”

  Bosch and his partners were quiet a long moment. The scenario Garwood had woven didn’t sit right with Bosch but he didn’t know enough about the crime scene yet to challenge him on it.

  “The robbery look legit?” Bosch finally asked.

  “It did to me. I know the people down south aren’t going to want to hear that but there it is.”

  Rider and Edgar were silent stones.

  “What about the woman?” Bosch asked. “Was she robbed?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. I kind of think the shooter didn’t want to come onto the tr
ain. Anyway, the lawyer was the one in the thousand-dollar suit. He’d be the target.”

  “What about Peete? Did he hear the shots, a scream, anything?”

  “He says no. He says the generator for the electric is right below the floor here. Sounds like an elevator running all day long so he wears earplugs. He never heard anything.”

  Bosch stepped around the cable wheels and looked at the train operator’s station. For the first time he saw that mounted above the cash register was a small video display box with a split screen showing four camera views of Angels Flight — from a camera in each of the train cars and from above each terminus. On one corner of the screen he could see a long shot of the inside of Olivet. The crime scene techs were still working with the bodies.

  Garwood came around the other side of the cable wheels.

  “No luck there,” he said. “The cameras are live only, no tape. They are so the operator can check to make sure everyone is aboard and seated before starting the train.”

  “Did he — ”

  “He didn’t look,” Garwood said, knowing Bosch’s questions. “He just checked through the window, thought the car was empty and brought it up so he could lock it up.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At Parker. Our offices. I guess you’ll have to come over and talk to him for yourself. I’ll keep somebody with him until you make it by.”

  “Any other witnesses?”

  “Not a one. Eleven o’clock at night down here, the place is pretty dead. The Grand Central Market closes up at seven. There’s nothing else down there except some office buildings. A couple of my guys were getting ready to go into those apartments next door here to knock on doors. But then they got the ID and sort of backed away.”

  Bosch paced around in a small area of the room and thought. Very little had been done so far and the discovery of the murders was already four hours old. This bothered him even though he understood the reason behind the delay.

  “Why was Elias on Angels Flight?” he asked Garwood. “They figure that out before backing away?”

  “Well, he must’ve wanted to go up the hill, don’t you think?”

  “Come on, Captain, if you know, why not save us the time?”

  “We don’t know, Harry. We ran a DMV check, he lives out in Baldwin Hills. That’s a long way from Bunker Hill. I don’t know why he was coming up here.”

  “What about where he was coming from?”

  “That’s a little easier. Elias’s office is just over on Third. In the Bradbury Building. He was probably coming from there. But where he was going . . .”

  “Okay, then what about the woman?”

  “She’s a blank. My guys hadn’t even started with her when we were told to pull back.”

  Garwood dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it with his heel. Bosch took it as a signal that the briefing was about over. He decided to see if he could get a rise out of him.

  “You pissed off, Captain?”

  “About what?”

  “About being pulled off. About your people being on the suspect list.”

  A small smile played on Garwood’s thin lips.

  “No, I’m not angry. I see the chief’s point.”

  “Are your people going to cooperate with us on this?”

  After some hesitation Garwood nodded.

  “Of course. The quicker they cooperate, the quicker you will clear them.”

  “And you’ll tell them that?”

  “That’s exactly what I’ll tell them.”

  “We appreciate that, Captain. Tell me, which one of your people do you think could have done this?”

  The lips curled into a full smile now. Bosch studied Garwood’s cigarette-yellowed teeth and for a moment was glad he was trying to quit.

  “You’re a clever guy, Harry. I remember that.”

  He said nothing else.

  “Thanks, Captain. But do you have an answer to the question?”

  Garwood moved to the door and opened it. Before leaving he turned and looked back at them, his eyes traveling from Edgar to Rider to Bosch.

  “It wasn’t one of mine, Detectives. I guarantee it. You’ll be wasting your time if you look there too long.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Bosch said.

  Garwood stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  “Jeez,” Rider said. “It’s like Captain Boris Karloff or something. Does that guy only come out at night?”

  Bosch smiled and nodded.

  “Mr. Personality,” he said. “So, what do you think so far?”

  “I think we’re at ground zero,” Rider said. “Those guys didn’t do jack before getting the hook.”

  “Yeah, well, Robbery-Homicide, what do you want?” Edgar said. “They aren’t known for tap dancing. They back the tortoise over the hare any day of the week. But if you ask me, we’re fucked. You and me, Kiz, we can’t win on this one. Blue race, my ass.”

  Bosch stepped toward the door.

  “Let’s go out and take a look,” he said, cutting off discussion of Edgar’s concerns. He knew they were valid but for the moment they only served to clutter their mission. “Maybe we’ll get a few ideas before Irving wants to talk again.”

  5

  THE number of detectives outside the station had finally begun to decrease. Bosch watched as Garwood and a group of his men crossed the plaza toward their cars. He then saw Irving standing to the side of the train car talking to Chastain and three detectives. Bosch didn’t know them but assumed they were IAD. The deputy chief was animated in his discussion but kept his voice so low that Bosch couldn’t hear what he was saying. Bosch wasn’t sure exactly what the IAD presence was all about, but he was getting an increasingly bad feeling about it.

  He saw Frankie Sheehan hanging back behind Garwood and his group. He was about to leave but was hesitating. Bosch nodded at him.

  “I see what you mean now, Frankie,” he said.

  “Yeah, Harry, some days you eat the bear . . .”

  “Right. You taking off?”

  “Yeah, the cap told us all to get out of here.”

  Bosch stepped over and kept his voice low.

  “Any ideas I could borrow?”

  Sheehan looked at the train car as if considering for the first time who might have killed the two people inside it.

  “None other than the obvious and I think that will be a waste of time. But then again, you have to waste it, right? Cover all the bases.”

  “Yeah. Anybody you think I should start with?”

  “Yeah, me.” He smiled broadly. “I hated the douche bag. Know what I’m gonna do? I’m going now to try and find an all-night liquor store and buy the best Irish whiskey they got. I’m going to have a little celebration, Hieronymus. Because Howard Elias was a motherfucker.”

  Bosch nodded. With cops the word motherfucker was rarely used. It was heard a lot by them but not used. With most cops it was reserved as being the worst thing you could say about someone. When it was said it meant one thing: that the person had crossed the righteous, that the person had no respect for the keepers of the law and therefore the rules and bounds of society. Cop killers were always motherfuckers, no questions asked. Defense lawyers got the call, most of the time. And Howard Elias was on the motherfucker list, too. Right at the top.

  Sheehan gave a little salute and headed off across the plaza. Bosch turned his attention toward the interior of the train while he put on rubber gloves. The lights were back on and the techs were finished with the laser. Bosch knew one of them, Hoffman. He was working with a trainee Bosch had heard about but not met. She was an attractive Asian woman with a large bust. He had overheard other detectives in the squad room discussing her attributes and questioning their authenticity.

  “Gary, is it cool to come in?” Bosch asked, leaning in through the door.

  Hoffman looked up from the tackle box in which he kept his tools. He was organizing things and was about to close it.

  “It’s cool. We’
re wrapping up. This one yours, Harry?”

  “It is now. Got anything good for me? Gonna make my day?”

  Bosch stepped into the car, followed by Edgar and Rider. Since the car was on an incline, the floor was actually a series of steps down to the other door. The seats also were on graduated levels on either side of the center aisle. Bosch looked at the slatted bench seats and suddenly remembered how hard they had been on his skinny behind as a boy.