Angels Flight (1998)

by Michael Connelly

  “Do you mind if I put on the television now?” Entrenkin said. “It’s six. I want to watch the news.”

  Bosch came out of his reverie.

  “Sure. Turn it on.”

  She moved to a large oak cabinet against the wall opposite the desk and opened the doors. Inside the cabinet were two shelves, each containing a television. Elias apparently liked to watch more than one TV at a time. Probably, Bosch guessed, so he had a better chance of catching all his appearances on newscasts.

  Entrenkin hit the power on both sets. As the picture came into focus on the top set, Bosch saw a reporter standing in front of a strip shopping center in which three or four stores were ablaze. Several yards behind the reporter, firefighters worked to contain the blaze but it looked to Bosch as though the buildings were beyond being saved. They were already gutted.

  “It’s happening,” he said.

  “Not again,” Entrenkin said, her voice a scared plea.

  18

  BOSCH turned on KFWB on the car radio while driving into Hollywood. The radio reports were more conservative than the TV news at six. This was because the radio report contained only words, not images.

  The bottom-line news was that there was a fire in a strip mall on Normandie, just a few blocks from the intersection of Florence, the intersection that was the flashpoint of the 1992 riots. At that moment it was the only fire burning in South L.A. and there was not yet any confirmation that the fire was an arson linked to protest or anger over the murder of Howard Elias. But every news channel that Bosch and Entrenkin had checked in the office was broadcasting from the mall. Flames filled the screens and the image projected was clear: Los Angeles was burning once again.

  “Fucking TV,” he said. “Excuse my language.”

  “What about TV?”

  It was Carla Entrenkin. She had talked her way into being taken along for the interview with Harris. Bosch hadn’t put up much of a protest. He knew she might help put Harris at ease, if he knew who she was. Bosch knew it was important that Harris be willing to talk to them. He might be the only one to whom Howard Elias had confided the identity of Stacey Kincaid’s murderer.

  “Overreacting as usual,” Bosch said. “One fire and they’re all there, showing the flames. You know what that does? That’s like throwing gasoline on it. It will spread now. People will see that in their living rooms and go outside to see what is happening. Groups will form, things will be said and people won’t be able to back down from their anger. One thing will lead to another and we’ll have our media-manufactured riot.”

  “I give the people a little more credit than that,” Entrenkin responded. “They know not to trust the TV. Civil unrest occurs when the feelings of overwhelming powerlessness hit critical mass. It has nothing to do with television. It has to do with society not addressing the essential needs of overlooked people.”

  Bosch noted that she called it civil unrest instead of rioting. He wondered if calling a riot a riot had become politically incorrect.

  “It’s about hope, Detective,” she continued. “Most of the people in the minority communities of Los Angeles have no power, have no money, have no voice. They subsist on hope for these things. And Howard Elias was hope for many of them. A symbol of hope for a day when things will be equal, when their voice will be heard. Of a day when they need not fear the police officers in their community. When you take hope away it leaves a void. Some people fill that up with anger and with violence. To simply blame it on the media is wrong. It’s much deeper than that.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “I understand,” he said. “At least I think I do. But all I’m saying is the media don’t help any by exaggerating things.”

  Entrenkin now nodded his point.

  “Somebody once called the media the merchants of chaos.”

  “Yeah, well, they got that right.”

  “It was Spiro Agnew. Right before he resigned.”

  Bosch had no answer for that and decided to drop the conversation. He got his cell phone out of the charger on the floor between the seats and called his home. There was no answer except for the machine and he left a message asking Eleanor to call him. He tried not to show outwardly that he was upset. He called information and got the number for the Hollywood Park poker room again. He called the number, asked for Jardine, the security man, and he was transferred through.

  “This is Jardine.”

  “This is Detective Bosch from last night. I — ”

  “She never showed up, pal. At least not on my wa — ”

  “You can save it, pal. She told me that you and she go back to the Flamingo. I understand what you did and it’s cool. But I know she’s back there now and I want you to give her a message. Tell her to call me on my cell phone as soon as she takes a break. Tell her it’s an emergency. You got that, Mister Jardine?”

  Bosch stressed the word Mister so that maybe Jardine would realize he was making a mistake screwing with the LAPD.

  “Yeah,” Jardine said. “I got it.”

  “Good.”

  Bosch clicked off.

  “You know what I remember most about ’ninety-two?” Entrenkin said. “One image. A photo that was in the Times. The caption was something like ‘Father and Son Looters’ and the picture showed a man leading his four-or five-year-old son out of the smashed-in door of a Kmart or something. And you know what each one was carrying, what they had looted?”

  “What?”

  “Each one had taken one of those Thigh-Master things. You know, that ridiculous exercise contraption that some television star from the ’eighties sold late at night on TV.”

  Bosch shook his head at the inanity of her image.

  “They saw it on TV and so they thought it was valuable,” he said. “Like Howard Elias.”

  She didn’t respond and he realized he had been out of line, even if he believed there was something valid in what he had said.

  “Sorry . . .”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes before Bosch spoke again.

  “You know what my image is of ’ninety-two?”

  “What?”

  “I was assigned to Hollywood Boulevard

  . And, as you know, we weren’t really supposed to do anything unless we saw people in danger of physical harm. Essentially, this meant that if the looters were orderly about it, we basically weren’t going to stop them. It made no — anyway, I was on the boulevard and I remember a lot of weird things. The Scientologists surrounding their buildings, standing practically shoulder to shoulder and carrying broomsticks, ready to make a stand if needed. The guy who ran the Army surplus store near Highland was in full combat infantry dress and carrying a sniper rifle over his shoulder. He was marching back and forth in front of his store like he was at the gate at Benning . . . People get crazy, the good and the bad. It’s day of the locusts.”

  “Well, aren’t you the well-read detective, Detective Bosch.”

  “Not really. I once lived with a woman who taught junior lit at Grant High in the Valley. It was one of the books she taught. I read it then. Anyway, the image that sticks with me from ’ninety-two is Frederick’s of Hollywood.”

  “The lingerie place?”

  Bosch nodded.

  “I pulled up there and the place was swarming. Multiracial, multiage, people who had just lost it. They cleaned that place out in about fifteen minutes. I mean, everything. When they were done I walked in there and there was nothing left. They even stole the manikins. Absolutely nothing but the hangers left on the floor and the chrome display racks . . . and the thing is, all it had been was underwear. Four cops get off for beating the shit out of Rodney King on video and people respond by going nuts and stealing underwear. It was so surreal that that’s what comes into my head when people bring up the riots. I remember walking around in that empty store.”

  “It didn’t matter what they took. They were acting out frustrations. It’s like the Thigh-Masters. That father and son didn’t care what they took. The import
ant thing was that they took something, that in some way they made a statement. They had no use for those things but by taking them they were showing The Man. That’s the lesson the father taught his son.”

  “It still doesn’t make — ”

  Bosch’s phone rang and he opened it. It was Eleanor.

  “You winning?” he asked.

  He said it with a happy inflection and then immediately realized he had said it in such a way so that his passenger might not surmise what was really going on with his marriage. At once he felt embarrassed and guilty that he would even let what Entrenkin thought or interpreted enter into his relationship with Eleanor.

  “Not yet. I just got here.”

  “Eleanor, I want you to go home.”

  “Harry, we’re not going to talk about this now. I — ”

  “No, I’m not talking about all of that. I think the city . . . have you watched the news?”

  “No. I’ve been coming here.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look good. The media’s lighting the match, Eleanor. And if something happens and the city goes, you’re not in a good place to be.”

  Bosch took a furtive glance at Entrenkin. He knew he was acting out white paranoia in front of her. Hollywood Park was in Inglewood, a primarily black community. He wanted Eleanor back at their home in the hills where it was safe.

  “Harry, I think you’re being paranoid. I’ll be fine.”

  “Eleanor, why take the — ”

  “Harry, I have to go. They’re holding my chair. I’ll call you later.”

  She hung up then and Bosch said good-bye to a dead line. He dropped the phone onto his lap.

  “For what it’s worth,” Entrenkin said, “I think you’re being paranoid.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I’ll tell you right now there are as many blacks as whites, maybe even more, who don’t want to see it happen again. Give them the benefit of the doubt, Detective.”

  “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  The Hollywood station seemed deserted when Bosch and Entrenkin arrived. There were no patrol cars in the rear lot and when they came through the back door the rear hallway, usually abuzz with activity, was empty. Bosch stuck his head through the open door of the watch office and saw a lone sergeant at a desk. A television mounted on the wall was on. There were no flames on the screen. It showed a news anchor in a studio. The graphic hanging over his shoulder was a photo of Howard Elias. The volume was too low for Bosch to hear what was being said.

  “How we doing?” Bosch said to the sergeant.

  “Hanging in. For now.”

  Bosch knocked twice on the door and headed down the hallway to the detective bureau, Entrenkin following. Rider and Edgar were already there. They had rolled the television out of the lieutenant’s office and were watching the same news report. They saw Bosch and Entrenkin and the surprise registered on their faces.

  Bosch introduced Entrenkin to Edgar, who had not been in Elias’s office that morning. He then asked what the latest news was.

  “The city’s holding tight, it looks like,” Edgar said. “Couple fires and that’s it. Meantime, they’re pretty much making Elias into Saint Howard. Not much said about what an opportunistic asshole he was.”

  Bosch glanced at Entrenkin. She showed nothing.

  “Well, let’s turn it off,” he said. “We have to talk.”

  Bosch brought his partners up to date and showed them the three anonymous notes that had been mailed to Elias. He explained Entrenkin’s presence and said he wanted to try to get Harris’s cooperation and at the same time eliminate him as a potential suspect in the killings.

  “Do we even know where Harris is?” Edgar asked. “He hasn’t shown up on TV that I’ve seen. Maybe he doesn’t even know about Elias.”

  “Well, we’ll find out. His current address and phoner were in Elias’s files. Looks like Elias was putting him up, probably trying to keep him out of trouble before the trial. He’s close by — if he’s home.”

  Bosch got out his notebook and got the phone number. He went to his desk and called it. A man answered.

  “Can I speak to Harry?” Bosch said good-naturedly.

  “No Harry here, man.”

  The phone was hung up.

  “Well, somebody’s home,” Bosch said to the others. “Let’s go.”

  They drove in one car. Harris currently lived in an apartment on Beverly Boulevard

  near the CBS complex. Elias had put him into a large complex that wasn’t luxurious but was more than nice. And downtown was a straight shot down Beverly.

  There was a security door but Harris’s name was not on the list of occupants next to the door phone. Bosch had the apartment number but this did not mean anything. The phone codes following occupants’ names did not correspond with apartment numbers for security reasons. Bosch called the code number for the building’s manager but got no answer.

  “Look at this,” Rider said.

  She pointed to a listing for E. Howard. Bosch shook his shoulders as if to say it was worth a try and punched in the number. A male voice answered and Bosch thought it was the same voice that had answered his earlier call from the station.

  “Michael Harris?”

  “Who is it?”

  “LAPD. We need to ask you some questions. I — ”

  “No fucking way. Not without my lawyer here, you don’t.”

  He hung up. Bosch immediately called back.

  “What the fuck you want?”

  “In case you don’t know it yet, your lawyer is dead. That’s why we are here. Now, listen and don’t hang up. I have Inspector General Carla Entrenkin here with me. You know who she is? She’s going to make sure you are treated well. We just need to — ”

  “She the watchdog lady, ’sposed to tell when the LAPD is runnin’ roughshod?”

  “That’s her. Hold on.”

  Bosch stepped to the side and handed the phone to Entrenkin.

  “Tell him he’s safe.”

  She took the phone, giving Bosch a look that said she now realized why he allowed her to come along. She spoke into the phone while looking at him.

  “Michael, this is Carla Entrenkin. You don’t have to worry. No one is here to harm you. We need to ask you about Howard Elias, that is all.”

  If Harris said anything to her Bosch didn’t hear it. The door lock buzzed and Edgar pulled it open. Entrenkin hung up the phone and they all went in.

  “The guy’s a mutt,” Edgar said. “I don’t know why we’re treating him like a saint.”

  Entrenkin gave Edgar her look then.

  “Yes, you do, Detective Edgar.”

  Edgar was sufficiently cowed by her tone.

  When Harris opened the door of his fourth-floor apartment he was holding a gun at his side.

  “A’right, this is my home,” he announced. “I don’t mean to be threatenin’ anybody but I need this for my pers’nal comfort and protection. Otherwise, you ain’t comin’ in the place, know what I mean?”

  Bosch looked at the others, got no read, and looked back at Harris. He tried to contain his fury. Despite what Entrenkin had told him earlier, he still had little doubt that Harris was the murderer of a child. But he knew that what was important at the moment was the current investigation. He had to put his enmity for the man aside in order to extract whatever information he had.

  “All right,” he said. “But you keep that weapon low and at your side. You point it at one of us and we’re going to have a big problem. We understand each other?”

  “Oh, we understand.”

  Harris backed away from the door and let them in by pointing the weapon toward the living room.

  “Remember, keep that thing down,” Bosch said sternly.

  Harris dropped the gun to his side and they all entered. The apartment was furnished with rental stuff — puffy couch and matching chairs in light blue, cheap faux wood tables and shelves. Pastoral prints were on the walls. There was a cabinet with a tel
evision in it. The news was on.

  “Have a seat, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Harris took one of the big chairs, slumping in it so that the back rose above his head, giving him the appearance of sitting on a throne. Bosch stepped over and turned the television off, then introduced everybody and showed his badge.

  “It figure the white man in charge,” Harris said.