“You go on ahead,” he said. “I’m gonna see if there’s a can around here. Tell the others I’ll be right there.”
“Sure.”
The doorman had overheard the exchange from his little lobby desk and told Bosch the rest room was around the corner behind the elevators. Bosch headed that way.
In the rest room Bosch put his briefcase on the sink counter and got his phone out. He called his house first. When the machine picked up he punched in the code to play all new messages. Only his own message played back to him. Eleanor hadn’t got it.
“Shit,” he said as he hung up.
He then called information and got the number for the Hollywood Park poker room. The last time Eleanor had not come home she had told him she was playing cards there. He called the number and asked for the security office. A man identifying himself as Mr. Jardine answered and Bosch gave his name and badge number. Jardine asked him to spell his name and give the number again. He was obviously writing it down.
“Are you in the video room?”
“Sure am. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for somebody and there is a good chance she is at one of your tables right now. I was wondering if you could look at the tubes for me.”
“What’s she look like?”
Bosch described his wife but could not give any description on clothes because he had not checked the closets at the house. He then waited two minutes while Jardine apparently studied the video screens connected to the surveillance cameras in the poker room.
“Uh, if she’s here, I’m not seeing her,” Jardine finally said. “We don’t have very many women in here this time of night. And she doesn’t match the ones we’ve got. I mean, she could have been in here earlier, maybe one or two o’clock. But not now.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Hey, you got a number? I’ll take a walk around the place, call you back if I see anything.”
“I’ll give you my pager. But if you see her, don’t approach her. Just give me a page.”
“Will do.”
After giving the man his pager number and hanging up, Bosch thought about the card clubs in Gardena and Commerce but decided not to call. If Eleanor was going to stay local she would have gone to Hollywood Park. If she didn’t go there she’d go to Vegas or maybe the Indian place in the desert near Palm Springs. He tried not to think about that and focused his mind back on the case.
Bosch next called the district attorney’s night switchboard after getting the number out of his phone book. He asked to be connected to the on-call prosecutor and was eventually connected to a sleepy attorney named Janis Langwiser. She happened to be the same prosecutor who had filed charges in the so-called hard-boiled eggs case. She had recently moved over from the city attorney’s office and it had been the first time Bosch had worked with her. He had enjoyed her sense of humor and enthusiasm for her job.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, “you’ve got a scrambled eggs case this time? Or better yet, the western omelet case.”
“Not quite. I hate to pull you out of bed but we’re going to need somebody to come out and give us a little guidance on a search we’ll be doing pretty soon.”
“Who’s dead and where’s the search?”
“Dead is Howard Elias, Esquire, and the search is going to be in his office.”
She whistled into the phone and Bosch had to hold it away from his ear.
“Wow,” she said, now fully alert. “This is going to be . . . well, something. Tell me the general details.”
He did and when he was finished Langwiser, who lived thirty miles north in Valencia, agreed to meet the search team at the Bradbury in one hour.
“Until then, take things very carefully, Detective Bosch, and don’t go into the office until I am there.”
“Will do.”
It was a little thing but he liked her calling him by his title. It was not because she was a good deal younger than he was. It was because so often prosecutors treated him and other cops without respect, as simply tools for them to use whatever way they wanted in prosecuting a case. He was sure Janis Langwiser would be no different as she became more seasoned and cynical, but at least for now she outwardly showed him small nuances of respect.
Bosch disconnected and was about to put the phone away when he thought of something else. He called information again and asked for the home listing for Carla Entrenkin. He was connected to a recording that told him the number was unlisted at the customer’s request. It was what he had expected to hear.
As he crossed Grand Street and California Plaza to Angels Flight, Bosch again tried not to think of Eleanor and where she might be. But it was hard. It hurt his heart when he thought about her being out there somewhere alone, searching for something he obviously couldn’t give her. He was beginning to feel his marriage would be doomed if he didn’t soon figure out what it was she needed. When they had married a year ago, he had found a feeling of contentment and peace that he had never experienced before. For the first time in his life he felt there was someone to sacrifice for—everything if needed. But he had come to the point where he was acknowledging to himself that it was not the same for her. She was not content or complete. And it made him feel awful and guilty and a small bit relieved, all at the same time.
Again he tried to concentrate on other things, on the case. He knew he needed to put Eleanor aside for the time being. He started thinking about the voice on the phone, the condoms hidden in the bathroom cabinet and the bed that had been neatly made. He thought about how Howard Elias could come to have the unlisted home telephone number of Carla Entrenkin in the drawer next to his bed.
8
Rider was standing next to a tall black man with graying hair just outside the door to the Angels Flight station house. They were sharing a smile about something when Bosch walked up.
“Mr. Peete, this is Harry Bosch,” Rider said. “He’s in charge of this investigation.”
Peete shook his hand.
“Worst thing I ever saw in m’life. Worst thing.”
“I’m sorry you had to witness this, sir. But I’m glad you are willing to help us out. Why don’t you go in and have a seat inside. We’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
When Peete was inside Bosch looked at Rider. He didn’t have to speak.
“Same as Garwood said. He didn’t hear anything and he didn’t see a lot until the car came up and he went to lock it up for the night. He didn’t see anybody hanging around down there as if they were waiting for anyone, either.”
“Any chance he’s just playing deaf and dumb?”
“My gut says no. I think he’s legit. He didn’t see it or hear it go down.”
“He touch the bodies?”
“No. You mean the watch and wallet? I doubt it was him.”
Bosch nodded.
“Mind if I ask him a couple follow-ups?”
“Be my guest.”
Bosch walked into the little office and Rider followed. Eldrige Peete was sitting at the lunch table, holding the phone to his ear.
“I gotta go, hon,” he said when he saw Bosch. “The policeman wants to talk to me.”
He hung up.
“My wife. She’s wondering when I’m coming home.”
Bosch nodded.
“Mr. Peete, did you go into the train after you saw the bodies in there?”
“No, sir. Uh, they looked pretty dead to me. I saw a lot of blood. I thought I should leave it all alone for the authorities.”
“Did you recognize either of those people?”
“Well, the man I couldn’t rightly see, but I thought it might be Mr. Elias just on account of the nice suit and how he looked. Now, the woman, I recognized her, too. I mean, I didn’t know her name or nothin’ but she got on the train a few minutes before and went on down.”
“You mean she went down first?”
“Yes, sir, she went down. She also a regular like Mr. Elias. ’Cept she ride maybe only one time a week. On Frida
ys, like last night. Mr. Elias, he ride more.”
“Why do you think she went down the hill but didn’t get off the train?”
Peete stared at him blankly, as if surprised by such an easy question.
“’Cause she got shot.”
Bosch almost laughed but kept it to himself. He wasn’t being clear enough with the witness.
“No, I mean before she was shot. It seems as though she never got up. As if she was on the bench and had been waiting to go back up when the shooter arrived behind the other passenger who was getting on.”
“I surely don’t know what she was doing.”
“When exactly did she go down?”
“The ride right before. I sent Olivet down and that lady was on it. This was five, six minutes to ’leven. I sent Olivet down and I just let her sit down there till ’leven and then I brought her up. You know, last ride. When she came up, those people were dead on there.”
Peete’s apparent ascribing of the female gender to the train was confusing to Bosch. He tried to make it clear.
“So you sent Olivet down with the woman on it. Then five, six minutes later she is still on the train car when you bring it up. Is that right?”
“Right.”
“And during that five or six minutes that Olivet was sitting down there, you weren’t looking down there?”
“No, I was counting the money outta the register. Then when it was ’leven ’clock I went out and locked up Sinai. Then I brought Olivet on up. That’s when I found them. They were dead.”
“But you didn’t hear anything from down there? No shots?”
“No, like I told the lady—Miss Kizmin—I wear earplugs on account of the noise underneath the station. Also, I was countin’ the money. It’s mostly all quarters. I run ’em through the machine.”
He pointed to a stainless-steel change counter next to the cash register. It looked like the machine put the quarters into paper rolls containing ten dollars. He then stamped his foot on the wood floor, indicating the machinery below. Bosch nodded that he understood.
“Tell me about the woman. You said she was a regular?”
“Yeah, once a week. Fridays. Like maybe she have a little job up here in the apartments, cleanin’ or somethin’. The bus runs down there on Hill Street. I think she caught it down there.”
“And what about Howard Elias?”
“He a regular, too. Two, three times a week, all different times, sometimes late like last night. One time I was locking up and he was down there callin’ up to me. I made a ’ception. I brought him up on Sinai. I was bein’ nice. At Christmastime he gave me a little envelope. He was a nice man, ’membering me like that.”
“Was he always alone when he rode the train?”
The old man folded his arms and thought about this for a moment.
“Mostly, I think.”
“You remember him ever being with somebody else?”
“I think one or two times I remember him bein’ with somebody. I can’t rightly remember who it was.”
“Was it a man or woman?”
“I don’t know. I think it mighta been a lady but I’m not gettin’ a picture, know what I mean?”
Bosch nodded and thought about things. He looked at Rider and raised his eyebrows. She shook her head. She had nothing more to ask.
“Before you go, Mr. Peete, can you turn everything on and let us ride down?”
“Sure. Whatever you and Miss Kizmin need.”
He looked at Rider and bowed his head with a smile.
“Thank you,” Bosch said. “Then let’s do it.”
Peete moved to the computer keyboard and began typing in a command. Immediately the floor began to vibrate and there was a low-pitched grinding sound. Peete turned to them.
“Anytime,” he said above the din. Bosch waved and headed out to the train car. Chastain and Baker, the IAD man who had been paired with Kizmin Rider, were standing at the guardrail, looking down the track.
“We’re going down,” Bosch called over. “You guys coming?”
Without a word they fell in behind Rider and the four detectives stepped onto the train car called Olivet. The bodies had long been removed and the evidence technicians cleared out. But the spilt blood was still on the wood floor and the bench where Catalina Perez had sat. Bosch moved down the steps, careful to avoid stepping in the maroon pool that had leaked from Howard Elias’s body. He took a seat on the right side. The others sat on benches further up the train, away from where the bodies had fallen. Bosch looked up at the station house window and waved. Immediately the car jerked and began its descent. And immediately Bosch again recalled riding the train as a kid. The seat was just as uncomfortable as he remembered it.
Bosch didn’t look at the others as they rode. He kept looking out the lower door and at the track as it went underneath the car. The ride lasted no longer than a minute. At the bottom he was the first off. He turned and looked back up the tracks. He could see Peete’s head silhouetted in the station house window by the overhead light inside.
Bosch did not push through the turnstile, as he could see black fingerprint powder on it and didn’t want to get it on his suit. The department did not consider the powder a hazard of the job and would not repay a dry cleaning bill if he got it on himself. He pointed the powder out to the others and climbed over the turnstile.
He scanned the ground on the off chance something would catch his eye but there was nothing unusual. He was confident that the area had already been gone over by the RHD detectives anyway. Bosch had primarily come down to get a firsthand look and feel for the place. To the left of the archway was a concrete staircase for when the train wasn’t running or for those who were afraid to ride the inclined railroad. The stairs were also popular with weekend fitness enthusiasts, who ran up and down them. Bosch had read a story about it a year or so back in the Times. Next to the stairs a lighted bus stop had been cut into the steep hill. There was a fiberglass sunshade over a double-length bench. The side partitions were used to advertise films. On the one Bosch could see there was an ad for an Eastwood picture called Blood Work. The movie was based on a true story about a former FBI agent Bosch was acquainted with.
Bosch thought about whether the gunman could have waited in the bus shelter for Elias to walk up to the Angels Flight turnstile. He decided against it. The shelter was lit by an overhead light. Elias would have had a good view of whoever sat in there as he approached the train. Since Bosch thought it was likely that Elias knew his killer, he didn’t think the shooter would have waited out in the open like that.
He looked at the other side of the archway where there was a heavily landscaped ten-yard strip between the train entrance and a small office building. Bushes crowded thickly around an acacia tree. Bosch wished he hadn’t left his briefcase up in the station house.
“Anybody bring a flashlight?” he asked.
Rider reached into her purse and brought out a small penlight. Bosch took it and headed into the bushes, putting the light on the ground and studying his pathway in. He found no obvious sign that the killer had waited in here. There was trash and other debris scattered in behind the bushes but none of it appeared to be fresh. It looked like a place where homeless people had stopped to look through trash bags they had picked up from somewhere else.
Rider made her way into the bushes.
“Find anything?”
“Nothing good. I’m just trying to figure out where this guy would have hidden from Elias. This could have been as good a spot as any. Elias wouldn’t see him, he’d come out after Elias walked by, move up behind him at the train car.”
“Maybe he didn’t need to hide. Maybe they walked here together.”
Bosch looked at her and nodded.
“Maybe. As good as anything I’m coming up with in here.”
“What about the bus bench?”
“Too open, too well lighted. If it was someone Elias had reason to fear, he’d’ve seen him.”
“What abou
t a disguise? He could have sat in the bus stop in a disguise.”
“There’s that.”
“You’ve already considered all of this but you let me go on talking, saying things you already know.”
He didn’t say anything. He handed the flashlight back to Rider and headed out of the bushes. He looked over at the bus stop once more and felt sure he was right in his thinking. The bus stop hadn’t been used. Rider came up next to him and followed his gaze.
“Hey, did you know Terry McCaleb over at the bureau?” she asked.
“Yeah, we worked a case once. Why, you know him?”
“Not really. But I’ve seen him on TV. He doesn’t look like Clint Eastwood, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, not really.”
Bosch saw Chastain and Baker had crossed the street and were standing in the hollow created by the closed roll-up doors at the entrance of the huge Grand Central Market. They were looking at something on the ground.
Bosch and Rider walked over.
“Got something?” Rider asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Chastain said.
He pointed to the dirty, worn tiles at his feet.
“Cigarette butts,” Baker said. “Five of them—same brand. Means somebody was waiting here a while.”
“Could have been a homeless,” Rider said.
“Maybe,” Baker replied. “Could’ve been our shooter.”
Bosch wasn’t that impressed.
“Any of you smokers?” he asked.
“Why?” Baker asked.
“Because then you’d see what this probably is. What is it you see when you go in the front doors at Parker Center?”
Chastain and Baker looked puzzled.
“Cops?” Baker tried.
“Yeah, but cops doing what?”
“Smoking,” Rider said.
“Right. No smoking in public buildings anymore, so the smokers gather round the front doors. This market is a public facility.”
He pointed at the cigarette butts crushed on the tiles.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean somebody was waiting there a long time. I think it means somebody in the market came out five times during the day for smokes.”
The Harry Bosch Novels, Volume 2 Page 86
