The Concrete Blonde

  Michael

  Connelly

  The

  Concrete

  Blonde

  This is for Susan, Paul and Jamie,

  Bob and Marlen, Ellen, Jane and Damian

  The house in Silverlake was dark, its windows as empty as a dead man’s eyes. It was an old California Craftsman with a full front porch and two dormer windows set on the long slope of the roof. But no light shone behind the glass, not even from above the doorway. Instead, the house cast a foreboding darkness about it that not even the glow from the streetlight could penetrate. A man could be standing there on the porch and Bosch knew he probably wouldn’t be able to see him.

  “You sure this is it?” he asked her.

  “Not the house,” she said. “Behind it. The garage. Pull up so you can see down the drive.”

  Bosch tapped the gas pedal and the Caprice moved forward and crossed the entrance to the driveway.

  “There,” she said.

  Bosch stopped the car. There was a garage behind the house with an apartment above it. Wooden staircase up the side, light over the door. Two windows, lights on inside.

  “Okay,” Bosch said.

  They stared at the garage for several moments. Bosch didn’t know what he expected to see. Maybe nothing. The whore’s perfume was filling the car and he rolled his window down. He didn’t know whether to trust her claim or not. The one thing he knew he couldn’t do was call for backup. He hadn’t brought a rover with him and the car was not equipped with a phone.

  “What are you going to—there he goes!” she said urgently.

  Bosch had seen it, the shadow of a figure crossing behind the smaller window. The bathroom, he guessed.

  “He’s in the bathroom,” she said. “That’s where I saw all the stuff.”

  Bosch looked away from the window and at her.

  “What stuff?”

  “I, uh, checked the cabinet. You know, when I was in there. Just looking to see what he had. A girl has to be careful. And I saw all the stuff. Makeup shit. You know, mascara, lipsticks, compacts and stuff. That’s how I figured it was him. He used all that stuff to paint ’em when he was done, you know, killing them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that on the phone?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  He saw the figure pass behind the curtains of the other window. Bosch’s mind was racing now, his heart jacking up into its overdrive mode.

  “How long ago was this that you ran out of there?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. I hadda walk down to Franklin just to find a fucking ride over to the Boulevard. I was with the ride ’bout ten minutes. So I don’t know.”

  “Guess. It’s important.”

  “I don’t know. It’s been more than an hour.”

  Shit, Bosch thought. She stopped to turn a trick before she called the task force number. Showed a lot of genuine concern there. Now there could be a replacement up there and I’m sitting out here watching.

  He gunned the car up the street and found a space in front of a hydrant. He turned off the engine but left the keys in the ignition. After he jumped out he stuck his head back in through the open window.

  “Listen, I’m going up there. You stay here. If you hear shots, or if I’m not back here in ten minutes, you start knocking on doors and get some cops out here. Tell them an officer needs assistance. There’s a clock on the dash. Ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes, baby. You go be the hero now. But I’m getting that reward.”

  Bosch pulled his gun as he hurried down the driveway. The stairs up the side of the garage were old and warped. He took them three at a time, as quietly as he could. But still it felt as if he were shouting his arrival to the world. At the top, he raised the gun and broke the bare bulb that was in place over the door. Then, he leaned back into the darkness, against the outside railing. He raised his left leg and put all his weight and momentum into his heel. He struck the door above the knob.

  The door swung open with a loud crack. In a crouch, Bosch moved through the threshold in the standard combat stance. Right away he saw the man across the room, standing on the other side of a bed. The man was naked and not only bald but completely hairless. His vision locked on the man’s eyes and he saw the look of terror quickly fill them. Bosch yelled, his voice high and taut.

  “COPS! DON’T FUCKING MOVE!”

  The man froze, but only for a beat, and then began bending down, his right arm reaching for the pillow. He hesitated once and then continued the movement. Bosch couldn’t believe it. What the fuck was he doing? Time went into suspension. The adrenaline pounding through his body gave his vision a slow-motion clarity. Bosch knew the man was either reaching for the pillow for something to cover himself with, or he was—

  The hand swept under the pillow.

  “DON’T DO IT!”

  The hand was closing on something beneath the pillow. The man had never taken his eyes off Bosch. Then Bosch realized it wasn’t terror in his eyes. It was something else. Anger? Hate? The hand was coming out from beneath the pillow now.

  “NO!”

  Bosch fired one shot, his gun kicking up in his two-handed grasp. The naked man jerked upright and backward. He hit the wood-paneled wall behind him, then bounced forward and fell across the bed thrashing and gagging. Bosch quickly moved into the room and to the bed.

  The man’s left hand was reaching again for the pillow. Bosch brought his left leg up and knelt on his back, pinning him to the bed. He pulled the cuffs off his belt and grabbed the groping left hand and cuffed it. Then the right. Behind the back. The naked man was gagging and moaning.

  “I can’t—I can’t,” he said, but his statement was lost in a bloody coughing fit.

  “You can’t do what I told you,” Bosch said. “I told you not to move!”

  Just die, man, Bosch thought but didn’t say. It will be easier for all of us.

  He moved around the bed to the pillow. He lifted it, stared at what was beneath it for a few moments and then dropped it. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Goddammit!” he called at the back of the naked man’s head. “What were you doing? I had a fucking gun and you, you reach—I told you not to move!”

  Bosch came around the bed so he could see the man’s face. Blood was emptying from his mouth onto the dingy white sheet. Bosch knew his bullet had hit the lungs. The naked man was the dying man now.

  “You didn’t have to die,” Bosch said to him.

  Then the man was dead.

  Bosch looked around the room. There was no one else. No replacement for the whore who had run. He had been wrong on that guess. He went into the bathroom and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. The makeup was there, as the whore had said. Bosch recognized some of the brand names. Max Factor, L’Oréal, Cover Girl, Revlon. It all seemed to fit.

  He looked back through the bathroom door at the corpse on the bed. There was still the smell of gunpowder in the air. He lit a cigarette and it was so quiet in the place that he could hear the crisp tobacco burn as he dragged the soothing smoke into his lungs.

  There was no phone in the apartment. Bosch sat on a chair in the kitchenette and waited. Staring across the room at the body, he realized that his heart was still pounding rapidly and that he felt lightheaded. He also realized that he felt nothing—not sympathy or guilt or sorrow—for the man on the bed. Nothing at all.

  Instead, he tried to concentrate on the sound of the siren that was now sounding in the distance and coming closer. After a while, he was able to discern that it was more than one siren. It was many.

  1

  There are no benches in the hallways of the U.S. District Courthouse in downtown Los Angeles. No place to sit. Anybody who slides down the wall to sit on th
e cold marble floor will get rousted by the first deputy marshal who walks by. And the marshals are always out in the halls, walking by.

  The lack of hospitality exists because the federal government does not want its courthouse to give even the appearance that justice may be slow, or nonexistent. It does not want people lining the halls on benches, or on the floor, waiting with weary eyes for the courtroom doors to open and their cases or the cases of their jailed loved ones to be called. There is enough of that going on across Spring Street in the County Criminal Courts building. Every day the benches in the hallways of every floor are clogged with those who wait. Mostly they are women and children, their husbands or fathers or lovers held in lockup. Mostly they are black or brown. Mostly the benches look like crowded life rafts—women and children first—with people pressed together and cast adrift, waiting, always waiting, to be found. Boat people, the courthouse smartasses call them.

  Harry Bosch thought about these differences as he smoked a cigarette and stood on the front steps of the federal courthouse. That was another thing. No smoking in the hallways inside. So he had to take the escalator down and come outside during the trial’s breaks. Outside there was a sand-filled ash can behind the concrete base of the statue of the blindfolded woman holding up the scales of justice. Bosch looked up at the statue; he could never remember her name. The Lady of Justice. Something Greek, he thought but wasn’t sure. He went back to the folded newspaper in his hands and reread the story.

  Lately, in the mornings, he would read only the Sports section, concentrating his full attention on the pages in the back where box scores and statistics were carefully charted and updated each day. He somehow found the columns of numbers and percentages comforting. They were clear and concise, an absolute order in a disordered world. Having knowledge of who had hit the most home runs for the Dodgers made him feel that he was still connected in some way to the city, and to his life.

  But today he had left the Sports section folded and tucked into his briefcase, which was under his chair in the courtroom. The Los Angeles Times’s Metro section was in his hands now. He had carefully folded the section into quarters, the way he had seen drivers on the freeway do it so they could read while they drove, and the story on the trial was on the bottom corner of the section’s front page. He once again read the story and once again felt his face grow hot as he read about himself.

  TRIAL ON POLICE “TOUPEE” SHOOTING TO BEGIN

  BY JOEL BREMMER, TIMES STAFF WRITER

  As an unusual civil rights trial gets underway today, a Los Angeles police detective stands accused of having used excessive force four years ago when he shot and killed a purported serial killer he believed was reaching for a gun. The alleged killer was actually reaching for his toupee.

  Los Angeles Police Detective Harry Bosch, 43, is being sued in U.S. District Court by the widow of Norman Church, an aerospace worker Bosch shot to death at the climax of the investigation into the so-called Dollmaker killings.

  For nearly a year before the shooting, police had sought a serial killer so named by the media because he used makeup to paint the faces of his 11 victims. The highly publicized manhunt was marked by the killer’s sending of poems and notes to Bosch and the Times.

  After Church was killed, police announced they had unequivocal evidence proving that the mechanical engineer was the killer.

  Bosch was suspended and later transferred from the homicide special unit of the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division to the Hollywood Division homicide squad. In making the demotion, police stressed that Bosch was disciplined for procedural errors, such as his failure to call for a backup to the Silverlake apartment where the fatal shooting took place.

  Police administrators maintained that the Church killing was a “good” shooting—department terminology meaning not improper.

  Since Church’s death precluded a trial, much of the evidence gathered by police has never been provided publicly under oath. That will likely change with the federal trial. A week-long jury selection process is expected to be completed today with the opening statements of the attorneys to follow.

  Bosch had to refold the paper to continue reading the story on an inside page. He was momentarily distracted by seeing his own picture, which was on the inside page. It was an old photo and looked not unlike a mug shot. It was the same one that was on his department ID card. Bosch was more annoyed by the photo than the story. It was an invasion of his privacy to put his picture out like that. He tried to concentrate on the story.

  Bosch is being defended by the City Attorney’s Office because he was acting in the line of duty when the shooting occurred. If any judgment is won by the plaintiff, the city taxpayers, not Bosch, will pay.

  Church’s wife, Deborah, is being represented by civil rights attorney Honey Chandler, who specializes in police abuse cases. In an interview last week, Chandler said she will seek to prove to the jury that Bosch acted in such a reckless manner that a fatal shooting of Church was inevitable.

  “Detective Bosch was cowboying and a man ended up dead,” Chandler said. “I don’t know if he was merely reckless or if there is something more sinister here, but we will find out in the trial.”

  That was the line that Bosch had read and reread at least six times since getting the paper during the first break. Sinister. What did she mean by that? He had tried not to let it bother him, knowing that Chandler would not be above using a newspaper interview for a psych-ops outing but, still, it felt like a warning shot. It let him know more was to come.

  Chandler said she also plans to question the police evidence that Church was the Dollmaker. She said Church, the father of two daughters, was not the serial killer police sought and that they labeled him as such to cover up Bosch’s misdeed.

  “Detective Bosch killed an innocent man in cold blood,” Chandler said. “What we are doing with this civil rights suit is what the police department and the district attorney’s office refused to do: bring forward the truth and provide justice for Norman Church’s family.”

  Bosch and Asst. City Atty. Rodney Belk, who is defending him, declined comment for this story. Along with Bosch, those expected to testify in the one- to two-week case include—

  “Spare change, pal?”

  Bosch looked up from the paper into the grimy but familiar face of the homeless man who had staked out the front of the courthouse as his turf. Bosch had seen him out here every day during the week of jury selection, making his change-and-cigarette rounds. The man wore a threadbare tweed jacket over two sweaters and corduroy pants. He carried a plastic bag of belongings and a Big Gulp cup to shake in front of people when he asked for change. He also always carried with him a yellow legal pad with scribbling all over it.

  Bosch instinctively patted his pockets and shrugged. He had no change.

  “I’d take a dollar, you know.”

  “Don’t have a spare dollar.”

  The homeless man dismissed him and looked into the ash can. Yellowed cigarette butts grew from the sand like a crop of cancer. He put his yellow pad under his arm and began to pick through the offerings, taking those that still had a quarter inch or more of tobacco to smoke. Every now and then he would find a nearly whole cigarette and make a clicking sound with his mouth to show his approval. He put the harvest from the ash can in the Big Gulp cup.

  Happy with his findings, the man stepped back from the ash can and looked up at the statue. He looked back at Bosch and winked, then began to rock his hips in a lewd mimicry of a sexual act.

  “How ’bout my girl here?” he said.

  The man then kissed his hand and reached up and patted the statue.

  Before Bosch could think of something to say, the pager on his belt began to chirp. The homeless man stepped back another two steps and raised his free hand as if to ward off some unknown evil. Bosch saw the look of deranged panic spread on his face. It was the look of a man whose brain synapses were spread too far apart, the connections dulled. The man turned and scurried away, out towa
rd Spring Street, with his cup of used cigarettes.

  Bosch watched him until he was gone and then pulled the pager off his belt. He recognized the number on the display. It was Lieutenant Harvey “Ninety-eight” Pounds’s direct line at the Hollywood station. He put what was left of his cigarette into the sand and went back into the courthouse. There was a bank of pay phones at the top of the escalator, near the second-floor courtrooms.

  “Harry, what’s happening there?” Pounds asked.

  “The usual. Just waiting around. We got a jury, so now the lawyers are in with the judge, talking about openers. Belk said I didn’t have to sit in on that, so I’m just hanging around.”

  He looked at his watch. It was ten to twelve.

  “They’ll be breaking for lunch soon,” he added.

  “Good. I need you.”

  Bosch didn’t reply. Pounds had promised he would be off the case rotation until the trial was over. A week more, maybe two, at the most. It was a promise Pounds had no choice but to make. He knew that Bosch couldn’t handle catching a homicide investigation while in federal court four days a week.

  “What’s going on? I thought I was off the list.”

  “You are. But we may have a problem. It concerns you.”

  Bosch hesitated again. Dealing with Pounds was like that. Harry would trust a street snitch before he’d trust Pounds. There was always the spoken motive and the hidden motive. It seemed that this time the lieutenant was doing one of his routine dances. Speaking in elliptical phrases, trying to get Bosch to bite on the hook.

  “A problem?” Bosch finally asked. A good noncommittal reply.

  “Well, I take it you saw the paper today—the Times story about your case?”

  “Yeah, I was just reading it.”

  “Well, we got another note.”

  “A note? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about somebody dropping a note at the front desk. Addressed to you. And damn if it doesn’t sound like those notes you got from the Dollmaker back when all of that was going on.”