The Concrete Blonde Page 10

  He pushed her arm away from him.

  “You can start by getting out of here.”

  “C’mon, lover, why look at it on TV when you can be doing it? Twenty bucks. I can’t go lower. I have to split it with the management.”

  She was pressed against him now and Bosch couldn’t tell if it was his breath or hers that was lousy with cigarettes. Her breasts were hard and she was pushing them against his chest. Then suddenly she froze. She had felt the gun. Their eyes held each other for a moment.

  “That’s right,” Bosch said. “If you don’t want to go for a ride to the cage, get out of here.”

  “No problem, Officer,” she said.

  She parted the curtain and was gone. Just then the screen went back to the directory. Bosch’s two dollars were up.

  As he walked out, he heard Magna Cum Loudly yelling in false joy from the other booths.

  8

  On the ride on the freeway to the next valley, he tried to imagine that life. He wondered what hope she might still have had and still nurtured and protected like a candle in the rain, even as she lay there on her back with distant eyes turned toward the stranger inside her. Hope must have been the only thing she had left. Bosch knew that hope was the lifeblood of the heart. Without it there was nothing, only darkness.

  He wondered how the two lives—killer’s and victim’s—had crossed. Maybe the seed of lust and murderous desire had been planted by the same loop Bosch had just seen. Maybe the killer had rented the video Bosch had just paid fifty dollars for. Could it have been Church? Or was there another out there? The box, Bosch thought, and pulled off at the next exit, Van Nuys Boulevard in Pacoima.

  He pulled to the curb and took the video box out of the brown paper bag the small guy had provided. He turned the light on in the car and studied every surface of the box, reading every word. But there was no copyright date that would have told him when the tape was made, whether it had been made before or after Church’s death.

  He got back on the Golden State, which took him north into the Santa Clarita Valley. After exiting on Bouquet Canyon Road he wound his way through a series of residential streets, past a seemingly endless line of California custom homes. On Del Prado, he pulled to the curb in front of the house with the Ritenbaugh Realty sign out front.

  Sylvia had been trying to sell the house for more than a year, without luck. When he thought about it, Bosch was relieved. It kept him from facing a decision about what he and Sylvia would do next.

  Sylvia opened the door before he reached it.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Oh, it’s something from work. I’ve gotta make a couple calls in a while. Did you eat?”

  He bent down and kissed her and moved inside. She had on the gray T-shirt dress she liked to wear around the house after work. Her hair was loose and down to her shoulders, the blonde highlights catching the light from the living room.

  “Had a salad. You?”

  “Not yet. I’ll fix a sandwich or something. I’m sorry about this. With the trial and now this new case, it’s . . . well, you know.”

  “It’s okay. I just miss you. I’m sorry about how I acted on the phone.”

  She kissed him and held him. He felt at home with her. That was the best thing. That feeling. He had never had it before and he would forget it at times when he was away from her. But as soon as he was back with her it was there.

  She took him by the hand into the kitchen and told him to sit down while she made him a sandwich. He watched her put a pan on the stove and turn on the gas. Then she put four strips of bacon in the pan. While they cooked, she sliced a tomato and an avocado and laid out a bed of lettuce. He got up, took a beer from the fridge and kissed her on the back of the neck. He stepped back, annoyed that the memory of the woman grabbing him in the booth intruded on the moment. Why had that happened?

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  She put two slices of sunflower bread into the toaster and took the bacon out of the pan. A few minutes later she put the sandwich in front of him at the table and sat down.

  “Who do you have to call?”

  “Jerry Edgar, maybe a guy at Ad-Vice.”

  “Ad-Vice? She was porno? This new victim?”

  Sylvia had once been married to a cop and she made leaps of thought like a cop. Bosch liked that about her.

  “Think so. I have a line on her. But I’ve got court, so I want to give it to them.”

  She nodded. He never had to tell her not to ask too much. She always knew just when to stop.

  “How was school today?”

  “Fine. Eat your sandwich. I want you to hurry up and make your calls because I want us to forget about court and school and your investigation. I want us to open some wine, light some candles and get in bed.”

  He smiled at her.

  They had fallen into such a relaxed life together. The candles were always her signal, her way of initiating their lovemaking. Sitting there, Bosch realized he had no signals. She initiated it almost every time. He wondered what that meant about him. He worried that maybe theirs was a relationship solely founded on secrets and hidden faces. He hoped not.

  “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re really spaced.”

  “I’m fine. This is good. Thank you.”

  “Penny called tonight. She’s got two people interested, so she’s going to have an open house on Sunday.”

  He nodded, still eating.

  “Maybe we could go somewhere for the day. I don’t want to be here when she brings them through. We could even leave Saturday and go overnight somewhere. You could get away from all of this. Maybe Lone Pine would be good.”

  “That sounds good. But let’s see what happens.”

  After she left the kitchen for the bedroom, Bosch called the bureau and Edgar picked up. Bosch deepened his voice and said, “Yeah, you know that thing you showed on TV. The one that gots no name?”

  “Yes, can you help us?”

  “Sure can.”

  Bosch covered his mouth with his hand to hold back the laughter. He realized he hadn’t thought of a good punch line. His mind raced as he tried to decide what it should be.

  “Well, who is it, sir?” Edgar said impatiently.

  “It—it’s—it’s . . .”

  “It’s who?”

  “It’s Harve Pounds in drag!”

  Bosch burst out laughing and Edgar easily guessed who it was. It was stupid, not even funny, but they both laughed.

  “Bosch, what do you want?”

  It took him some time to stop laughing. He finally said, “Just checking in. Did you call Ray Mora?”

  “Nah, I called over to Ad-Vice and they said he wasn’t working tonight. I was going to talk to him tomorrow. How’d you do?”

  “I think I’ve got a name. I’ll give Mora a call at home so he can pull what they have on her first thing.”

  He told Edgar the name and heard the other detective laugh.

  “Well, at least it’s original. How—what makes you think it’s her?”

  Bosch answered in a low voice in case his voice was carrying to the bedroom.

  “I saw a loop and I have a box from a video with her picture on it. It looks like the plaster face you got. A little off on the wig. But I think it’s her. I’ll drop the box off on your desk on my way into court tomorrow.”

  “Cool.”

  “Maybe Mora can get an early start on getting her real name and prints over to you. She probably had an adult entertainment license. All right if I call him?”

  “That’s cool. You know him.”

  They hung up. Bosch didn’t have a home number for Mora. He called Detective Services and gave his name and badge number and asked to be put through. It took about five minutes and then Mora answered after three rings. He seemed out of breath.

  “It’s Bosch, you gotta minute?”

  “Bosch, yeah, Bosch,
what’s up, man?”

  “How’s business?”

  “Still sucks.”

  He laughed at what Bosch guessed was an insider’s joke.

  “Actually, it goes further down all the time—no pun intended. Video ruined it, Bosch. Made it too big. The industry got big, the quality got small. Nobody cares about quality anymore.”

  Mora was talking more like a supporter of the porno industry than a watchdog.

  “I miss the days when it was in those smoky theaters on Cahuenga and Highland. We had a better handle on things then. At least, I did. So how’s court? I hear you guys caught another one that looks like the Dollmaker. What’s going on with that? How could—”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I’ve got a name—I think she was from your side of the tracks. The victim.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Magna Cum Loudly. Maybe known as Maggie, too.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. She was around a while ago and then, you’re right, she disappeared or dropped out.”

  Bosch waited for more. He thought he heard a voice in the background—in person or on TV and Mora told him to hold on a minute. He couldn’t make out what had been said or whether it was a man or a woman. It made him wonder what Mora had been doing when he called. There were rumors floating around the department about Mora having gotten too close to the subject he was expert in. It was a common cop malady. Still, he knew Mora had successfully fended off any attempts to transfer him in the early years of his assignment. Now, he had so much expertise, it would be ridiculous to move him. It would be like taking Orel Hershiser off the Dodgers pitching staff and putting him in the outfield. He was good at what he did. He had to be left there.

  “Um, Harry, I don’t know. I think she was around a couple years ago. What I’m saying is, if it’s her, then it couldn’t have been Church. You know what I’m saying? I don’t know how that plays with what you’ve got working on this.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ray. If Church didn’t do her, somebody else did. We still gotta get him.”

  “Right. So I’ll get on it. By the way, how’d you make her?”

  Bosch told him about his visit to X Marks the Spot.

  “Yeah, I know them guys. The big one, that’s Carlo Pinzi the capo’s nephew, Jimmie Pinzi. They call him Jimmie Pins. He may act big and dumb but he’s really the little guy Pinkie’s boss. Watches over the place for his uncle. The little one’s called Pinkie on account of those glasses he wears. Pinkie and Pins. It’s all an act. Anyway, they charged you about forty beans too many for that video.”

  “That’s what I guessed. Oh, and I was going to ask you, there’s no copyright on the video box. Would that be on the video or is there any way I can figure out when this was made?”

  “Usually they don’t put the copyright on the box. Customers want fresh meat. So the players figure the customer sees a copyright on the box that’s a couple years old, then they’ll buy something else. It’s a fast business. Perishable goods. So no dates. Sometimes they’re not even on the video cartridge. Anyway, I’ve got catalogs at the office going back twelve years. I can find a date, no problem.”

  “Thanks, Ray. I might not make it by. A guy from the homicide table, Jerry Edgar, might come by to see you. I got court.”

  “That’s fine, Harry.”

  Bosch had nothing else to ask and was about to say good-bye when Mora spoke in the silence.

  “You know, I think about it a lot.”

  “What?”

  “The task force. I wish I hadn’t taken off early that night and I was there with you. Who knows, maybe we’d have gotten this guy alive.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be no trial then—I mean, for you.”

  Bosch was silent as he looked at the picture on the back of video box. The woman’s face turned to the side, just like the plaster face. It was her. He felt sure of it.

  “Ray, with only this name—Magna Cum Loudly—can you still get a real name, get prints?”

  “Sure can. No matter what anybody thinks of the product, there is legit stuff and illegit stuff out there. This girl Maggie looks like she had graduated to the legit world. She was out of loops and that shit and was in mainstream adult video. That means she probably had an agent, had an adult entertainment license. They gotta get ’em to prove they’re eighteen. So her license will have her real name on it. I can go through them and find her—they got their pictures on them. Might take me a couple hours but I can find her.”

  “Okay, good, will you do that in the morning and, if Edgar doesn’t come by, get the prints to him at Hollywood homicide?”

  “Jerry Edgar. I’ll do it.”

  Neither spoke for a few moments as they thought about what they were doing.

  “Hey, Harry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The paper said that there was a new note, that true?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it legit? Did we fuck up?”

  “I don’t know yet, Ray, but I appreciate you saying ‘we.’ A lot of people just want to point at me.”

  “Yeah, listen, I ought to tell you, I got subpoenaed today by that Money bitch.”

  It didn’t surprise Bosch, since Mora had been on the Dollmaker task force.

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s probably papered everybody who was on the task force.”

  “Okay.”

  “But try to keep this new stuff under your hat if you can.”

  “As long as I can.”

  “She’s got to know what to ask before she can ask it. I’m just looking for some time to work with this, see what it means.”

  “No problem, man. You and I both know the right guy went down. No doubt about that, Harry.”

  But saying it out loud like that put a doubt to it, Bosch knew. Mora was wondering the same things Bosch was.

  “You need me to drop this video box off tomorrow so you know what she looks like before flipping through the files?”

  “No, like I said, we’ve got all sorts of catalogs. I’ll just look up Tails from the Crypt and get it from there. If that don’t work I’ll go through the agency books.”

  They hung up and Bosch lit a cigarette, though Sylvia didn’t like him doing it in the house. It wasn’t that she had a problem with his smoking but she thought potential buyers might be turned off if they thought it had been a smoker’s house. He sat there alone for several minutes, peeling the label off the empty beer bottle and thinking about how quickly things could change. Believe something for four years and then find out you might be wrong.

  He brought a bottle of Buehler zinfandel and two glasses into the bedroom. Sylvia was in bed with the covers pulled up to her naked shoulders. She had a lamp on and was reading a book called Never Let Them See You Cry. Bosch walked to her side of the bed and sat down next to her. He poured out two glasses, they tapped them together and sipped.

  “To victory in court,” she said.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  They kissed.

  “Were you smoking out there again?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Was it bad news? The calls?”

  “No. Just bullshit.”

  “You want to talk?”

  “Not now.”

  He went into the bathroom with his glass and took a quick shower. The wine, which had been beautiful, tasted terrible after he brushed his teeth. When he came out, the reading light was out and the book put away. There were candles burning on both night tables and the bureau. They were in silver votive candle holders with crescent moons and stars cut out on the sides. The flickering flames threw blurry, moving patterns on the walls and curtains and in the mirror, like a silent cacophony.

  She lay propped on three pillows, the covers off. He stood naked at the foot of the bed for a few moments and they smiled at each other. She was beautiful to him, her body tan and almost girlish. She was thin, with small breasts and a small, flat stomach. Her chest was freckled from too many summer days at the beach while
growing up.

  He was eight years older and knew he looked it, but he was not ashamed of his physical appearance. At forty-three, he still had a flat stomach and his body was still ropey with muscles—muscles not created on machines but by lifting the day-to-day weight of his life, his mission. His body hair was curiously going to gray at a much faster pace than the hair on his head. Sylvia often would kid him about this, accusing him of having dyed his hair, of having a vanity they both knew he did not have.

  When he climbed onto the bed next to her she ran her fingers over his Vietnam tattoo and the scars a bullet had left on his right shoulder a few years earlier. She traced the surgery zipper the way she did every time they were together here.

  “I love you, Harry,” she said.

  He rolled onto her and kissed her deeply, letting her taste of red wine and the feel of her warm skin take him away from worry and the images of violent ends. He was in the temple of home, he thought but did not say. I love you, he thought but did not say.

  9

  For everything that had gone well for Bosch on Tuesday, the following morning provided a fresh undoing. The first disaster occurred in Judge Keyes’s chambers, where he convened lawyers and clients after studying the note from the alleged Dollmaker in private for a half hour. His private reading had come after Belk had argued for an hour against the inclusion of the note in the trial.

  “I have read the note and considered the arguments,” he said. “I cannot see how this letter, note, poem, whatever, can possibly be withheld from this jury. It is so on point to the thrust of Ms. Chandler’s case that it is the point. I’m not making any judgment on whether it’s for real or from some crackpot, that will be for the jury to figure out. If they can. But because the investigation is still underway is no reason to withhold this. I am granting the subpoena and, Ms. Chandler, you can introduce this at the appropriate time, provided you’ve put down the proper foundation. No pun intended. Mr. Belk, your exception to this ruling will be noted for the record.”

  “Your Honor?” Belk tried.

  “No, we’ll have no more argument on it. Let’s move on out to court.”