Trunk Music Page 3

  There was a note of sarcasm in the way he said the last word. Bosch ignored it.

  “The people you chased, you get any names?”

  “No, like I told you, I chased them, then noticed that nobody got in and drove away in the Rolls. It was too late by then.”

  “What about last night?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you make it by here?”

  “I was off. I’m on Tuesday–Saturday but I switched with a buddy last night ’cause he had something to do tonight.”

  “So then what about Friday night?”

  He shook his head.

  “Three watch is always busy Friday. I had no time for free cruising and we didn’t get a complaint as far as I know…so I never made it by.”

  “Just chasin’ the radio?”

  “I had calls backed up on me all night. I didn’t even get a ten-seven.”

  “No dinner break, that’s dedication, Powers.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Bosch saw he had made a mistake. Powers was consumed by job frustrations and he had pushed him too far. Powers turned crimson again and slowly took off his Ray-Bans before speaking.

  “Let me tell you something, big shot. You got in while the getting was good. The rest of us? We get shit. We—I’ve been trying for so many years I can’t count to get a gold shield and I’ve got about as much chance of getting one as whoever’s in the trunk of that Rolls-Royce. But I’m not laying down. I’m still out here five nights a week chasin’ the radio. Says ‘Protect and Serve’ on the car door and I’m doin’ it, man. So don’t give me any shit about dedication.”

  Bosch hesitated until he was sure Powers was done.

  “Look, Powers, I didn’t mean to give you shit. Okay? You want a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Okay, let’s try this again.” He waited a beat while Powers put the mirrors back on his eyes and seemed to calm down. “You always work alone?”

  “I’m the Z car.”

  Bosch nodded. Zebra unit. An officer of many stripes, meaning he handled a variety of calls, usually trash calls, while cars with two officers aboard handled the hotshots—the prime, possibly dangerous, calls. Zebras worked patrol alone and often had free rein of the entire division. They were in the supervisory level between the sergeants and the grunts who were assigned to patrol geographic slices of the division known as basic car areas.

  “How often you chase people outta here?”

  “Once or twice a month. Can’t say what happens on the other shifts or with the basic cars. But shit calls like this usually go to the Z car.”

  “You got any shakes?”

  Shakes were three-by-five cards formally called field interview, or FI, cards. Cops filled them out when they stopped suspicious people but did not have enough evidence to arrest them, or when making such an arrest—in this case, for trespassing—would be a waste of time. The American Civil Liberties Union called such stops shakedowns and an abuse of police powers. The name stuck, even with the cops.

  “I’ve got some, yeah, at the station.”

  “Good. We’d like to have a look if you could dig them out. Also, think you could ask the cops in the basic car if they’ve noticed the Rolls here the last few days?”

  “Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for letting me have a part in the big bad investigation and ask you to put in a good word for me with the deputy chief of dicks?”

  Bosch stared at him a few moments before answering.

  “No, this is where I tell you to have the cards ready for us by nine tonight or I’ll put in a word about that with the patrol skipper. And never mind the basic car people. We’ll go ahead and talk to them ourselves. Don’t want you to miss your ten-seven two shifts in a row, Powers.

  Bosch started back toward the crime scene, moving slowly again and checking the other side of the gravel road. Twice he had to step off the gravel and into the brush to let the official police garage truck pass and then the Scientific Investigation Division van.

  By the time he got to the clearing, he again had come up with nothing during his search and was sure the victim had been murdered in the trunk while the Rolls was parked in the clearing. He saw Art Donovan, the SID tech, and Roland Quatro, the photographer who came with him, starting their work. Bosch walked up to Rider.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “No. You?”

  “Nothing. I think the Rolls must’ve been driven in with our guy in the trunk. Then the doer gets out, opens the lid and pops him twice. He closes the trunk and walks out. Somebody picks him up out on Mulholland. Clean scene back here.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Him?”

  “Well, I’m going with the percentages for now.”

  Bosch walked over to Donovan, who was bagging the wallet and airline ticket in a clear plastic evidence envelope.

  “Art, we’ve got a problem.”

  “You’re telling me. I was just thinking I can rig some tarps over light tripods, but I don’t think you’ll be able to block the view for everybody in the Bowl. Some of them are going to get a show all right. I guess it will make up for canceling the fireworks. That is, unless you’re just planning to sit tight with it until after the show.”

  “Nah, we do that and some defense lawyer will tear us new assholes in court for delaying things. Every lawyer went to school on O.J., Art. You know that.”

  “So then what do we do?”

  “Just do what you’ve got to do here with some speed and then we’ll take the whole thing to the print shed. You know if anybody’s in there right now?”

  “No, it should be free,” Donovan said slowly. “You mean you’re talking about the whole thing? The body, too?”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Besides, you can do a better job with it in the shed, right?”

  “Absolutely. But what about the ME? They’ve got to sign off on something like this, Harry.”

  “I’ll deal with that. Before we put it on the flatbed, though, make sure you guys have got stills and video in case things shift during transit. Also, run a print card off the guy and give it to me.”

  “You got it.”

  While Donovan went to Quatro to explain the drill, Bosch huddled with Edgar and Rider.

  “Okay, for now we’re going to run with this one. If you had plans for the rest of the night, make your calls. It’s going to be a long one. This is how I want to break it up.”

  He pointed up to the homes on the crestline.

  “First, Kiz, I want you to go up there and do a house-to-house. You know the routine. See if anybody remembers seeing the Rolls or knows how long it’s been here. Maybe somebody heard the shots. They might’ve echoed up the side of the hill. We want to try to pin down the time this happened. After that, I—you got a phone?”

  “No. I have a rover in the car.”

  “No. I want to keep everything about this off the air.”

  “I can use a phone in somebody’s house.”

  “Okay, call me when you’re done or I’ll page you when I’m done. Depending on how things shake out, you and I will either do next of kin or his office after that.”

  She nodded. Bosch turned to Edgar.

  “Jerry, you go in and work from the station. You’ve got the paper on this one.”

  “She’s the rookie.”

  “Well, then, next time don’t show up in a T-shirt. You can’t go knocking on doors dressed like that.”

  “I got a shirt in the car. I’ll change.”

  “Next time. You’re on the paper on this one. But before you start, I want you to put Aliso through the box and see what you get on him. He’s got a DL issued last year, so they’ve got his thumb print on file through DMV. See if you can get somebody from prints to compare it to the print card Art’s getting for you right now. I want the ID confirmed as soon as possible.”

  “There ain’t going to be anybody in prints t’night. Art’s the guy on call. He s
hould do this.”

  “Art’s going to be tied up. See if you can shake somebody at home loose. We need the ID.”

  “I’ll try but I can’t prom—”

  “Good. After that, I want you to call everybody who works a basic car in this area and see if anyone’s seen the Rolls. Powers—the guy up at the road—is going to pull shake cards on the kids who hang out here. I want you to start running them down, too. After that you can start the paper going.”

  “Shit, with all this, I’ll be lucky if I start typing before next Monday.”

  Bosch ignored his whining and appraised both his partners.

  “I’ll stay with the body. If I get tied up, Kiz, you go on to check out the office address and I’ll handle next of kin. Okay, everybody know what’s what?”

  Rider and Edgar nodded. Bosch could tell Edgar was still annoyed about something.

  “Kiz, you head out now.”

  She walked away and Bosch waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.

  “Okay, Jerry, what’s the problem?”

  “I just want to know if that’s how it’s going to be on this team. Am I going to get the shit work while the princess skates?”

  “No, Jerry, it’s not going to be like that, and I think you know me well enough not to ask. What’s the real problem?”

  “I don’t like your choices on this, Harry. We should be on the phone with Organized Crime right now. If anything looks like an OC case, this is it. I think you should call ’em, but I think ’cause you’re fresh back on the table and been waiting for a case so long, you’re not making the call. That’s the problem.”

  Edgar held his hands out as if to indicate how obvious this was.

  “You know, you’ve got nothing to prove here, Harry. And there’s never going to be a shortage of bodies to come along. This is Hollywood, remember? I think we should just turn this one over and wait for the next one.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “You may be right,” he said. “You probably are. About all of it. But I’m the three. So we do it my way for now. I’m going to call Bullets and tell her what we’ve got, then I’m going to call OCID. But even if they roll out, we’re going to keep a part of this. You know that. So let’s do it good. Okay?”

  Edgar nodded reluctantly.

  “Look,” Bosch said, “your objection is noted for the record, okay?”

  “Sure, Harry.”

  Bosch saw the blue ME’s van pull into the clearing then. The tech behind the wheel was Richard Matthews. It was a break. Matthews wasn’t as territorial as some of the others, and Bosch figured he could convince him to go along with the plan to move the whole package to the print shed. Matthews would understand that it was the only choice.

  “Stay in touch,” Bosch said as Edgar walked off.

  Edgar sullenly waved without looking back.

  For the next few moments Bosch stood alone in the midst of the activities of the crime scene. He realized he truly reveled in his role. The start of a case always seemed to jazz him this way, and he knew how much he had missed it and craved it during the last year and a half.

  Finally, he put his thoughts aside and walked toward the ME’s van to talk to Matthews. There was a burst of applause from the Bowl as Sheherazade ended.

  The print shed was a World War II Quonset hut that sat in the City Services equipment yard behind the police headquarters at Parker Center. It had no windows and a double-wide garage door. The interior was painted black and every crack or crevice where light might come in was taped over. There were thick black curtains that could be pulled closed after the garage door was shut. When they were pulled, the interior was as black as a loan shark’s heart. The techs who worked there even referred to the place as “the cave.”

  While the Rolls was being unloaded from the OPG truck, Bosch took his briefcase to a workbench inside the shed and got the phone out. The Organized Crime Investigation Division was a secret society within the greater closed society of the department. Bosch knew very little about OCID and was acquainted with few detectives assigned to the unit. The OCID was a mysterious force, even to those within the department. Not many knew exactly what it did. And this, of course, bred suspicions and jealousies.

  Most OCID detectives were known in Detective Services as big-footers. They swooped down to take investigations away from detectives like Bosch, but they didn’t often make cases in return. Bosch had seen many investigations disappear under their door with not many prosecutions of OC wise guys resulting. They were the only division in the department with a black budget—approved in closed session by the chief and a police commission that largely followed his lead. From there, the money disappeared into the dark, to pay for informants, investigations and high-tech equipment. Many of their cases disappeared in that netherworld as well.

  Bosch asked the communications operator to connect his call to the OCID supervisor on call for the weekend. As he waited for the patch through, he thought again about the body in the trunk. Anthony Aliso—if that was who it was—had seen it coming and closed his eyes. Bosch hoped it wouldn’t be that way for himself. He didn’t want to know.

  “Hello,” a voice said.

  “Yes, this is Harry Bosch. I’m the D-three on a homicide call out in Hollywood. Who am I speaking with?”

  “Dom Carbone. I’ve got the weekend call out. You going to spoil it?”

  “Maybe.” Bosch tried to think. The name was vaguely familiar but he could not place it. He was sure they had never worked together. “That’s why I’m calling. You might want to take a look at this.”

  “Run it down for me.”

  “Sure. White male found in the trunk of his Silver Cloud with two in the back of the head. Probably twenty-twos.”

  “What else?”

  “Car was on a fire road off Mulholland. Doesn’t look like a straight robbery. At least, not a personal robbery. I got cards and cash in the wallet and a Presidential on his wrist. Diamonds at every hour on the hour.”

  “You’re not telling me who the stiff is. Who’s the stiff?”

  “Nothing confirmed yet but—”

  “Just give it to me.”

  Bosch had trouble not being able to put a face with the voice over the phone.

  “It looks like the ID is going to be Anthony N. Aliso, forty-eight years old. Lives up in the hills. Looks like he has some kind of company with an office at one of the studios down on Melrose near Paramount. TNA Productions is the name of his outfit. I think it’s over at Archway Studios. We’ll know more in a little while.”

  He only got silence in return.

  “Mean anything?”

  “Anthony Aliso.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Anthony Aliso.”

  Carbone repeated the name slowly, as if it were a fine wine he was tasting before deciding whether to accept the bottle or spit it out. He was then quiet for another long moment.

  “Nothing hits me right away, Bosch,” he finally said. “I can make a couple calls. Where you going to be?”

  “The print shed. He’s here with us and I’ll be here a while.”

  “What do you mean, you got the guy’s body there in the shed?”

  “It’s a long story. When do you think you can get back to me?”

  “As soon as I make the calls. You been over to his office?”

  “Not yet. We’ll get there sometime tonight.”

  Bosch gave him the number of his cellular phone, then closed it and put it in his coat pocket. For a moment he thought about Carbone’s reaction to the victim’s name. He finally decided he could not read anything into it.

  After the Cloud was rolled into place in the shed and the doors shut, Donovan pulled the curtains closed. There was fluorescent lighting overhead which he left on while he got his equipment ready. Matthews, the coroner’s tech, and his two assistants—the body movers—huddled over a workbench getting the tools they would need out of a case.

  “Harry, I’m going to take my time with
this, okay? First I’ll laser the trunk with the guy in it. Then we take him out. Then we glue it and laser it again. Then we worry about the rest of it.”

  “Your show, man. Whatever time you need.”

  “I’ll need your help with the wand when I shoot pictures. Roland had to go to shoot another scene.”

  Bosch nodded and watched as the SID tech screwed an orange filter onto a Nikon camera. He put the camera strap over his head and turned on the laser. It was a box about the size of a VCR with a cable attachment that led to a foot-long wand with a hand grip on it. From the end of the wand a strong orange beam was emitted.