Trunk Music (1996) Read online

  “We’ve got a shoot on New York Street tonight, otherwise I’d take you through there. You’d swear you were in Brooklyn.”

  “Never been,” Bosch said.

  “Me neither,” Rider added.

  “Then it doesn’t matter, unless you wanted to see them shooting.”

  “The Tyrone Power Building will be just fine.”

  “Fine.”

  When they got there, another uniformed man was waiting. Serrurier. At Meachum’s instructions he first unlocked a door to reception area that served the three separate offices of the suite, then the door to the office Aliso had used. Meachum then told him to go back out on roving patrol of the studio.

  Meachum’s calling it a closet was not too far off. Aliso’s office was barely large enough for Bosch, Rider and Meachum to stand in together without having to smell each other’s breath. It contained a desk with a chair behind it and two more close in front of it. Against the wall behind the desk was a four-drawer file cabinet. The left wall was hung with framed one-sheets advertising two classic films: Chinatown and The Godfather, both of which had been made down the street at Paramount. Aliso had countered these on the right wall with framed posters of his own efforts, The Art of the Cape and Casualty of Desire. There were also smaller frames of photos depicting Aliso with various celebrities, many of the shots taken in the same office with Aliso and the celebrity of the moment standing behind the desk smiling.

  Bosch first studied the two posters. Each one carried the imprimatur along the top Anthony Aliso Presents. But it was the second poster, for Casualty of Desire, that caught his attention. The artwork beneath the title of the film showed a man in a white suit carrying a gun down at his side, a desperate look on his face. In larger scale, a woman with flowing dark hair that framed the image looked down on him with sultry eyes. The poster was a rip-off of the scene depicted in the Chinatown poster on the other wall. But there was something entrancing about it. The woman, of course, was Veronica Aliso, and Bosch knew that was one reason why.

  “Nice-looking woman,” Meachum said from behind him.

  “His wife.”

  “I see that. Second billing. Only I never heard of her.”

  Bosch nodded at the poster.

  “I think this was her shot.”

  “Well, like I said, nice-looking gal. I doubt she looks like that anymore.”

  Bosch studied the eyes again and remembered the woman he had seen just an hour ago. The eyes were still as dark and gleaming, a little cross of light at the center of each.

  Bosch looked away and began to study the framed photos. He immediately noticed that one of them was of Dan Lacey, the actor who had portrayed Bosch eight years earlier in a mini-series about the search for a serial killer. The studio that had produced it had paid Bosch and his then partner a lot of money to use their names and technical advice. His partner took the money and ran, retired to Mexico. Bosch bought a house in the hills. He couldn’t run. He knew the job was his life.

  He turned and took in the rest of the small office. There were shelves against the wall near the door and these were piled with scripts and videotapes, no books save for a couple of directories of actors and directors.

  “Okay,” Bosch said. “Chuckie, you stand back by the door and observe like you said. Kiz, why don’t you start with the desk and I’ll start with the files.”

  The files were locked and it took Bosch ten minutes to open them with the picks he got out of his briefcase. It then took an hour just to make a cursory study of the files. The drawers were stocked with notes and financial records regarding the development of several films that Bosch had never heard of. This did not seem curious to him after what Veronica Aliso had said and because he knew little about the film business anyway. But it seemed from his understanding of the files he was quickly scanning that large sums of money had been paid to various film services companies during the production of the films. And what struck Bosch the most was that Aliso seemed to have financed a hell of a nice lifestyle from this little office.

  After he was finished going through the fourth and bottom drawer, Bosch stood and straightened his back, his vertebrae popping like dominoes clicking together. He looked at Rider, who was still going through the drawers of the desk.

  “Anything?”

  “A few things of interest but no smoking gun, if that’s what you mean. Aliso’s got a flag here from the IRS. His corporation was going to be audited next month. Other than that, there is some correspondence between Tony Aliso and St. John, the flavor-of-the-month Mrs. Aliso mentioned. Heated words but nothing overtly threatening. I’ve still got one drawer to go.”

  “There’s a lot in the files. Financial stuff. We’re going to have to go through it all. I’d like you to be the one. You going to be up for it?”

  “No problem. What I’m seeing so far is a lot of routine, if not sloppy, business records. It just happens to be the movie business here.”

  “I’m going outside to catch a smoke. When you’re done there, why don’t we switch and you take the files, I’ll take the desk.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Before going out he ran his eyes along the shelves by the door and read the titles of the videotapes. He stopped when he came to the one he was looking for. Casualty of Desire. He reached up and took it down. The cover carried the same artwork as the movie poster.

  He stepped back and put it on the desk so it would be gathered with things they would be taking. Rider asked what it was.

  “It’s her movie,” he said. “I want to watch it.”

  “Oh, me too.”

  Outside, Bosch stood in the small courtyard by a bronze statue of a man he guessed was Tyrone Power and lit a cigarette. It was a cool night and the smoke in his chest warmed him. The studio grounds were very quiet now.

  He walked over to a trash can next to a bench in the courtyard and used it to tip his ashes. He noticed a broken coffee mug at the bottom of the can. There were several pens and pencils scattered in the can as well. He recognized the Archway insignia, the Arc de Triomphe with the sun rising in the middle of the arch, on one of the fragments. He was about to reach into the trash can to pick out what looked like a gold Cross pen when he heard Meachum’s voice and turned around.

  “She’s going places, isn’t she? I can tell.”

  He was lighting his own cigarette.

  “Yeah, that’s what I hear. It’s our first case together. I don’t really know her, and from what I hear I shouldn’t try. She’s going to the Glass House as soon as the time is right.”

  Meachum nodded and flicked his ashes onto the pavement. Bosch watched him glance up toward the roofline above the second floor and give another one of his casual salutes. Bosch looked up and saw the camera moored to the underside of the roof eave.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bosch said. “He can’t see you. He’s reading about the Dodgers last night.”

  “S’pose you’re right. Can’t get good people these days, Harry. I get guys who like driving around in the carts all day, hoping they’re going to be discovered like Clint Eastwood or something. Had a guy run into a wall the other day ’cause he was so intent on talking with a couple creative execs walking by. There’s one of them oxymorons for you. Creative executive…”

  Bosch was silent. He didn’t care about anything that Meachum had just said.

  “You ought to come work here, Harry. You’ve gotta have your twenty in by now. You should pull the pin and then come work for me. Your lifestyle will rise a couple of notches. I guarantee it.”

  “No thanks, Chuck. Somehow I just don’t see myself tooling around in one of your golf carts.”

  “Well, the offer’s there. Anytime, buddy. Anytime.”

  Bosch put his cigarette out on the side of the trash can and dropped the dead butt inside. He decided that he didn’t want to go picking through the can with Meachum watching. He told Meachum he was heading back in.

  “Bosch, I gotta tell you something.”
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br />   Bosch looked back at him and Meachum raised his hands.

  “We’re going to have a problem if you want to take anything out of that office without a warrant. I mean, I heard what you said about that tape and now she’s in there stacking stuff on the desk to go. But I can’t let you take anything.”

  “Then you are going to be here all night, Chuck. There are a lot of files in there and a lot of work to do. It’d be a lot easier for us to haul it all back to the bureau now.”

  “I know that. I’ve been there. But this is the position I’ve been instructed to take. We need the warrant.”

  Bosch used the phone on the receptionist’s desk to call Edgar, who was still in the detective bureau just beginning the paperwork the case would generate. Bosch told him to drop that work for the moment and start drawing up search warrants for all financial records in Aliso’s home and the Archway offices and any being held by his attorney.

  “You want me to call the duty judge tonight?” Edgar asked. “It’s almost two in the morning.”

  “Do it,” Bosch said. “When you have ’em signed, bring them out here to Archway. And bring some boxes.”

  Edgar groaned. He was getting all the shit work. Nobody liked waking up a judge in the middle of the night.

  “I know, I know, Jerry. But it’s got to be done. Anything else going on?”

  “No. I called the Mirage, talked to a guy in security. The room Aliso used was rebooked over the weekend. It’s open now and he’s got a hold on it, but it’s spoiled.”

  “Probably…. Okay, man, next time you’ll eat the bear. Get on those warrants.”

  In Aliso’s office, Rider was already looking through the files. Bosch told her Edgar was working on a warrant and that they would have to draw up an inventory for Meachum. He also told her to take a break if she wanted but she declined.

  Bosch sat down behind the desk. It had the usual clutter. There was a phone with a speaker attachment, a Rolodex, a blotter, a magnetic block that held paper clips to it and a wood carving that said TNA Productions in script. There was also a tray stacked with paperwork.

  Bosch looked at the phone and noticed the redial button. He lifted the handset and pushed the button. He could tell by the quick procession of tones that the last call made on the phone had been long distance. After two rings it was answered by a female voice. There was loud music in the background.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Yes, hello, who’s this?”

  She giggled.

  “I don’t know, who’s this?”

  “I might have the wrong number. Is this Tony’s?”

  “No, it’s Dolly’s.”

  “Oh, Dolly’s. Okay, uh, then where are you located?”

  She giggled again.

  “On Madison, where do you think? How do you think we got the name?”

  “Where’s Madison?”

  “We’re in North Las Vegas. Where are you coming from?”

  “The Mirage.”

  “Okay, just follow the boulevard out front to the north. You go all the way past downtown and past a bunch of cruddy areas and into North Las Vegas. Madison is your third light after you go under the overpass. Take a left and we’re a block down on the left. What’s your name again?”

  “It’s Harry.”

  “Well, Harry, I’m Rhonda. As in…”

  Bosch said nothing.

  “Come on, Harry, you’re supposed to say, ‘Help me, Rhonda, help, help me, Rhonda.’”

  She sang the line from the old Beach Boys song.

  “Actually, Rhonda, there is something you can help me with,” Bosch said. “I’m looking for a buddy of mine. Tony Aliso. He been in there lately?”

  “Haven’t seen him this week. Haven’t seen him since Thursday or Friday. I was wondering how you got the dressing room number.”

  “Yeah, from Tony.”

  “Well, Layla isn’t here tonight, so Tony wouldn’t be coming in anyway, I don’t think. But you can come on out. He don’t have to be here for you to have a good time.”

  “Okay, Rhonda, I’ll try to swing by.”

  Bosch hung up. He took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down the name of the business he had just called, the directions to it and the names Rhonda and Layla. He drew a line under the second name.

  “What was that?” Rider asked.

  “A lead in Vegas.”

  He recounted the call and the inference made about the person named Layla. Rider agreed that it was something to pursue, then went back to the files. Bosch went back to the desk. He studied the things on top of it before going to the things in it.

  “Hey, Chuckie?” he asked.

  Meachum, leaning against the door with his arms folded in front of him, raised his eyebrows by way of response.

  “He’s got no phone tape. What about when the receptionist isn’t out there? Do phone calls go to the operator or some kind of a phone service?”

  “Uh, no, the whole lot’s on voice mail now.”

  “So Aliso had voice mail? How do I get into it?”

  “Well, you’ve got to have his code. It’s a three-digit code. You call the voice mail computer, punch in the code and you pick up your messages.”

  “How do I get his code?”

  “You don’t. He programmed it himself.”

  “There’s no master code I can break in with?”

  “Nope. It’s not that sophisticated a system, Bosch. I mean, what do you want, it’s phone messages.”

  Bosch took out his notebook again and checked the notes for Aliso’s birthday.

  “What’s the voice mail number?” he asked.

  Meachum gave him the number and Bosch called the computer. After a beep he punched in 721 but the number was rejected. Bosch drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. He tried 862, the numbers corresponding with TNA, and a computer voice told him he had four messages.

  “Kiz, listen to this,” he said.

  He put the phone on speaker and hung up. As the messages were played back Bosch took a few notes, but the first three messages were from men reporting on technical aspects of a planned film shoot, equipment rental and costs. Each call was followed by the electronic voice which reported when on Friday the call had come in.

  The fourth message made Bosch lean forward and listen closely. The voice belonged to a young woman and it sounded like she was crying.

  “Hey, Tone, it’s me. Call me as soon as you get this. I almost feel like calling your house. I need you. That bastard Lucky says I’m fired. And for no reason. He just wants to get his dick into Modesty. I’m so…I don’t want to have to work at the Palomino or any of those other places. The Garden. Forget it. I want to come out there to L.A. Be with you. Call me.”

  The electronic voice said the call had come in at 4 A.M. on Sunday—long after Tony Aliso was dead. The caller had not given her name. It was therefore obviously someone Aliso would have known. Bosch wondered if it was the woman Rhonda had mentioned, Layla. He looked at Rider and she just shook her shoulders. They knew too little to judge the significance of the call.

  Bosch sat in the desk chair contemplating things a few moments. He opened a drawer but didn’t start through it. His eyes traveled up the wall to the right of the desk and roamed across the photos of the smiling Tony Aliso posed with celebrities. Some of them had written notes on the photos but they were hard to read. Bosch studied the photo of his celluloid alter ego, Dan Lacey, but couldn’t read the small note scrawled across the bottom of the photo. Then he looked past the ink and realized what he was looking at. On Aliso’s desk in the photo was an Archway mug crammed with pens and pencils.

  Bosch took the photo off the wall and called Meachum’s name. Meachum came over.

  “Somebody was in here,” Bosch told him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When was the trash can emptied outside?”

  “How the hell would I know? What are—”

  “The surveillance camera out there on the r
oof, how long you keep the tapes?”

  Meachum hesitated a second but then answered.

  “We roll ’em over every week. We’d have seven days off that camera. It’s all stop action, ten frames a minute.”

  “Let’s go take a look.”

  Bosch didn’t get home until four. That left him only three hours to sleep before an agreed-upon breakfast meeting with Edgar and Rider at seven-thirty, but he was too strung out on coffee and adrenaline to even think about shutting his eyes.

  The house had the sour tang of a fresh-paint smell and he opened the sliders onto the back deck to let in the cool night air. He checked out the Cahuenga Pass below and watched the cars on the Hollywood Freeway cutting through. He was always amazed at how there were always cars on the freeway, no matter what the hour. In L.A. they never stopped.