The Harry Bosch Novels

  “Are you like him?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Timido. Alone out there in the dark world.”

  “Sometimes. Everybody is sometimes.”

  “Yes, but you like it, don’t you?”

  “Not always.”

  “Not always…”

  He thought about what to say. The wrong word and she’d be gone.

  “I’m sorry if I’m distant,” he tried. “There’s a lot of things…”

  He didn’t finish. There was no excuse.

  “You do like living up here in this little, lonely house, with the coyote as your only friend, don’t you?”

  He didn’t answer. The face of Sylvia Moore inexplicably came back into his mind. But this time he felt no guilt. He liked seeing her there.

  “I have to go,” Teresa said. “Long day tomorrow.”

  He watched her walk naked into the bathroom, picking her purse up off the night table as she went. He listened as the shower ran. He imagined her in there, cleaning all traces of him off and out of her and then splashing on the all-purpose perfume she always carried in her purse to cover up any smells left on her from her job.

  He rolled to the side of the bed to the pile of his clothes on the floor and got out his phone book. He dialed while the water still ran. The voice that answered was dulled with sleep. It was near midnight.

  “You don’t know who this is and I never talked to you.”

  There was silence while Harry’s voice registered.

  “Okay, okay. Got it. I understand.”

  “There’s a problem on the Cal Moore autopsy.”

  “Shit, I know that, man. Inconclusive. You don’t have to wake me up to —”

  “No, you don’t understand. You are confusing the autopsy with the press release on the autopsy. Two different things. Understand now?”

  “Yeah …I think I do. So, what’s the problem?”

  “The assistant chief of police and the acting chief ME don’t agree. One says suicide, the other homicide. Can’t have both. I guess that’s what you call inconclusive in a press release.”

  There was a low whistling sound in the phone.

  “This is good. But why would the cops want to bury a homicide, especially one of their own? I mean, suicide makes the department look like shit as it is. Why bury a murder unless it means there’s something —”

  “Right,” Bosch said and he hung up the phone.

  A minute later the shower was turned off and Teresa came out, drying herself with a towel. She was totally unabashed about her nakedness with him and Harry found he missed that shyness. It had eventually left all the women he became involved with before they eventually left him.

  He pulled on blue jeans and a T-shirt while she dressed. Neither spoke. She looked at him with a thin smile and then he walked her out to her car.

  “So, we still have a date for New Year’s Eve?” she asked after he opened the car door for her.

  “Of course,” he said, though he knew she would call with an excuse to cancel it.

  She leaned up and kissed him on the lips, then slipped into the driver’s seat.

  “Good-bye, Teresa,” he said, but she had already closed the door.

  • • •

  It was midnight when he came back inside. The place smelled of her perfume. And his own guilt. He put Frank Morgan’s Mood Indigo on the CD player and stood there in the living room without moving, just listening to the phrasing on the first solo, a song called “Lullaby.” Bosch thought he knew nothing truer than the sound of a saxophone.

  11

  Sleep was not a possibility. Bosch knew this. He stood on the porch looking down on the carpet of lights and let the chill air harden his skin and his resolve. For the first time in months he felt invigorated. He was in the hunt again. He let everything about the cases pass through his mind and made a mental list of people he had to see and things he had to do.

  On top was Lucius Porter, the broken-down detective whose pullout was too timely, too coincidental to be coincidental. Harry realized he was becoming angry just thinking about Porter. And embarrassed. Embarrassed at having stuck his neck out for him with Pounds.

  He went to his notebook and then dialed Porter’s number one more time. He was not expecting an answer and he wasn’t disappointed. Porter had at least been reliable in that respect. He checked the address he had written down earlier and headed out.

  Driving down out of the hills he did not pass another car until he reached Cahuenga. He headed north and got on the Hollywood Freeway at Barham. The freeway was crowded but not so that traffic was slow. The cars moved northward at a steady clip, a sleekly moving ribbon of lights. Out over Studio City, Bosch could see a police helicopter circling, a shaft of white light cast downward on a crime scene somewhere. It almost seemed as if the beam was a leash that held the circling craft from flying high and away.

  He loved the city most at night. The night hid many of the sorrows. It silenced the city yet brought deep undercurrents to the surface. It was in this dark slipstream that he believed he moved most freely. Behind the cover of shadows. Like a rider in a limousine, he looked out but no one looked in.

  There was a random feel to the dark, the quirkiness of chance played out in the blue neon night. So many ways to live. And to die. You could be riding in the back of a studio’s black limo, or just as easily the back of the coroner’s blue van. The sound of applause was the same as the buzz of a bullet spinning past your ear in the dark. That randomness. That was L.A.

  There was flash fire and flash flood, earthquake, mudslide. There was the drive-by shooter and the crack-stoked burglar. The drunk driver and the always curving road ahead. There were killer cops and cop killers. There was the husband of the woman you were sleeping with. And there was the woman. At any moment on any night there were people being raped, violated, maimed. Murdered and loved. There was always a baby at his mother’s breast. And, sometimes, a baby alone in a Dumpster.

  Somewhere.

  Harry exited on Vanowen in North Hollywood and went east toward Burbank. Then he turned north again into a neighborhood of rundown apartments. Bosch could tell by the gang graffiti it was a mostly Latino neighborhood. He knew Porter had lived here for years. It was all he could afford after paying alimony and for his booze.

  He turned into the Happy Valley Trailer Park and found Porter’s double-wide at the end of Greenbriar Lane. The trailer was dark, not even a light on above the door, and there was no car under the aluminum-roofed carport. Bosch sat in his car smoking a cigarette and watching for a while. He heard mariachi music wafting into the neighborhood from one of the Mexican clubs over on Lankershim. Soon it was drowned out by a jet that lumbered by overhead on its way to Burbank Airport. He reached into the glove compartment for a leather pouch containing his flashlight and picks and got out.

  After the third knock went unanswered, Harry opened the pouch. Breaking into Porter’s place did not give him pause. Porter was a player in this game, not an innocent. To Bosch’s mind, Porter had forfeited protection of his privacy when he had not been straight with him, when he hadn’t mentioned that Moore had been the one who found Juan Doe #67’s body. Now Bosch was going to find Porter and ask him about that.

  He took out the miniature flashlight, turned it on and then held it in his mouth as he stooped down and worked a pick and tiny pressure wrench into the lock. It took him only a few minutes to push the pins and open the door.

  A sour odor greeted Bosch when he entered. He recognized it as the smell of a drunk’s sweat. He called Porter’s name but got no answer.

  He turned on the lights as he moved through the rooms. There were empty glasses on nearly every horizontal surface. The bed was unmade and the sheets were a dingy white. Amidst the glasses on the night table was an ashtray overloaded with butts. There was also a statue of a saint Bosch could not identify. In the bathroom off the bedroom, the bathtub was filthy, a toothbrush was on the floor and in the wastebasket there was an em
pty bottle of whiskey, a brand either so expensive or so cheap that Harry had never heard of it. But he suspected it was the latter.

  In the kitchen, there was another empty bottle in the trash can. There were also dirty dishes piled on the counters and sink. He opened the refrigerator and saw only a jar of mustard and an egg carton. Porter’s place was very much like its owner. It showed a marginal life, if it could be called that at all.

  Back in the living room Bosch picked a framed photograph up off a table next to a yellow couch. It was a woman. Not too attractive, except to Porter maybe. An ex-wife he couldn’t get over. Maybe. Harry put the photo back down and the phone rang.

  He traced the noise to the bedroom. The phone was on the floor next to the bed. He picked up on the seventh ring, waited a moment and in a voice designed to appear jerked from sleep said, “Huh?”

  “Porter?”

  “Yeah.”

  The line went dead. It hadn’t worked. But had Bosch recognized the voice? Pounds? No, not Pounds. Only one word spoken. But, still, the accent was there. Spanish, he thought. He filed it away in his mind and got up off the bed. Another plane crossed above and the trailer shuddered. He went back into the living room where he made a half-hearted search of a one-drawer desk, though he knew that no matter what he found it wouldn’t solve the immediate problem: where was Porter?

  Bosch turned all the lights off and relocked the front door as he left. He decided to start in North Hollywood and work his way south toward downtown. In every police division there was a handful of bars that carried a heavy clientele of cops. Then after two, when they closed, there were the all-night bottle clubs. Mostly they were dark pits where men came to drink hard and quietly, as if their lives depended on it. They were havens from the street, places to go to forget and forgive yourself. It was at one of these Bosch believed he would find Porter.

  He began with a place on Kittridge called the Parrot. But the bartender, a one-time cop himself, said he hadn’t seen Porter since Christmas Eve. Next, he went to the 502 on Lankershim and then Saint’s on Cahuenga. They knew Porter in these places but he hadn’t been at either tonight.

  It went like that until two. By then, Bosch had worked his way down into Hollywood. He was sitting in his car in front of the Bullet, trying to think of nearby bottle-club locations, when his pager went off. He checked the number and didn’t recognize it. He went back into the Bullet to use the pay phone. The lights in the bar came on after he dialed. Last call was over.

  “Bosch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Rickard. Bad time?”

  “Nah. I’m at the Bullet.”

  “Hell, man, then you’re close by.”

  “For what? You got Dance?”

  “Nah, not quite. I’m at a rave behind Cahuenga and south of the boulevard. Couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d do some hunting. No Dance but I got my eye on one of his old salesmen. One of the ones that was on the shake cards in the file. Name’s Kerwin Tyge.”

  Bosch thought a moment. He remembered the name. He was one of the juvies the BANG team had stopped and checked out, tried to scare off the street. His name was on one of the file cards in the ice file Moore had left behind.

  “What’s a rave?”

  “An underground. They got a warehouse off this alley. A fly-by-night party. Digital music. They’ll run all night, ’til about six. Next week it will be somewhere else.”

  “How’d you find it?”

  “They’re easy to find. The record stores on Melrose put out the phone numbers. You call the number, get on the list. Twenty bucks to get in. Get stoned and dance ’til dawn.”

  “He selling black ice?”

  “Nah, he’s selling sherms out front.”

  A sherm was a cigarette dipped in liquid PCP. Went for twenty bucks a dip and would leave its smoker dusted all night. Tyge apparently was no longer working for Dance.

  “I figure we can make a righteous bust,” Rickard said. “After that, we might squeeze Dance out of his ass. I think Dance has blown, but the kid might know where. It’s up to you. I don’t know how important Dance is to you.”

  “Where do you want me?” Bosch asked.

  “Come west on the Boulevard and just when you pass Cahuenga come south at the very next alley. The one that comes down behind the porno shops. It’s dark but you’ll see the blue neon arrow. That’s the place. I’m about a half block north in a red piece-of-shit Camaro. Nevada plates. I’ll be waiting. Hafta figure out a scam or something to grab him with the shit.”

  “You know where the dip is?”

  “Yeah. He’s got it in a beer bottle in the gutter. Keeps going in and out. Brings his clients outside. I’ll think of something by the time you get here.”

  Bosch hung up and went back out to the car. It took him fifteen minutes to get there because of all the cruisers on the Boulevard. In the alley he parked illegally behind the red Camaro. He could see Rickard sitting low in the driver’s seat.

  “Top of the morning to ya,” the narc said when Bosch slipped into the Camaro’s passenger seat.

  “Same. Our boy still around?”

  “Oh, yeah. Seems like he’s having a good night, too. He’s selling shermans like they’re the last thing on earth. Too bad we gotta spoil his fun.”

  Bosch looked down the dark alley. In the intervals of blue light cast by a blinking neon arrow he could see a grouping of people in dark clothes in front of a door in the brick siding of the warehouse. Occasionally, the door would open and someone would go in or come out. He could hear the music when the door was open. Loud, techno-rock, a driving bass that seemed to shake the street. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the people outside were drinking and smoking, cooling off after dancing. A few of them held blown-up balloons. They would lean on the hoods of the cars near the door, suck from the balloon and pass it on as if it were a joint.

  “The balloons are full of nitrous oxide,” Rickard said.

  “Laughing gas?”

  “Right. They sell it at these raves for five bucks a balloon. They can make a couple of grand off one tank stolen from a hospital or dentist.”

  A girl fell off a car hood and her balloon of gas shot away into the dark. Others helped her up. Bosch could hear their shrieks of laughter.

  “That legal?”

  “It’s a flopper. It’s legal to process — a lot of legit uses for it. But it’s a misdee to consume recreationally. We don’t even bother with it, though. Somebody wants to suck on it and fall down and split their head open, have at it, I say. Why should — there he is now.”

  The slight figure of a teenager walked through the warehouse door and over to the cars parked along the alley.

  “Watch him go down,” Rickard said.

  The figure disappeared behind a car, dropping down.

  “See, he’s making a dip. Now he’ll wait a few minutes ’til it dries a little and his customer comes out. Then he’ll make the deal.”

  “Want to go get him?”

  “No. We take him with just the one sherm, that’s nothing. That’s personal possession. They won’t even keep him overnight in the drunk tank. We need him with his dip if we wanna squeeze him good.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “You just get back in your car. I want you to go back around on Cahuenga and come up the alley the other way. I think you can get in closer. Park it and then try to work your way up to be my backup. I’ll come down from this end. I got some old clothes in the trunk. Undercover shit. I got a plan.”

  Bosch then went back to the Caprice, turned it around and drove out of the alley. He drove around the block and came up from the south side. He found a spot in front of a Dumpster and stopped. When he saw the hunched-over figure of Rickard moving down the alley, Harry got out and started moving. They were closing in on the warehouse door from both sides. But while Bosch remained in the shadows, Rickard — now wearing a grease-stained sweatshirt and carrying a bag of laundry — was walking down the center of the alley, singi
ng. Because of the noise from the warehouse Bosch wasn’t sure but he thought it was Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman,” delivered in a drunken slur.

  Rickard had the undivided attention of the people standing outside the warehouse door. A couple of the stoned girls cheered his singing. The distraction allowed Bosch to move within four cars of the door and about three cars from the spot where Tyge had his dip.

  As he passed the spot, Rickard stopped his song in mid-chorus and acted as if he had just spotted a treasure. He ducked between the two parked cars and came up with the beer bottle in hand. He was about to place it in his bag when the boy moved quickly between the cars and grabbed the bottle. Rickard refused to let go and spun so that the boy’s back was now to Bosch. Harry started moving.

  “It’s mine, man,” Rickard yelled.

  “I put it there, bro. Let it go before it spills.”

  “Go get your own, man. This here’s mine.”

  “Let it go!”

  “You sure it’s yours?”

  “It’s mine!”

  Bosch hit the boy forcefully from behind. He let go of the bottle and doubled over the trunk of the car. Bosch kept him pinned there, pushing his forearm against the boy’s neck. The bottle stayed in Rickard’s hand. None of it spilled.

  “Well, if you say so, I guess it’s yours,” the narc said. “And I guess that makes you under arrest.”

  Bosch pulled his cuffs off his belt and hooked the boy up and then pulled him off the trunk. Some of the others were gathering around now.

  “Fuck off, people,” Rickard said loudly. “Go back inside and sniff your laughing gas. Go get deaf. This here don’t concern you unless you want to go along with this boy to the shit can.”

  He bent down to Tyge’s ear and said, “Right, bro?”

  When nobody in the crowd moved, Rickard took a menacing step toward them and they scattered. A couple of the girls ran back into the warehouse. The music drowned out Rickard’s laugh. He then turned around and grabbed Tyge by the arm.