“You’re playing with fire, man. You make a promise like that and then they find out you fucked them around —”
Sylvia picked up the phone.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hi, where are you?”
“The office. We have to watch the phones a while. They’re putting the face of the victim from yesterday’s case on TV tonight.”
“How was court?”
“It’s the plaintiff’s case at the moment. But I think we scored a couple punches.”
“I read the Times today at lunch.”
“Yeah, well, they got about half of it right.”
“Are you coming out? Like you said.”
“Well, eventually. Not right now. I’ve got to help answer phones on this and then it’s depending on what we get. If we’re skunked I’ll be out early.”
He noticed he had lowered his voice so Edgar wouldn’t hear his conversation.
“And if you get something good?”
“We’ll see.”
An indrawn breath, then silence. Harry waited. “You’ve been saying ‘we’ll see’ too much, Harry. We’ve talked about this. Sometimes —”
“I know that.”
“— I think that you just want to be left alone. Stay in your little house on the hill and keep the whole world out. Including me.”
“Not you. You know that.”
“Sometimes, I don’t. I don’t feel like I know it right now. You push me away just at the time when you need me — somebody — to be close.”
He had no answer. He thought of her there on the other end. She was probably sitting on the stool in the kitchen. She had probably already begun making a dinner for both of them. Or maybe she was getting used to his ways and had waited for the call.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “You know how it is. What are you doing about dinner?”
“Nothing, and I’m not going to do anything, either,”
Edgar made a low, quick whistle. Harry looked up at the TV and saw it was showing the painted face of the victim. The TV was on Channel 7 now. The camera showed a long close-up of the face. It looked all right on the tube. At least, it didn’t look much like a cake. The screen flashed the detective bureau’s two public numbers.
“They’re showing it now,” Bosch said to Sylvia. “I need to keep this line clear. Let me call you back later, when I know something.”
“Sure,” she said coldly and hung up.
Edgar had the TV on 4 now and they were showing the face. He then flipped to 2 and caught the last few seconds of their report on it. They had even interviewed the anthropologist.
“Slow news day,” Bosch said.
“Shit,” Edgar replied. “We’re banging on all cylinders now. All we —”
The phone rang and he grabbed it up.
“No, it just went out,” he said after listening for a few moments. “Yeah, yeah, I will. Okay.”
He hung up and shook his head.
“Pounds?” Bosch asked.
“Yeah. Thinks we’re going to have her name ten seconds after the broadcast went out. Christ, whadda nitwit.”
The next three calls were pranks, all testifying to the glaring lack of originality and the mental health of the TV viewing audience. All three callers said “Your mother!” or words to that effect and hung up laughing. About twenty minutes later Edgar got a call and started taking notes. The phone rang again and Bosch took it.
“This is Detective Bosch, who am I speaking with?”
“Is this being taped?”
“No, it’s not. Who is this?”
“Never mind, just thought you’d like to know the girl’s name is Maggie. Maggie something or other. It’s Latin. I seen her on videos.”
“What videos? MTV?”
“No, Sherlock. Adult videos. She fucked on film. She was good. She could put a rubber on a prick with her mouth.”
The line went dead. Bosch wrote a couple of notes down on the pad he had in front of him. Latin? He didn’t think the way the face had been painted gave any indication that the victim was a Latina.
Edgar hung up then and said his caller had said her name was Becky, that she had lived in Studio City a few years back.
“What’d you get?”
“I got a Maggie. No last name. Possibly a Latin last name. He said she was in porno.”
“That would fit, except she don’t look Mexican to me.”
“I know.”
The phone rang again. Edgar picked up and listened a few moments and then hung up.
“Another one that recognizes my mom.”
Bosch took the next one.
“I just wanted to tell you that the girl they were showing on TV was in porno,” the voice said.
“How do you know she was in porno?”
“I can tell by that thing they showed on TV. I rented a tape. Only once. She was in it.”
Only once, Bosch thought, but he remembered. Yeah, sure.
“You know her name?”
The other phone rang and Edgar picked it up.
“I don’t know names, man,” Bosch’s caller said. “They all use fake ones anyway.”
“What was the name of the tape?”
“Can’t remember. I was, uh, intoxicated when I saw it. Like I said, it was the only time.”
“Look, I’m not taking your confession. You got anything else?”
“No, smartass, I don’t.”
“Who is this?”
“I don’t have to say.”
“Look, we’re trying to find a killer here. What was the name of the place you rented it?”
“I’m not telling you, you might be able to get my name from them. Doesn’t matter, they have those tapes all over, every adult place.”
“How would you know if you only rented one once?”
The caller hung up.
Bosch stayed another hour. By the end they had five calls saying the painted face belonged to a porno starlet. Only one of the callers said her name was Maggie, the other four men saying they didn’t pay much attention to names. There was one call naming her Becky of Studio City, and one saying she was a stripper who had worked for a while at the Booby Trap on La Brea. One man who called said the face belonged to his missing wife, but Bosch learned through further questioning that she had been missing only two months. The concrete blonde had been dead too long. The hope and desperation in the caller’s voice seemed genuine to Bosch, and he didn’t know whether he was telling the man good news by explaining that it could not be his wife or bad news because he was left in the void again.
There were three callers who gave vague descriptions of a woman they thought might be the concrete blonde, but after a few questions into each conversation Bosch and Edgar identified the callers as cop geeks, people who got a thrill from talking to the police.
The most unusual call was from a Beverly Hills psychic who mentioned that she had placed her hand on the TV screen while it showed the face and felt the dead woman’s spirit cry out to her.
“What did it cry?” Bosch asked patiently.
“Praise.”
“Praise for what?”
“Jesus our savior, I would assume but I don’t know. That was all I received. I might receive more if I could touch the actual plaster cast of the —”
“Well, did this spirit that was giving praise identify itself? See, that’s what we’re doing here. We’re more interested in a name than cries of praise.”
“Someday you will believe but by then you will be lost.”
She hung up on him.
At seven-thirty Bosch told Edgar he was splitting.
“How ’bout you? You going to hang out for the eleven o’clock news?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here but I can handle it. If I get a lot of calls I’ll pull one of the dipshits off the desk.”
Stock that OT, Bosch thought.
“What’s next?” he asked.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Well, aside from
all the calls saying it’s your mother, this porno thing seems to be the way to go.”
“Leave my blessed mother out of it. How you think I can check the porno?”
“Administrative Vice. Guy over there, a detective-three, name of Ray Mora, he works porno. He’s the best. He also was on the Dollmaker task force. Call him and see if he can come take a look at the face. He might’ve known her. Tell him we had one call saying her name was Maggie.”
“Will do. It fits with the Dollmaker, doesn’t it? The porno, I mean.”
“Yeah, it fits.” He thought about this a moment, then added, “Two of the other victims were in the business. The one that got away from him was, too.”
“The lucky one — she still in it?”
“Last I heard. But she might be dead now for all I know.”
“Still doesn’t mean anything, Harry.”
“What?”
“The porno. Still doesn’t mean it was the Dollmaker. The real one, I mean.”
Bosch just nodded. He had an idea about something to do on his way home. He went out to his Caprice and got the Polaroid camera out of the trunk. In the squad room, he took two shots of the face in the box and put them in his coat pocket after they developed.
Edgar watched this and asked, “What’re you going to do?”
“Might stop at that adult supermarket in the Valley on my way up to Sylvia’s.”
“Don’t get caught in one of those little rooms with your dick out.”
“Thanks for the tip. Let me know what Mora says.”
• • •
Bosch worked his way on surface streets up to the Hollywood Freeway. He went north and then exited on Lankershim, which took him into North Hollywood in the San Fernando Valley. He had all four windows down and the air was cool as it buffeted him from all directions. He smoked a cigarette, flicking the ashes into the wind. There was some techno-funk jazz on KAJZ so he turned the radio off and just drove.
The Valley was the city’s bedroom community in more ways than the obvious. It was also home to the nation’s pornography industry. The commercial-industrial districts of Van Nuys, Canoga Park, Northridge and Chatsworth housed hundreds of porno production outfits, distributors and warehouses. Modeling agencies in Sherman Oaks provided ninety percent of the women and men who performed in front of the cameras. And, consequently, the Valley was also one of the largest retail outlets for the material. It was made here, it was sold here — through video mail-order businesses also nestled in the warehouses with the production outfits, and places like XMarks the Spot on Lankershim Boulevard.
Bosch pulled into the lot in front of the huge store and appraised it for a few moments. It had formerly been a Pic N Pay supermarket, but the front plate-glass windows had been walled up. Under the red neon X Marks the Spot sign, the front wall was whitewashed and painted with black figures of naked and overly buxom female figures, like the metallic silhouettes Bosch saw all the time on the mudflaps of trucks on the freeway. The men who put those on their trucks were probably the same guys this place catered to, Bosch figured.
X Marks the Spot was owned by a man named Harold Barnes, who was a front for the Chicago Outfit. It grossed more than a million dollars a year — on the books. Probably another one under the counter. Bosch knew all of this from Mora of Ad-Vice, whom he had partnered with on some nights while they both were on the task force four years earlier.
Bosch watched a man of about twenty-five get out of his Toyota, walk quickly to the solid wood front door, and slip in like a secret agent. He followed. The front half of the former supermarket was dedicated to retail — the sale and rental of videos, magazines and other assorted adult-oriented and mostly rubber products. The rear was split between private “encounter” rooms and private video booths. The entry to this area was through a curtained doorway. Bosch could hear heavy-metal rock music coming from back there mixed with the canned-sounding cries of phony passion coming from the video booths.
To his left was a glass counter with two men behind it. One was a big man, there to keep the peace; the other was smaller, older, there to take the money. Bosch knew by the way they looked at him and the skin stretched tight around their eyes that they had made him as soon as he had come in. He walked over and put one of the Polaroids on the counter.
“I am trying to ID her. Heard she worked in video, do you recognize her?”
The small guy leaned forward and looked while the other guy didn’t move.
“Looks like a fucking cake, man,” the small guy said. “I don’t know any cakes. I eat cakes.”
He looked back at the big guy and they exchanged clever smiles.
“So you don’t recognize her. What about you?”
“I say what he says,” the big guy said. “I eat cakes, too.”
This time they laughed out loud and probably had to restrain themselves from exchanging a high five. The small guy’s eyes sparkled behind rose-tinted glasses.
“Okay,” Bosch said. “Then I’ll just look around. Thanks.”
The big guy stepped forward and said, “Just keep your gun covered, man, we don’t want to excite the patrons.”
The big guy’s eyes were dull and he set out a five-foot zone of body odor. A duster, Bosch thought. He wondered why the small guy didn’t fire his ass.
“No more excited than they are,” Bosch said.
He turned from the counter to the two walls of shelves that were lined with hundreds of video boxes for sale or rent. There were a dozen men, including the secret agent, looking. Appraising the scene and the number of video boxes, Bosch somehow was reminded of how he once had read all the names on the Vietnam War Memorial wall while on a case. It had taken several hours.
The video wall proved to be less time consuming. Skipping the gay and black performer videos he scanned each box for a face like the concrete blonde’s or the name Maggie. The videos were in alphabetical order and it took him nearly an hour to get to the T’s. A face on the box of a video called Tails from the Crypt caught his eye. There was a nude woman lying in a coffin on the front. She was blonde and had an upturned nose like the plaster face in the box. He turned the box over and there was another photo of the actress, on her hands and knees with a man pressed up behind her. Her mouth was slightly open and her face was turned back toward her sex partner.
It was her, Bosch knew. He looked at the credits and saw that the name fit. He took the empty video box to the counter.
“’Bout time,” said the small guy. “We don’t allow loitering here. The cops give us a hard time on that.”
“I want to rent this.”
“Can’t, it’s already rented. See, the box is empty.”
“She in anything else you know of?”
The small guy took the box and looked at the photographs.
“Magna Cum Loudly, yeah. I don’t know. She was just getting started and then dropped out. Probably married a rich guy, lots of them do.”
The big guy stepped over to look at the box and Bosch stepped back, out of his odor zone.
“I’m sure they do,” he said. “What else was she in?”
“Well,” the small guy said, “she had just made her way out of the loops and then, pfffft, she’s gone. Tails was her first top billing. She did a fabulous two-way in Whore of the Roses and that’s what got her started. Before that it was just the loops.”
Bosch went back to the W’s and found the box for Whore of the Roses. It also was empty and there were no photos of Magna Cum Loudly on it. Her name was last billing on the credits. He went back to the small guy and pointed to the Tails from the Crypt box.
“What about the box, then? I’ll buy it.”
“We can’t sell you just the box because then how do we display the video when it comes back? We don’t sell many boxes here. Guys want stills, they buy magazines.”
“What’s the price of the whole video? I’ll buy it. When the renter brings it back you can hold it for me and I’ll come pick it up. How much?”
&
nbsp; “Well, Tails is popular. We’re going with a $39.95 price tag but for you, Officer, I’ll give our law enforcement discount. Fifty bucks.”
Bosch said nothing to that. He had the cash and paid it. “I want a receipt.”
After the purchase was completed, the small guy put the video box in a brown paper bag.
“You know,” he said, “Maggie Cum Loudly is still on a couple of our loops in the back. You might want to check it out.”
He smiled and pointed to a sign on the wall behind him.
“We have a no-exchange policy, by the way.”
Bosch smiled back.
“I’ll check it out.”
“Hey, by the way, what name you want us to hold this video under when it comes back in?”
“Carlo Pinzi.”
It was the name of the Outfit’s L.A. capo.
“Very fucking funny, Mr. Pinzi, we’ll do that.”
Bosch went through the curtain into the back rooms and was almost immediately met by a woman wearing high heels, a black G-string and an ice-cream man’s coin changer on a belt, nothing else. Her large silicone-perfected breasts were dotted by unusually small nipples. Her dyed blonde hair was short and she had too much makeup around her glassy brown eyes. She looked like she was either nineteen or thirty-five.
“Do you want a private encounter or change for the video booths?” she asked.
Bosch took out his now thin fold of cash and gave her two dollars for quarters.
“Can I keep a dollar for myself? I don’t get paid nothin’, just tips.”
Bosch gave her another dollar and took his eight quarters to one of the small curtained booths where the occupied light wasn’t on.
“Let me know if you need anything in there,” the woman in the G-string called after him.
She was either too stoned or too stupid or both not to have made him as a cop. Bosch waved her away and pulled the curtain shut behind him. The space he had was about the size of a phone booth. There was a glass viewing window through which he could see a video screen. Displayed on the screen was a directory of twelve different videos he could select from. It was all video now, though they were still called loops, after the 16mm film loops that ran over and over again in the first peep machines.