“Hey, I’ll think of something,” he said. “I might be riding a desk for the time being, but I’m not taking both oars out of the water. I’m going to figure this out.”
She nodded but her face still looked distraught.
“Harry, remember when you found me in the casino that first night and we went to the bar at Caesar’s and you tried to talk to me? Remember what you said about doing things differently if you had the chance to go back?”
“Yes, I remember.”
She wiped her eyes with her palms, before any tears could show.
“I have to tell you something.”
“You can tell me anything, Eleanor.”
“What I told you about me paying Quillen and the street tax and all of that . . . there’s more to it.”
She looked at him with intensity now, trying to read his reaction before going further. But Bosch sat stone still and waited.
“When I first went to Vegas after getting out of Frontera, I didn’t have a place or a car and I didn’t know anyone. I just thought I’d give it a shot. You know, playing cards. And there was a girl I knew from Frontera. Her name was Patsy Quillen. She told me to look up her uncle—that was Terry Quillen—and that he’d probably stake me after he checked me out and saw me play. Patsy wrote him and gave me an introduction.”
Bosch sat silently, listening. He now had an idea where this was going but couldn’t figure out why she was telling him.
“So he staked me. I got the apartment and some money to play with. He never said anything about Joey Marks, though I should have known the money came from somewhere. It always does. Anyway, later, when he finally told me who had really staked me, he said I shouldn’t worry because the organization he worked for didn’t want me to pay the nut back. What they wanted was just the interest. Two hundred a week. The tax. I didn’t think I had a choice. I’d already taken the money. So I started paying. In the beginning it was tough. I didn’t have it a couple times and it was double the next week plus that week’s regular tax. You get behind and there’s no way out.”
She looked down at her hands and clasped them on the table.
“What did they make you do?” Bosch asked quietly, also averting his eyes.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said. “I was lucky . . . they knew about me. I mean, that I had been an agent. They figured they could use my skills, as dormant as they were. So they had me just watch people. Mostly in casinos. But there were a few times I followed them outside. Most of the time I didn’t even know exactly who they were or why they wanted the information, but I just watched, sometimes played at the same tables, and reported to Terry what the guy was winning or losing, who he was talking to, any nuances of his game . . . you know, things like that.”
She was just rambling now, putting off the meat of what she had to tell him, but Bosch didn’t say anything. He let her go on.
“A couple days I watched Tony Aliso for them. They wanted to know how much he was dropping at the tables and where he was going, the usual stuff. But as it turned out, he wasn’t losing. He actually was quite good at cards.”
“Where did you watch him go?”
“Oh, he’d go out to dinner, to the strip club. He’d run errands, things like that.”
“You ever see him with a girl?”
“One time. I followed him on foot from the Mirage into Caesar’s and then into the shopping arcade. He went to Spago for a late lunch. He was alone and then the girl showed up. She was young. I thought at first it was like an escort thing, but then I could tell, he knew her. After lunch they went back to his hotel room for a while and when they came out, they took his rental and he took her to get a manicure and to buy cigarettes and to a bank while she opened an account. Just errands. Then they went to the strip club in North Vegas. When he left, he was alone. I figured then she was a dancer.”
Bosch nodded.
“Were you watching Tony last Friday night?” Bosch asked.
“No. That was just coincidence that we ended up at the same table. It was because he was waiting to go to the high-stakes table. I actually hadn’t done anything for them in a month or so, other than pay the weekly tax, until . . . Terry . . .”
Her voice trailed off. They were finally at the point of no return.
“Until Terry what, Eleanor?”
She looked toward the fading horizon. The lights across the Valley were coming on and the sky was pink neon mixed with gray paint. Bosch kept his eyes on her. She spoke while still watching the end of the day.
“Quillen came to my apartment after you took me home from Metro. He took me to the house where you found me. They wouldn’t tell me why and they told me not to leave. They said nobody would get hurt if I just did what I was told. I sat around that place for two days. They only put the handcuffs on me that last night. It was like they knew you’d be coming then.”
She let a beat of silence follow. It was there if Bosch wanted to use it but he didn’t say a word.
“I guess what I’m trying to tell you is that the whole thing was something less than an abduction.”
She looked back down at her hands now.
“And that’s obviously why you didn’t want us to call out Metro,” Bosch said quietly.
She nodded.
“I don’t know why I didn’t tell you everything before. I’m really sorry, Harry. I . . .”
Now Bosch felt his own words sticking in his throat. Her story was understandable and believable. He even felt for her and understood that she was in her own bottomless pit. He saw how she had believed she had no choices. What he couldn’t see, and what hurt him, was why she couldn’t tell him everything from the start.
“Why couldn’t you tell me, Eleanor?” he managed to get out. “I mean right away. Why didn’t you tell me that night?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I wanted . . . I guess I hoped it would just go away and you would never have to know.”
“Then why are you telling me now?”
She looked right at him.
“Because I hated not telling you everything . . . and because while I was there at that house I heard something that you need to know now.”
Bosch closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Harry. Very sorry.”
He nodded. He was, too. He washed his hands over his face. He didn’t want to hear this but knew he had to. His mind raced, jumping between feelings of betrayal and confusion and sympathy. One moment his thoughts were of Eleanor and the next they were on the case. They knew. Someone had told Joey Marks about Eleanor and him. He thought of Felton and Iverson, then Baxter and every cop he had seen at Metro. Someone had fed Marks the information and they used Eleanor as bait for him. But why? Why the whole charade? He opened his eyes and looked at Eleanor with a blank stare.
“What was it that you heard and that I need to know?”
“It was the first night. I was kept in that back room, where the TV was, where you came and got me. I was kept in there and the Samoans were there, in and out. But from time to time there were people in other parts of the house. I heard them talking.”
“Gussie and Quillen?”
“No, Quillen left. I know his voice and it wasn’t him. And I don’t think it was Gussie. I think it was Joey Marks and someone else, probably the lawyer, Torrino. Whoever it was, I heard the one man call the other Joe at one point. That’s how come I think it was Marks.”
“Okay. Go on, what did they say?”
“I couldn’t hear all of it. But one man was telling the other, the one he called Joe, what he had learned about the police investigation. About the Metro side of things, I think. And I heard the one called Joe get very angry when he was told the gun had been found at Luke Goshen’s house. And I remember his words. Very clearly. He was yelling. He said, ‘How the hell did they find the gun there when we didn’t do the goddamned hit?’ And then he said some more things about the cops planting the gun and he said, ‘You tell our guy that if this is some kind of shake
down, then he can fuck off, he can forget it.’ I didn’t hear much after that. They lowered their voices and the first guy was just trying to calm the other guy down.”
Bosch stared at her for a few moments, trying to analyze what she had overheard.
“Do you think it was a show?” he asked. “You know, put on for your benefit because they figured you’d turn around and tell me what you heard?”
“I did at first, and that’s another reason I didn’t tell you this right away,” she said. “But now I’m not so sure. When they first took me, when Quillen was driving me out there and I was asking a lot of questions, he wouldn’t answer them. But he did say one thing. All he would tell me was that they needed me for a day or two to run a test on somebody. He would explain no further. A test, that’s all he said.”
“A test?”
Bosch looked confused.
“Listen to me, Harry. I’ve done nothing but think about this since you got me out of there.”
She held up a finger.
“Let’s start with what I overheard. Let’s say it was Joey Marks and his lawyer, and let’s say it wasn’t a show but what they said was true. They didn’t put the hit on Tony Aliso, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Look at it from their perspective. They had nothing to do with this, but one of their in-close guys gets picked up for it. And from what they hear from their source in Metro, it’s looking like a slam-bang case. I mean, the cops have fingerprints and the murder weapon found right there in Goshen’s bathroom. Joey Marks has to be thinking either it’s all been planted by the cops or maybe Goshen went and did this on his own for some unknown reason. Either way, what do you think his immediate concern would be?”
“Damage control.”
“Right. He has to figure out what is going on with Goshen and what’s the damage. But he can’t because Goshen has gone and gotten himself his own attorney. Torrino has no access to him. So what Joey does instead is he and Torrino set up a test to see if the reason Goshen’s gotten his own attorney is because he’s going to talk.”
“Make a deal.”
“Right. Now, let’s say that from their source in Metro they know that the lead cop on the case has a relationship with someone they know of and have their hooks in. Me.”
“So they just take you to the safe house and wait. Because they know that if I find out where the safe house is and show up to get you, or if I call up Metro and say I know where you are, then they know Goshen is the only one who could have told me. It means he’s talking. That was the test Quillen was talking about. If I don’t show, they’re cool. It means Goshen is standing up. If I do show up, then they know they’ve got to get to Goshen in Metro right quick and put a hit on him.”
“Right, before he can talk. That’s how I figured it, too.”
“So that would mean that Aliso wasn’t really a hit—at least by Marks and his people—and that they had no idea Goshen was an agent.”
She nodded. Bosch felt the surge of energy that comes with making a huge step through the murky darkness of an investigation.
“There was no trunk music,” he said.
“What?”
“The whole Las Vegas angle, Joey Marks, all of that, it was all a diversion. We went completely down the wrong path. It had to be engineered by someone very close to Tony. Close enough to know what he was doing, to know about the money washing, and to know how to make his killing look mob connected. To pin it on Goshen.”
She nodded.
“And that’s why I had to tell you everything. Even if it meant we . . .”
Bosch looked at her. She didn’t finish the line and neither did he.
Bosch took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth but didn’t light it. He leaned across the table and picked up her plate and his own. He spoke to her as he slid off the bench.
“I don’t have any dessert, either.”
“That’s okay.”
He took the plates into the kitchen and rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher. He had never used the new appliance before and spent some time leaning over it and trying to figure out how to operate it. Once he got it going, he started cleaning the frying pan and the pot in the sink. The simple work began to relax him. Eleanor came into the kitchen with her wineglass and watched him for a few moments before speaking.
“I’m sorry, Harry.”
“It’s okay. You were in a bad situation and you did what you had to do, Eleanor. Nobody can be blamed for that. I probably would have done everything you did.”
It was a few moments before she spoke again.
“Do you want me to go?”
Bosch turned off the water and looked into the sink. He could make out his dark image reflected in the new stainless steel.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
Bosch arrived at the station at seven Friday morning with a box of glazed doughnuts from the Fairfax Farmers Market. He was the first one in. He opened the box and put it on the counter near the coffee machine. He took one of the doughnuts and put it on a napkin and left it at his spot on the homicide table while he went up to the watch office to get coffee from the urn. It was much better than what came out of the detective bureau’s machine.
Once he had his coffee, he took his doughnut and moved to the desk that was behind the bureau’s front counter. His assignment to desk duty meant that he would handle most of the walk-ins as well as the sorting and distribution of overnight reports. The phones he wouldn’t have to worry about. They were answered by an old man from the neighborhood who donated his time to the department.
Bosch was alone in the squad room for at least fifteen minutes before the other detectives started to trickle in. Six different times he was asked by a new arrival why he was at the front desk, and each time he told the detective who asked that it was too complicated to get into but that the word would be out soon enough. Nothing remained a secret for long in a police station.
At eight-thirty the lieutenant from the A.M. watch brought the morning reports in before going off shift and smiled when he saw Bosch. His name was Klein and he and Bosch had known each other in a surface way for years.
“Who’d you beat up this time, Bosch?” he kidded.
It was well known that the detective who sat at the desk where Bosch now sat was either there by fate of the bureau rotation or on a desk duty assignment while the subject of an internal investigation. More often than not it was the latter. But Klein’s sarcasm revealed that he had not yet heard that Bosch actually was under investigation. Bosch played off the question with a smile but didn’t answer. He took the two-inch-thick stack of reports from Klein and gave him a mock salute back.
The stack Klein had given him constituted nearly all crime reports filed by Hollywood Division patrol officers in the last twenty-four hours. There would be a second, smaller delivery of stragglers later in the morning, but the stack in his hands constituted the bulk of the day’s work in the bureau.
Keeping his head down and ignoring the buzz of conversations around him, it took Bosch a half hour to sort all the reports into piles according to crimes. Next he had to scan them all, using his experienced eye to possibly make connections between robberies and burglaries or assaults and so on, and then deliver the individual piles to the detective tables assigned to that particular classification of crime.
When he looked up from his work, he saw that Lieutenant Billets was in her office on the phone. He hadn’t noticed that she had come in. Part of his desk job would be to give her a morning briefing on the reports, informing her of any significant or unusual crimes or anything else she should be aware of as the detective bureau commander.
He went back to work and weeded through the auto-theft reports first because they made up the largest pile he had culled from the stack of reports. There had been thirty-three cars reported stolen in Hollywood in the last twenty-four hours. Bosch knew that this was probably a below-average tally. After reading the summaries in the report
s and checking for other similarities, he found nothing of significance and took the pile to the detective in charge of the auto-theft table. As he was heading back to the front of the squad room, he noticed that Edgar and Rider were standing at the homicide table putting things into a cardboard box. As he approached, he realized they were packing up the murder book and the ancillary files and evidence bags relating to the Aliso case. It was all being sent to the feds.
“Morning, guys,” Bosch said, unsure of how to start.
“Harry,” Edgar said.
“How are you doing, Harry?” Rider said, genuine concern in her voice.
“I’m hangin’ in. . . . Uh, listen, I just . . . I just want to say that I’m sorry you guys have been pulled into this, but I wanted you to know there is no way I —”
“Forget it, Harry,” Edgar said. “You don’t have to say one damn thing to us. We both know the whole thing is bullshit. In all my years on the job you are the most righteous cop I know, man. All the rest is bullshit.”
Bosch nodded, touched by Edgar’s words. He didn’t expect such sentiments from Rider because it had been their first case together. But she spoke anyway.
“I haven’t worked with you long, Harry, but from what I do know I agree with what Jerry says. You watch, this will blow over and we’ll be back at it again.”
“Thanks.”
Bosch was about to head back to his new desk when he looked down into the box they were packing. He reached in and pulled out the two-inch-thick murder book that Edgar had been charged with preparing and keeping up to date on the Aliso case.
“Are the feds coming here or you just sending it out?”
“S’posed to have somebody come pick it up at ten,” Edgar said.
Bosch looked up at the clock on the wall. It was only nine.
“Mind if I copy this? Just so we have something in case the whole thing drops into that black hole they keep over there at the bureau.”