Michael Connelly (104 page)

“The guy’s a mutt,” Edgar said. “I don’t know why we’re treating him like a saint.”

Entrenkin gave Edgar her look then.

“Yes, you do, Detective Edgar.”

Edgar was sufficiently cowed by her tone.

When Harris opened the door of his fourth-floor apartment he was holding a gun at his side.

“A’right, this is my home,” he announced. “I don’t mean to be threatenin’ anybody but I need this for my pers’nal comfort and protection. Otherwise, you ain’t comin’ in the place, know what I mean?”

Bosch looked at the others, got no read, and looked back at Harris. He tried to contain his fury. Despite what Entrenkin had told him earlier, he still had little doubt that Harris was the murderer of a child. But he knew that what was important at the moment was the current investigation. He had to put his enmity for the man aside in order to extract whatever information he had.

“All right,” he said. “But you keep that weapon low and at your side. You point it at one of us and we’re going to have a big problem. We understand each other?”

“Oh, we understand.”

Harris backed away from the door and let them in by pointing the weapon toward the living room.

“Remember, keep that thing down,” Bosch said sternly.

Harris dropped the gun to his side and they all entered. The apartment was furnished with rental stuff—puffy couch and matching chairs in light blue, cheap faux wood tables and shelves. Pastoral prints were on the walls. There was a cabinet with a television in it. The news was on.

“Have a seat, ladies and gentlemen.”

Harris took one of the big chairs, slumping in it so that the back rose above his head, giving him the appearance of sitting on a throne. Bosch stepped over and turned the television off, then introduced everybody and showed his badge.

“It figure the white man in charge,” Harris said.

Bosch ignored it.

“I take it you know that Howard Elias was murdered last night?” he asked.

“Course I know. Been sittin’ here watchin’ it all got-damned day.”

“Then why’d you say you wouldn’t talk to us without your lawyer if you knew your lawyer was dead?”

“I got more than one lawyer, dumbshit. I also got a crim’nal lawyer and I got a entertainment lawyer. I got lawyers, don’t worry. And I’ll get another to take Howie’s place. I’m gonna need ’em, man, ’specially after they start cuttin’ up in South Central. I’mma have my own riot like Rodney. That’ll put me on top.”

Bosch could barely follow Harris’s line of thought but he understood enough to know Harris was on a power trip at his own community’s expense.

“Well, let’s talk about your late lawyer, Howard Elias. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last night, but you already know that, right, Chet?”

“Till when?”

“Till we walked out the muthafuckin’ door. Are you throwin’ down on me, man?”

“What?”

“You in-ter-OH-gatin’ me, man?”

“I’m trying to find out who killed Elias.”

“You did that. You people got him.”

“Well, that’s a possibility. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Harris laughed as if what Bosch had said was absurd.

“Yeah, you know that thing they say about the kettle and the pot, that’s what that is.”

“We’ll see. When did you two part company? You and Howard Elias.”

“When he went to his apartment and I went home.”

“Which was when?”

“I don’t know, Chet. Quarter to ’leven, ’leven a’clock. I don’t wear a watch. People tell me the time when I want to know it. They say on the news he got his ass shot at ’leven, so we left quarter of.”

“Had he mentioned any threats? Was he afraid of anyone?”

“He wasn’t afraida shit. But he knew he was a dead man.”

“What do you mean?”

“You people is what I mean. He knew you would come gunnin’ for him someday. Somebody finally did. Prob’ly come for me, too, one day. Tha’s why as soon as I get my money I’m splittin’ this place. All you cops can have it. And tha’s all I got to say, Chet.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because that’s what you are. You’re a Chet, Chet.”

Harris’s smile was a challenge. Bosch held his gaze for a moment, then turned to Entrenkin and nodded. She took it from there.

“Michael, do you know who I am?”

“Sure, I seen ya on the TV. Just like Mr. Elias. I know you.”

“Then you know I am not a police officer. My job is to make sure the police officers in this city are honest and do their jobs the way they should be done.”

Harris snickered.

“You got a lot a work ’head you, lady.”

“I know that, Michael. But the reason I am here is to tell you that I think these three detectives want to do what is right. They want to find the person who killed Howard Elias, whether it is a cop or not. And I want to help them. You should want to help as well. You owe Howard that much. So will you please answer a few more questions?”

Harris looked around the room and at the gun in his hand. It was a Smith & Wesson 9 millimeter with a satin finish. Bosch wondered if Harris would have brandished it in front of them if he knew the murder weapon was a nine. Harris shoved the weapon into the crack between the seat cushion and the arm of the big chair.

“Okay, I guess. But not Chet. I don’ talk to white cops or Tom boys. You ask me.”

Entrenkin looked back at Bosch and then back to Harris.

“Michael, I want the detectives to ask the questions. They are better at it than me. But I think it’s okay for you to answer.”

Harris shook his head.

“You don’t unnerstand, lady. Why should I help these fuckers? These people tortured me for no fucking reason. I ain’t got forty percent of my hearing because of the L-A-P-D. I ain’t
cop-
eratin’. Now if you got a question, then
you
ask it.”

“Okay, Michael, that’s fine,” Entrenkin said. “Tell me about last night. What did you and Howard work on?”

“We worked on my testimony. Only you know how the cops call it testi-
lying
on account they never tell the damn truth when it comes to the brothers? Well, I call it my testi-
money
’cause the LAPD is going to pay my ass for framin’ me and then fuckin’ with me. Damn right.”

Bosch picked up the questioning as though Harris had never said he wouldn’t speak to him. “Did Howard tell you that?”

“Sure did, Mr. Chet.”

“Did he say he could prove it was a frame?”

“Yeah, ’cause he knew who really done the murder a that little white girl and then put her in the lot near my place. An’ it wudn’t me. He was goin’ to court Monday to start to ’zonerate me completely and get my money, my man Howard.”

Bosch waited a beat. The next question and answer would be crucial.

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Who really did the murder? Did he tell you?”

“Nope. He said I didn’t need to know. Said it was dangerous to know that shit. But I bet it’s in there in his files. He ain’t gonna get away again.”

Bosch glanced at Entrenkin.

“Michael, I spent all day with the files. Yes, there are indications that Howard knew who killed Stacey Kincaid but no name was recorded anywhere. Are you sure he never told you a name or gave you any indication of who this person was?”

Harris was momentarily nonplussed. He evidently realized that if Elias went down with the murderer’s name kept to himself, his case might have gone down a few notches as well. He would always carry the stigma of being a murderer who got off because a slick defense lawyer knew how to play a jury.

“Got-damn,” he said.

Bosch came over and sat on the corner of the coffee table, so that he could be close to Harris.

“Think hard,” he said. “You spent a lot of time with him. Who would it be?”

“I don’t know,” Harris said defensively. “Whyn’t you ask Pelfry about it, man?”

“Who is Pelfry?”

“Pelfry’s his legman. His investigator.”

“You know his whole name?”

“I think it’s somethin’ like Jenks or somethin’.”

“Jenks?”

“Yeah, Jenks. Tha’s what Howard call him.”

Bosch felt a finger poke his shoulder and he turned to see Entrenkin give him a look. She knew who Pelfry was. He could let it go. Bosch stood up and looked down at Harris.

“You came back here last night after you left Elias?”

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

“Anybody with you? You call anybody?”

“What the fuck is this? You’re throwin’ down on me, man.”

“It’s routine. Relax. We ask everybody where they’ve been. Where were you?”

“I was here, man. I was beat. I came home and got in my bed. Ain’t nobody with me.”

“Okay. Mind if I have a look at your pistola for a second?”

“Jesus Christ, I shoulda known you people weren’t on the level. Got-damn.”

He pulled the gun out from the side of the chair cushion and handed it to Bosch. Bosch kept his eyes on Harris’s until the gun was safely in his hand. He then studied the weapon and smelled the barrel. He smelled no oil or burned gunpowder. He ejected the cartridge and thumbed out the top bullet. It was a Federal, full metal jacket. A very popular brand and make of ammunition, Bosch knew, and the same brand used in the Angels Flight murders. He looked back down at Harris.

“You’re a convicted felon, Mr. Harris. You realize it is a crime for you to have this weapon?”

“Not in my house, man. I need protection.”

“Anywhere, I’m afraid. This could send you back to prison.”

Harris smiled at him. Bosch could see one of his incisors was gold with a star etched on the front.

“Then take me away, man.”

He raised his arms, offering his wrists for the handcuffs.

“Take me away and watch this muthafuckin’ place burn, baby, burn.”

“No. Actually I was thinking of cutting you a break, seeing how you’ve been so helpful tonight. But I’m going to have to keep the weapon. I’d be committing a crime if I left it here with you.”

“Be my gues’, Chet. I can always get what I need from my car. Know what I mean?”

He said
Chet
the way some white people say the word
nigger.

“Sure. I know what you mean.”

They waited for the elevator in silence. Once they were inside and descending Entrenkin spoke.

“Does that gun match?”

“It’s the same kind. Ammo’s the same. We’ll have the lab check it, but I sort of doubt he would have kept it around if he killed Elias with it. He’s not that stupid.”

“What about his car? He said he could get anything from his car.”

“He didn’t mean his car car. He meant his crew. His people. Together they’re a car, driving somewhere together. It’s a saying that comes from county lockup. Eight people to a cell. They call them cars. What about Pelfry? You know him?”

“Jenkins Pelfry. He’s a PI. An independent. I think he’s got an office over in the Union Law Center in downtown. A lot of the civil rights lawyers use him. Howard was using him on this.”

“We have to talk to him then. Thanks for telling us.”

There was annoyance in Bosch’s voice. He looked at his watch. He figured it was too late to try to run down Pelfry.

“Look, it’s in the files I gave you,” Entrenkin protested. “You didn’t ask me about it. How was I to know to tell you?”

“You’re right. You didn’t know.”

“If you want, I could put a call —”

“No, that’s okay. We’ve got it from here, Inspector. Thanks for your help with Harris. We probably wouldn’t have gotten up there to see him without you along.”

“You think he had anything to do with the murders?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet.”

“I seriously doubt he’s involved.”

Bosch just looked at her, hoping his eyes conveyed that he believed she was treading into areas where she had neither expertise nor a mandate to be.

“We’ll give you a ride back,” he said. “Your car at the Bradbury?”

She nodded. They were crossing the lobby to the doors.

“Detective, I want to be kept apprised of the case and any significant developments.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to Chief Irving in the morning and see how he wants to do that. He might prefer to keep you informed himself.”

“I don’t want the whitewashed version. I want to hear it from you.”

“Whitewashed? You think that whatever I tell you won’t be
white
washed? I’m flattered, Inspector.”

“A poor choice of words. But my point being I would rather hear it from you than after it has been processed by the department’s management.”

Bosch looked at her as he held the door.

“I’ll remember that.”

19

Kiz Rider had run the telephone number from the Mistress Regina web page through the criss-cross directory contained on a CD-ROM in the squad room computer. The phone was assigned to an address on North Kings Road in West Hollywood. This did not mean that the address would be where they would find the woman, however. Most prostitutes, late-night masseuses and so-called exotic entertainers used elaborate call-forwarding systems to make it hard for law enforcement agencies to find them.

Bosch, Rider and Edgar pulled to the curb at the intersection of Melrose and Kings and Bosch used his phone to call the number. A woman answered after four rings. Bosch went into his act.

“Mistress Regina?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Harry. I was wondering if you were available tonight?”

“Have we had a session before?”

“No. I saw your web page and thought . . .”

“Thought what?”

“I thought I might want to try a session.”

“How advanced are you?”

“I don’t under —”

“What are you into?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’d like to try it out.”

“You know there is no sex, right? No physical contact. I play mind games with people. Nothing illegal.”

“I understand.”

“Do you have a secure phone number that I can call you back at?”

“What do you mean secure?”

“I mean no pay phones!” she said harshly. “You have to give me a real number.”

Bosch gave her his cell phone number.

“Okay. I’ll call you back in one minute. Be there.”

“I will.”

“I will ask for three-six-seven. That is you. You are not a person to me. You do not have a name. You are simply a number.”

“Three-six-seven. I understand.”

He closed the phone and looked at his partners.

“We’ll know if it worked in about a minute.”

“You sounded nice and subservient, Harry,” Rider said.

“Thank you. I try my best.”

“You sounded like a cop to me,” Edgar said.

“We’ll see.”

Bosch turned the car on, just to be doing something. Rider yawned and then he had to. Then Edgar joined in.

The phone rang. It was Mistress Regina. She asked for him by number.

“You can come to me in one hour. I require a donation of two hundred dollars for a one-hour session. Cash only and in advance. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Uh, yes, Mistress Regina.”

“That’s very good.”

Bosch looked over at Rider, who was in the front passenger seat, and winked. She smiled back at him.

Regina gave the address and apartment number. Bosch turned the overhead light on and looked over at Rider’s notes. The address he had just been given was the same one Rider had but the apartment number was different. He told Regina he would be there and they ended the call.

“It’s a go. But not for an hour. She uses a different apartment in the same building.”

“We gonna wait?” Edgar asked.

“Nope. I want to get home and get some sleep.”

Bosch turned the car onto Kings Road and cruised a half block up until they found the address. It was a small apartment building made of wood and stucco. There was no parking anywhere so he pulled into a red zone in front of a fireplug and they got out. He didn’t really care if Regina had a front apartment and saw the slickback. They weren’t coming to make an arrest. All they wanted was information.

Apartments six and seven were in the back of the building anyway. Their doors were side by side. Bosch guessed the woman who called herself Mistress Regina lived in one apartment and worked in the other. They knocked on the work door.

And got no answer.

Edgar hit the door again, harder, and this time kicked it a couple times as well. Finally, a voice was heard from the other side.

“What is it?”

“Open up. Police.”

Nothing.

“Come on, Regina, we need to ask you some questions. That’s all. Open the door or we’ll have to break the lock. Then what are you gonna do?”

It was a baseless threat. Bosch knew he had no legal power to do anything if she didn’t want to open her door.

Finally, Bosch heard the locks turning and the door opened to reveal the angry face of the woman Bosch recognized from the photo print he had found in Howard Elias’s office.

“What do you want? Let me see some ID.”

Bosch badged her.

“Can we come in?”

“You’re LAPD? This is West Hollywood, Mister. You’re off your turf.”

She pushed the door closed but Edgar reached a strong arm up and stopped it. He pushed it all the way back open and stepped in, a mean look on his face.

“Don’t you be closing the door on my face, Mistress Regina.”

Edgar said her name in a tone that indicated that he was subservient to no one. Regina stepped back to allow him space to enter. Bosch and Rider followed him in. They stepped into a dimly lit landing with stairs going up and down from it. Bosch looked down the stairs to his left and saw them retreat into complete darkness. The stairs going up led to a lighted room. He moved to them and started up.

“Hey, you can’t just barge in here like this,” Regina said, but the protest was leaving her voice. “You need a warrant.”

“We don’t need anything, Mistress Regina, you invited us in. I’m Harry—or make that three-six-seven. We just talked on the phone, remember?”

She followed them up the stairs. Bosch turned and got his first full look at her. She was wearing a sheer black robe over a leather corset and black silk underwear. She wore black stockings and spike-heeled shoes. Her makeup consisted of dark eye liner and glaring red lipstick. It was a sad caricature of a depressing male fantasy.

“Been a long time since Halloween,” Bosch said. “Who are you supposed to be?”

Regina ignored the question.

“What are you doing here?”

“We have questions. Sit down. I want to show you a picture.”

Bosch pointed to a black leather couch and the woman reluctantly went to it and sat down. He put his briefcase down on the coffee table and opened it. He nodded slightly to Edgar and started looking for the photo of Elias.

“Hey, where’s he going?” Regina cried.

Edgar had moved to another set of stairs that led up to a loft.

“He’s insuring our safety by making sure you don’t have anybody hiding in the closet,” Bosch said. “Now take a look at this picture, please.”

He slid the photo across the table and she looked at it without touching it.

“Recognize him?”

“What is this?”

“Do you recognize him?”

“Of course.”

“He a client?”

“Look, I don’t have to tell you a fucking thing about —”

“IS HE A CLIENT?” Bosch yelled, silencing her.

Edgar came down from the loft and moved across the living room. He glanced into the alcove kitchen, saw nothing that interested him and went down the stairs to the landing. Bosch then heard his steps on the lower staircase as he descended into the darkness below.

“No, he isn’t a client, okay? Now, will you please leave?”

“If he isn’t a client then how do you recognize him?”

“What are you talking about? Haven’t you been watching TV today?”

“Who is he?”

“He’s that guy, the one that got killed on —”

“Harry?”

It was Edgar from below.

“What?”

“I think you ought to come down here a sec.”

Bosch turned to Rider and nodded.

“Take over, Kiz. Talk to her.”

Bosch went down the steps and made the turn in the landing. There was now a glowing red light emanating from the room below. As he came down Bosch saw Edgar was wide-eyed.

“What is it?”

“Check this out.”

As they crossed the room Bosch saw that it was a bedroom. One wall was completely mirrored. Against the opposite wall was a raised hospital-style bed with what looked like plastic sheets and restraints buckled across it. Next to it was a chair and a floor lamp with a red bulb in it.

Edgar led him into a walk-in closet. Another red bulb glowed from the ceiling. There was nothing hanging on the clothes rods running down either side of the closet. But a naked man stood spread-eagled on one side of the closet, his arms up and wrists handcuffed to the clothes rod. The cuffs were gold-plated and had ornate designs on them. The man was blindfolded and had a red ball gag in his mouth. There were red welts caused by fingernail scratches running down his chest. And between his legs a full liter bottle of Coke dangled at the end of a leather strap that was tied in a slipknot around the head of his penis.

“Jesus,” Bosch whispered.

“I asked him if he needed help and he shook his head no. I think he’s her customer.”

“Take the gag out.”

Bosch pulled the blindfold up on the man’s forehead while Edgar pulled out the gag. The man immediately jerked his face to the right and tried to turn away. He moved his arm and tried to use it to block the view of his face, but his cuffed wrist prevented him from hiding. The man was in his mid-thirties with a good build. It seemed as though he could certainly defend himself against the woman upstairs. If he wanted to.

“Please,” he said in a desperate voice. “Leave me alone. I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

“We’re the police,” Bosch said. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. You think if I needed help I wouldn’t ask for it? I don’t need you here. This is completely consensual and nonsexual. Just leave us alone.”

“Harry,” Edgar said, “I think we ought to just step the fuck back out of here and forget we ever saw this guy.”

Bosch nodded and they stepped out of the closet. He looked around the room and saw that the chair had clothes draped over it. He went to them and checked the pockets of the pants. He pulled out the wallet and walked to the floor lamp, where he opened it and studied the driver’s license in the red glow. He felt Edgar come up behind him and look over his shoulder.

“Recognize the name?”

“No, do you?”

Bosch shook his head and closed the wallet. He walked back and returned it to the pocket of the pants.

Rider and Regina were silent as they came back up the steps. Bosch studied Regina and thought he saw a look of pride and a slight smile on her face. She knew that what they had seen down there had shocked them. He glanced at Rider and saw that she, too, had registered the looks on their faces.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Everything’s fine,” he said.

“What is it?”

Bosch ignored the question and looked at the other woman.

“Where are the keys?”

She put a little pout on her face and reached into her bra. Her hand came out with the tiny cuff key and she held it out to him. Bosch took it and handed it to Edgar.

“Go down and cut him loose. If he wants to stay after that, that’s his business.”

“Harry, he said he —”

“I don’t care what he said. I said cut him loose. We aren’t going to leave here with some guy in shackles down there.”

Edgar went down the stairs while Bosch stared at Regina.

“That’s what you get two hundred dollars an hour for?”

“Believe me, they get their money’s worth. And, you know, they all come back for more. Hmm, I wonder what it is about men? Maybe you should try me sometime, Detective. Might be kind of fun.”

Bosch stared a long time before breaking away and looking at Rider.

“What’ve you got, Kiz?”

“Her real name is Virginia Lampley. She says she knows Elias from TV, not as a client. But she says Elias’s investigator was here a few weeks ago, asking questions just like us.”

“Pelfry? What did he ask?”

“A bunch of bullshit,” Regina said before Rider could answer. “He wanted to know if I knew anything about that little girl that was murdered last year. The daughter of the car czar from TV. I told him I didn’t know why the hell he was asking me about that. What would I know about it? He tried to get rough but I got rough right back. I don’t let men fuck with me. He left. I think somebody put you on the same wild goose chase he was on.”

“Maybe,” Bosch said.

There was silence for a moment. Bosch was distracted by what he had seen in the closet. He couldn’t think of what else to ask.

“He’s staying.”

It was Edgar. He came up the stairs and handed the cuff key back to Regina. She took it and made a big production out of returning it to her bra, looking at Bosch all the while.

“All right, let’s go,” Bosch said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a Coke, Detective?” Virginia Lampley asked, a clever smile on her face.

“We’re going,” Bosch said.

They went silently down the steps to the door, Bosch the last in line. On the landing he looked down into the dark room. The glow of the red light was still there and Bosch could see the faint outline of the man sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. His face was in darkness but Bosch could tell the man was looking up at him.

“Don’t worry, Detective,” Regina said from behind him. “I’ll take good care of him.”

Bosch turned and looked at her from the door. That smile of hers was back.