Trunk Music (Harry Bosch, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #6)

by Michael Connelly

Street fighters wore their battle-scarred sticks proudly, as a sign, a not so subtle warning.

Bosch had worked with him on and off for six years but they had never become close outside of the job.

This was the first time it had dawned on Bosch that Edgar actually was an athlete, that he must regularly work out.

Rider was small, five feet and no more than a hundred pounds with her gun on. She would never have made it before the department relaxed the physical requirements to attract more women. She had light brown skin. Her hair was straightened and kept short. She wore jeans and a pink oxford shirt beneath a black blazer.

Rider was marked for travel. Her double minority status coupled with the facts that she was good at what she did and had a guardian angel—Billets wasn’t sure who—at Parker Center practically guaranteed her stay in Hollywood would be short.

“Eight-by-ten case,” Edgar told her. “Celebrity case. Studio case. If that’s a hotshot from the industry in that trunk, somebody from Archway, we’re going to get some media on this. More than some. A dead guy in the trunk of his Rolls is news. A dead industry guy in the trunk of his Rolls is bigger news.”

Mindful that the man in the trunk had to have perished for him to feel this way, Bosch quickly wrote that guilt off. The man would have ended up in the trunk whether Bosch had ever made it back to the homicide table or not.

Matthews wasn’t as territorial as some of the others, and Bosch figured he could convince him to go along with the plan to move the whole package to the print shed.

When they were pulled, the interior was as black as a loan shark’s heart.

The Organized Crime Investigation Division was a secret society within the greater closed society of the department.

“Harry, you want the swag on this?” “Swag?” “Scientific wild ass guess.”

She had risen to detective bureau commander primarily on the success of her skills as an administrator, not as an investigator. She knew when to watch and not get in the way.

He suddenly felt the need to explain his knowledge was not based on personal experience.

He didn’t have the cold eyes of a cop.

The male lead, an actor Bosch had never seen before, was woodenly ineffective in portraying a man desperate to hold on to his young wife, who used sexual frustration and taunting to coerce him into committing crimes, eventually including murder, all for her morbid satisfaction.

Her looks could put a pause in your heart, but she could not act to save her life.

Bosch had never liked Las Vegas, though he came often on cases. It shared a kinship with Los Angeles; both were places desperate people ran to. Often, when they ran from Los Angeles, they came here. It was the only place left. Beneath the veneer of glitz and money and energy and sex beat a dark heart. No matter how much they tried to dress her up with neon and family entertainment, she was still a whore.

It should be no surprise to him that she was out of prison by now.

Las Vegas was like one of the hookers on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. Even happily married men at least glanced their way, if only for a second, just to get an idea what was out there, maybe give them something to think about. Las Vegas was like that. There was a visceral attraction here. The bold promise of money and sex. But the first was a broken promise, a mirage, and the second was fraught with danger, expense, physical and mental risk. It was where the real gambling took place in this town.

He gets them to owe him and then they have to give him a piece of what they have, whether it’s a company that makes paint in Dayton or something else.”

Felton feigned contrition and told Bosch he’d be involved in calling the shots from that moment on. Bosch had to back down after that. He’d gotten what he wanted, at least in the captain’s words. Now he just had to watch that Felton walked the talk.

But Bosch didn’t like being a bystander. That was the real rub and he knew it. He wanted to run the show.

Then, using his elbow to keep Goshen’s chest down on the table, he flicked open the blade of his pocketknife and sawed off the big man’s ponytail. He went back to his seat and when Goshen lifted up, threw the six-inch length of hair on the table in front of him. “Ponytails went out of style at least three years ago, Goshen. You probably didn’t hear about it.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. I don’t want to talk to you, Iverson. I don’t want you to talk to me. You’re a runt. I’ve got no respect for you. Understand? Anybody talks, let him talk.”

The chief could not fire Fitzgerald outright because of civil service protections; and he could not get backing to simply gut and overhaul OCID from the police commission, mayor, or city council members because it was believed that Fitzgerald had thick files on all of them, including the chief.

He was wearing a nice dark blue suit like most mob cops liked to wear and he filled the car with the smell of a brisk cologne.

It was well known that one reason hitters preferred to use twenty-twos on the job was that the soft bullets often became so misshapen after bouncing around in the braincase that they were worthless for ballistic comparison.

In years past, Bosch would have maintained an ongoing banter with Salazar while the autopsy proceeded. But since his motorcycle accident, his nine-month medical leave and his return in a wheelchair, Salazar was no longer a cheerful man and rarely engaged in small talk.

Bosch understood the tremendous leverage he held over Fitzgerald. Word about the illegal wiretap would be all the police chief would need to rid himself of Fitzgerald.

Gregson had been around—long enough to know there was more to what Bosch had said. But he had also been around long enough to let it go for the time being.

“It’s weird, isn’t it, when sometimes you can’t tell the good guys from the bad.”

Once he confided to Bosch that this was because he feared that if he became known as Les Poole, it would only be a matter of time before some smartass cops started calling him Cess Poole.

He looked back at Lieutenant Billets and Captain LeValley from the Hollywood Division and the recognizable faces of Deputy Chief Irvin Irving and an IAD squint named Chastain.

He was known as Sustained Chastain by many in the department.

You, you’re nothing but a fucking rogue cop! We know about you, Bosch, all your baggage.

He knew he had to convince them or he wouldn’t walk out of the room with his badge.

Lieutenant, you’re listening to a desperate man. We don’t have to. Chief Irving, I don’t envy you. You have a problem and you have to do something about it.

He even felt for her and understood that she was in her own bottomless

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.

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.

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.

“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.

Rape victims were the people who evoked the most sadness in Bosch.

Bosch felt his face burn with embarrassment that he’d been caught red-handed with the file and with his growing dislike for the agent.

“Kiz, put that down,” he said. “If you don’t get the chicken pot pie you’re making a mistake.”

I want to try it.

There were three separate chicken pot pies on the tray. The waiter used a fork and spoon to take the top crust off each and put it on a plate. Next he scooped the contents of each pie out and put it on the crust, served the three cops their dishes and put down fresh glasses of iced tea for Edgar and Rider.

Zane was part of the old school who thought all cops were inherently good and though sometimes the job turned them bad, they should not be persecuted by their own.

Bosch nodded. He was almost speechless. He’d never had a boss who wasn’t a rigid by-the-book man. Grace Billets was a major change.

The candy bars he had with him were Hershey’s chocolate with almonds, the same kind he had taken with him into the bush so long ago.