Майкл Коннелли - The Night Fire [Harry Bosch - 22]

“Same here. What’s your e-mail? I’ll send you the first video. You send me back yours and then I’ll send you our second. Deal?”

“Deal.”

After disconnecting, Ballard uploaded the video from Mako’s that showed the suspect buying the bottle of Tito’s and using the ATM. On the e-mail to Kenworth, she wrote Black Widow in the subject line because that was the name Ballard had come up with for the dark-haired, darkly dressed version of the suspected killer.

Kenworth carried his telephone manners into his e-mail etiquette: after a half hour, Ballard had received nothing in return from the Las Vegas detective. She was beginning to feel she had been ripped off and was about to call him when a return e-mail came in with the Black Widow subject line. It had two videos labeled CLEO1 and CLEO2 attached. The only message in the e-mail said: “The car in CLEO2 was stolen, set on fire in Summerland.”

Ballard downloaded and watched the videos.

The first was a camera trail that showed a man in a Jimmy Buffett shirt playing blackjack at a high-roller table at the Cleopatra. Ballard assumed he was the victim-to-be. The woman sitting next to him was not playing any hands. She had long and full blond hair that appeared to be a wig. Its thick bangs acted like a visor, shielding her downward-tilted face from camera capture.

The man cashed in his chips, then the camera angles changed as the couple left the table and headed to the elevator reserved for tower suites. The woman kept her head down and away from any camera. She carried what appeared to be a large white overnight bag slung over one of her shoulders and she was wearing black parachute pants and a halter top. The last capture shown on the video was the couple in the elevator, the 42 button on the panel glowing as they rode up. The time stamp on the elevator shot showed them getting off on the forty-second floor at 01:12:54 and then the video ended.

Ballard went to CLEO2. This video began with the elevator camera and a time stamp of 01:34:31 and showed a woman getting aboard on the forty-second floor. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that totally obscured her face. Only a small fringe of black hair could be seen going down her back. She was wearing black slacks, blouse, and sandals. The overnight bag strapped over her shoulder was black but had the same dimensions as the one seen in the CLEO1 video.

The woman got off the elevator at the casino level and the cameras followed her through the vast gaming space and out the doors to a parking garage. She walked down a parking aisle, got into a silver Porsche SUV, and drove away.

Thanks to Kenworth’s message, Ballard knew the fate of the Porsche.

Ballard reversed the video and watched the woman walk down the parking aisle again. She noted the gait was slightly intoed.

“Black Widow,” Ballard whispered.

Making good on her deal, she uploaded the video from Grand Park and sent it to Kenworth with a message:

It’s the same woman in your videos. Three 187s now. We need to talk.

After sending it, she realized 187 might not be the penal code number for murder in Nevada. She also realized that not only did Vegas Metro and LAPD need to talk, but LAPD needed to talk among themselves. The case had reached a point where she needed to bring Olivas up to date and put the need for interagency cooperation with Vegas on his plate.

But before she did that she had to tell her own partner.

Ballard called Bosch and he picked up immediately. But his voice was drowned out by the background noise of traffic and a blaring siren. She managed to hear him yell, “Hold on.”

She waited as he apparently rolled up the windows of his car and put in earbuds.

“Renée?”

“Harry, where are you? What’s going on?”

“Heading to Bunker Hill behind an RA. Clayton Manley just went down thirty-two floors without an elevator.”

“Oh, shit. He jumped?”

“That’s what they’re saying. Who knows? RHD is taking it. Gustafson and Reyes. I’m heading there, see what I can find out.”

“Listen, Harry, be careful. This thing is coming together. I’ve been talking to Vegas Metro. They have a case over there, a murder. They sent video and it’s our girl. The Black Widow.”

“That’s what they call her?”

“No, actually, I called her that when I sent them our videos.”

“What’s the case over there?”

“Mob-related. Some OC guy from Miami checked into the Cleopatra but didn’t check out. It was a suicide setup — like he swallowed a bullet. But they have him on video going up to the room with the Black Widow. Then she comes down, different wig, different look. But she has the walk. It’s her. I’m sure.”

There was a silence, but with Bosch, Ballard was used to it.

“Fake suicide,” he finally said.

“Like with Manley,” Ballard said. “But why is RHD taking it if it’s a suicide — supposedly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe what I’ve been telling Reyes made them put Manley back on their radar. I was in the middle of telling him how they’d missed Manley when he got the call. Anyway, I’m pulling in. I’m going to see if I can get up to the firm.”

“Harry, she could be up there. Or at least still in the vicinity.”

“I know.”

“Well, if they felt the need to get rid of Manley, they might feel the same about you. You’re the one who went in there and stirred things up.”

“I know.”

“So don’t go in. Just wait for me there. I’m on my way.”

Bosch pulled to the curb just past the art museum on Grand. He unlocked the glove compartment and took out two things: a small six-shot pistol in a belt-clip holster and an old LAPD ID tag he was supposed to have turned in upon his retirement but claimed he had lost.

He now clipped the gun to his belt and put the ID in his coat pocket. He put the Jeep’s flashers on and got out. Walking past the museum toward California Plaza, he saw Gustafson and Reyes standing at the open trunk of their unmarked car, getting out equipment they would need for their investigation. Bosch cut a path to them. Gustafson saw him coming.

“What are you doing here, Bosch?” he said. “You’re not LAPD, you’re not wanted.”

“You guys wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me,” Bosch said. “You would be—”

“For the record, Bosch, I still think you are full of shit,” Gustafson said. “So you can go now. Bye-bye.”

Gustafson slammed the trunk of the car to underline Bosch’s dismissal.

“You’re not listening to me,” Bosch said. “This is no suicide and the hitter could still be in that building.”

“Right. Orlando just told me all about your lady hitter. That’s a good one.”

“Then why are you here, Gustafson? Since when does RHD roll on suicides?”

“This guy takes a dive, his name comes up in our case, we get the call. A waste of my fucking time.”

Gustafson walked by him and headed toward the scene in the plaza. Reyes dutifully followed and didn’t say a word to Bosch.

Bosch watched them go and then surveyed the area. There was a crowd at the far end of the building, where Bosch could see men in security uniforms creating a perimeter around a blue canvas tarp that had been used to cover the body of Clayton Manley. The EMTs from the rescue ambulance were heading that way, and Gustafson and Reyes weren’t far behind them. Even from a distance Bosch could see that the blue tarp was just a few feet from the building.

There was nothing routine about suicides, but Bosch knew from his years on the job that jumpers usually propelled themselves away from the structure they dropped from. There were always the “step-offs,” but that method was not as precise or as final as the jump-off. Buildings often had architectural parapets, window-washing scaffolds, awnings, and other features that could interfere with a straight drop. The last thing a suicidal individual wanted was to have a fall broken and to bounce down the side of a building, possibly being left at the bottom alive.