Michael Connelly: Angle of Investigation: Three Harry Bosch Stories

The third report was the same, with the exception of the method of entry. This time, with the back door fortified, the burglar or burglars cut through the composite roof and dropped down. The lock on the display case was picked and the shelves emptied for the third time.

The losses from the three burglaries averaged out to $40,000 a hit. Servan had insurance-though Bosch assumed the premiums were ever increasing. Most of the items stolen were sale items, meaning their original owners had let the pawn period lapse and ownership now belonged to Servan.

Braxton walked out of the back hallway and came to the homicide table.

“Yeah, he recognizes him,” he said. “Said he came into the store a couple days ago. Looked at some of the coins in the case.”

“He ever see him before that?”

“He thinks so but can’t be sure.”

“Anybody else work in that shop besides him?”

“No, he’s a one-man show. Six days a week, nine to six. Your average hardworking immigrant story.”

Bosch leaned back in his chair and combed one side of his mustache with his thumb. He didn’t say anything. After a few moments Braxton got tired of waiting.

“Harry, what else you need from me?”

Bosch didn’t look up at him.

“Um, can you go back in there and ask him about the case?”

“The case? You mean the display cabinet?”

“Yeah, ask him if he’s sure he locked it every time. On all the burglaries.”

He could tell Braxton was still waiting by the table.

“What?”

“What am I? The errand boy here?”

“No, Brax, you’re the guy he trusts. Go ask him the question.”

Bosch waited, stroking his mustache and thinking. Braxton wasn’t long.

“He said he absolutely locks that case. Even when he’s open for business it’s locked. He only unlocks it to put something in or take something out. Then he relocks it, every time. He keeps the key with him, all the time. There are no copies.”

“So then our guy used picks.”

“Looks that way.”

Bosch nodded.

“Um, one more thing, Brax. The saxophone. He has to keep pawn records, right?”

“He has to keep them and we get copied as well. The pawn detail. They compare pawn inventories to stolen-property reports. You know, look for matches.”

Bosch reached over and lifted the saxophone off the desk.

“So then how can I find out who pawned this?”

Braxton seemed mildly taken aback.

“What’s it got to do with all of this?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. But I want to find out who pawned it.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. The guys in the detail keep everything separated by store.wited by s In shoeboxes. They could just look through the box for Three Kings. Depending on how far back they go, it might be in there.”

“What would work better, if you call them or I call them?”

“They’re not going to like it either way, but let me take a crack at it.”

“Thanks, man.”

Bosch looked at his watch. It was almost noon.

“And tell them we’d like to hear back on it today.”

“I’ll tell them but I doubt they’ll make any promises. It’s Christmas Eve, Harry. People are trying to get home early.”

“Just tell them it’s important.”

“To you or the case?”

Bosch didn’t answer and eventually Braxton went back to his desk to make the call. Bosch looked through the three burglary reports again. When he finished he got up and went down the back hallway to the interview rooms. Instead of going into 3, where Servan was, he went into 4 and looked through the mirrored glass at the pawnbroker. He was sitting at the table with his arms folded and his eyes closed. He was either sleeping or meditating. Maybe both.

He left the room and went back to the homicide table. He sat down and picked up the saxophone again. He liked handling it, the feel and weight of it in his grasp. Knowing that the instrument could produce a sound that echoed all the sadness and hope of humanity gave him pause. Again, he remembered the day on the ship. Sugar Ray bobbing and weaving through “The Sweet Spot” and a few other tunes. Bosch fell in love with the sound that day. It felt like it had come from somewhere deep within himself. He was not the same after that day.

He came out of the memory and walked over to a shelf that ran above the row of file cabinets. He took down one of the forensics manuals and turned to the index. He found what he wanted and went to the page. He was sitting down, reading the manual, when his cell phone chirped and he dug it out of his pocket. It was Edgar.

“Harry, they’re about to clear here. You want me to come in?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, what are we doing?”

“There was nothing with the body, right? No tools, no picks?”

“That’s right. I already told you.”

“I just read through the reports from the three priors. That display case was hit each time. It was picked. Servan said it was always locked.”

“Well, we got no lock picks here, Harry. I guess whoever moved the body took the picks.”

“It was Servan.”

Edgar was quiet and then said, “Why don’t you run it down for me, Harry.”

Bosch thought for a moment before speaking.

“He’d been hit three times in two years. Every time the high-end case was picked. It’s hard to work a set of picks with gloves on. Servan probably knew that the one time this guy took off his gloves was to work the picks. Steel picks going into a steel lock.”

“If he put a hundred ten volts into that lock, it could’ve shut this guy’s heart down.”

“Not necessarily. I’ve been sitting here reading one of the manuals. One-ten can stop your heart, but it all depends on the amps. There’s a formula. It has to do with resistance to the charge. You know, like dry skin versus moist skin, things like that.”

“This guy just took his glove off. He probably had sweaty hands.”

“Exactly. So if the resistance was low and Servan had somehow rigged a one-ten line going directly into that lock, then the initial jolt could have contracted the muscles and left our burglar unable to let go of the pick. The juice goes through him, hits the heart and the heart goes into V-fib.”

“Ventricular fibrillation is a natural cause, Harry.”

“Not when you use one-ten to get it.”

“Then we’re talking more than just homicide. This is lying in wait.”

“The DA can decide all of that. We just have to bring in the facts.”

“By the way, how’d you know to take off his sock and look for the exit burn?”

“The burns on his fingers. I saw them and just took a shot.”

“Well, I’d say you hit the bull’s-eye, partner.”

“Got lucky. So now you have to get into that case and find out how he wired it. Did SID leave?”

“They’re still packing up.”

“Tell them to take the case as evidence.”

“The whole case? It’s ten feet long.”

“Tell them to take it with them. You go with it. The case is the key. And tell them to be careful with it.”

“They’re going to have to get a Special Services truck out here.”

“Whatever. Call them now. Get it done.”

Bosch closed the phone and got up from his desk. He went down the hallway past the watch office to the locker rooms. He bought two packages of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine. He opened one and ate all the squares while he was walking back to the detective bureau. He put the other package in his coat pocket for later. He stopped once on the way back to get a drink from the water fountain.

Braxton was waiting for him at the homicide table with a sheet of paper in his hand.

“You got lucky,” he told Bosch as he approached. “The guy pawned that saxophone two years ago but they still had the slip.”