Michael Connelly - The Last Coyote

She drove north on the main highway toward Sarasota. Traffic moved slowly. After about fifteen minutes and maybe two miles, the Town Car took a left on Vamo Road and then almost immediately took a right on a private road camouflaged by tall trees and green growth. Bosch was only ten seconds behind her. As he came up to the drive, he slowed but didn’t turn in. He saw a sign set back in the trees.

Welcome To

PELICAN COVE

Condominium Homes, Dockage

The Town Car passed by a guard shack with a red-and-white-striped gate arm coming down behind it.

“Shit!”

Bosch hadn’t anticipated anything like a gated community. He assumed that such things were rare outside of Los Angeles. He looked at the sign again, then turned around and headed out to the main road. He remembered seeing another shopping plaza right before he had turned on to Vamo.

There were eight homes in Pelican Cove listed in the For Sale section of the Sarasota Herald-Tribune, but only three were for sale by owner. Bosch went to a pay phone in the plaza and called the first one. He got a tape. On the second call the woman who answered said her husband was golfing for the day and she felt uncomfortable showing the property without him. On the third call, the woman who answered invited Bosch to come over right away and even said she’d have fresh lemonade prepared when he got there.

Bosch felt a momentary pang of guilt about taking advantage of a stranger who was just trying to sell her home. But it passed quickly as he considered that the woman would never know she had been used in such a way, and he had no other alternative for getting to McKittrick.

After he was cleared at the gate and got directions to the lemonade lady’s unit, Bosch drove through the densely wooded complex, looking for the silver Town Car. It didn’t take him long to see that the complex was mostly a retirement community. He passed several elderly people in cars or on walks, almost all of them with white hair and skin browned by the sun. He quickly found the Town Car, checked his location against the map given to him at the guard shack and was about to make a cursory visit to the lemonade lady to avoid suspicion. But then he saw another silver Town Car. It was a popular car with the older set, he guessed. He took out his notebook and checked the plate number he had written down. Neither car had been the one he had followed earlier.

He drove on and finally found the right Town Car in a secluded spot in the far reaches of the complex. It was parked in front of a two-story building of dark wood siding surrounded by oak and paper trees. It looked to Bosch as if there were six units in the building. Easy enough, he thought. He consulted the map and got back on course to the lemonade lady. She was on the second floor of a building on the other side of the complex.

“You’re young,” she said when she answered the door.

Bosch wanted to say the same thing back to her but held his tongue. She looked like she was in her mid- to late thirties, which put her three decades behind anyone Bosch had seen around the complex so far. She had an attractive and evenly tanned face framed in brown shoulder-length hair. She wore blue jeans, a blue oxford shirt and a black vest with a colorful pattern in the front. She didn’t bother with much makeup, which Bosch liked. She had serious green eyes, which he also didn’t disagree with.

“I’m Jasmine. Are you Mr. Bosch?”

“Yes. Harry. I just called.”

“That was quick.”

“I was nearby.”

She invited him in and started the rundown.

“It’s three bedrooms, like the paper said. Master suite has a private bath. Second bath off the main hall. The view is what makes the place, though.”

She pointed Bosch toward a wall of sliding glass doors that looked out on a wide expanse of water dotted with mangrove islands. Hundreds of birds perched in the branches of these otherwise untouched islands. She was right, the view was beautiful.

“What is that?” Bosch asked. “The water.”

“That’s-you’re not from around here, are you? That’s Little Sarasota Bay.”

Bosch nodded while computing the mistake he had made by blurting out the question.

“No, I’m not from around here. I’m thinking of moving here though.”

“Where from?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard. A lot of people are bailing out. Because the ground won’t stop shaking.”

“Something like that.”

She led him down a hallway to what must have been the master suite. Bosch was immediately struck by how the room didn’t seem to fit this woman. It was all dark and old and heavy. A mahogany bureau that looked like it weighed a ton, matching bedside tables with ornate lamps and brocaded shades. The place smelled old. It couldn’t be where she slept.

He turned and noticed on the wall next to the door an oil painting that was a portrait of the woman standing next to him. It was a younger likeness of her, the face much gaunter, more severe. Bosch was wondering what kind of person hangs a painting of herself in her bedroom when he noticed that the painting was signed. The artist’s name was Jazz.

“Jazz. Is that you?”

“Yes. My father insisted on hanging that in here. I actually should have taken it down.”

She went to the wall and began to lift the painting off.

“Your father?”

He moved to the other side of the painting to help her.

“Yes. I gave this to him a long time ago. At the time I was thankful he didn’t hang it out in the living room where his friends would see it but even here is a little too much.”

She turned the painting so the back faced outward and leaned it against the wall. Bosch put together what she had been saying.

“This is your father’s place.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve just been staying here while the ad ran in the paper. You want to check out the master bath? It has a Jacuzzi tub. That wasn’t mentioned in the ad.”

Bosch moved closely by her to the bathroom door. He looked down at her hands, a natural instinct, and saw no rings on any of her fingers. He could smell her as he passed and the scent he picked up was the same as her name: Jasmine. He was beginning to feel some kind of attraction to her but wasn’t sure if it was the titillation of being there under false pretenses or an honest pull. He was exhausted, he knew, and decided that was it. His defenses were down. He gave the bathroom a quick once-over and stepped out.

“Nice. Did he live here alone?”

“My father? Yes, alone. My mother died when I was little. My father passed away over Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. What else can I tell you?”

“Nothing. I was just curious about who had been living here.”

“No. I mean, what else can I tell you about the condo?”

“Oh, I…nothing. It’s very nice. I’m still in the looking-around stage, I guess, not sure what I’m going to do. I-”

“What are you really doing?”

“Excuse me?”

“What are you doing here, Mr. Bosch? You’re not looking to buy a condo in here. You’re not even looking at the place.”

There was no anger in her voice. It was a voice full of the confidence she had in reading people. Bosch felt himself turning red. He had been found out.

“I’m just…I’m just here to look at places.”

It was a terribly weak comeback and he knew it. But it was all he could think of to say. She sensed his predicament and let him off the hook.

“Well, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. Do you want to see the rest of the place?”

“Yes-uh, well, did you say it was three bedrooms? That’s really too big for what I’m looking for.”

“Yes, three. But it said that in the newspaper ad, too.”

Luckily, Bosch knew he probably couldn’t get any redder than he already was.