Michael Connelly - Angels Flight

“Who’s dead and where’s the search?”

“Dead is Howard Elias, Esquire, and the search is going to be in his office.”

She whistled into the phone and Bosch had to hold it away from his ear.

“Wow,” she said, now fully alert. “This is going to be… well, something. Tell me the general details.”

He did and when he was finished Langwiser, who lived thirty miles north in Valencia, agreed to meet the search team at the Bradbury in one hour.

“Until then, take things very carefully, Detective Bosch, and don’t go into the office until I am there.”

“Will do.”

It was a little thing but he liked her calling him by his title. It was not because she was a good deal younger than he was. It was because so often prosecutors treated him and other cops without respect, as simply tools for them to use whatever way they wanted in prosecuting a case. He was sure Janis Langwiser would be no different as she became more seasoned and cynical, but at least for now she outwardly showed him small nuances of respect.

Bosch disconnected and was about to put the phone away when he thought of something else. He called information again and asked for the home listing for Carla Entrenkin. He was connected to a recording that told him the number was unlisted at the customer’s request. It was what he had expected to hear.

As he crossed Grand Street and California Plaza to Angels Flight, Bosch again tried not to think of Eleanor and where she might be. But it was hard. It hurt his heart when he thought about her being out there somewhere alone, searching for something he obviously couldn’t give her. He was beginning to feel his marriage would be doomed if he didn’t soon figure out what it was she needed. When they had married a year ago, he had found a feeling of contentment and peace that he had never experienced before. For the first time in his life he felt there was someone to sacrifice for – everything if needed. But he had come to the point where he was acknowledging to himself that it was not the same for her. She was not content or complete. And it made him feel awful and guilty and a small bit relieved, all at the same time.

Again he tried to concentrate on other things, on the case. He knew he needed to put Eleanor aside for the time being. He started thinking about the voice on the phone, the condoms hidden in the bathroom cabinet and the bed that had been neatly made. He thought about how Howard Elias could come to have the unlisted home telephone number of Carla Entrenkin in the drawer next to his bed.

RIDER was standing next to a tall black man with graying hair just outside the door to the Angels Flight station house. They were sharing a smile about something when Bosch walked up.

“Mr. Peete, this is Harry Bosch,” Rider said. “He’s in charge of this investigation.”

Peete shook his hand.

“Worst thing I ever saw in m’life. Worst thing.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness this, sir. But I’m glad you are willing to help us out. Why don’t you go in and have a seat inside. We’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

When Peete was inside Bosch looked at Rider. He didn’t have to speak.

“Same as Garwood said. He didn’t hear anything and he didn’t see a lot until the car came up and he went to lock it up for the night. He didn’t see anybody hanging around down there as if they were waiting for anyone, either.”

“Any chance he’s just playing deaf and dumb?”

“My gut says no. I think he’s legit. He didn’t see it or hear it go down.”

“He touch the bodies?”

“No. You mean the watch and wallet? I doubt it was him.”

Bosch nodded.

“Mind if I ask him a couple follow-ups?”

“Be my guest.”

Bosch walked into the little office and Rider followed. Eldrige Peete was sitting at the lunch table, holding the phone to his ear.

“I gotta go, hon,” he said when he saw Bosch. “The policeman wants to talk to me.”

He hung up.

“My wife. She’s wondering when I’m coming home.”

Bosch nodded.

“Mr. Peete, did you go into the train after you saw the bodies in there?”

“No, sir. Uh, they looked pretty dead to me. I saw a lot of blood. I thought I should leave it all alone for the authorities.”

“Did you recognize either of those people?”

“Well, the man I couldn’t rightly see, but I thought it might be Mr. Elias just on account of the nice suit and how he looked. Now, the woman, I recognized her, too. I mean, I didn’t know her name or nothin’ but she got on the train a few minutes before and went on down.”

“You mean she went down first?”

“Yes, sir, she went down. She also a regular like Mr. Elias. ’Cept she ride maybe only one time a week. On Fridays, like last night. Mr. Elias, he ride more.”

“Why do you think she went down the hill but didn’t get off the train?”

Peete stared at him blankly, as if surprised by such an easy question.

“ ’Cause she got shot.”

Bosch almost laughed but kept it to himself. He wasn’t being clear enough with the witness.

“No, I mean before she was shot. It seems as though she never got up. As if she was on the bench and had been waiting to go back up when the shooter arrived behind the other passenger who was getting on.”

“I surely don’t know what she was doing.”

“When exactly did she go down?”

“The ride right before. I sent Olivet down and that lady was on it. This was five, six minutes to ’leven. I sent Olivet down and I just let her sit down there till ’leven and then I brought her up. You know, last ride. When she came up, those people were dead on there.”

Peete’s apparent ascribing of the female gender to the train was confusing to Bosch. He tried to make it clear.

“So you sent Olivet down with the woman on it. Then five, six minutes later she is still on the train car when you bring it up. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“And during that five or six minutes that Olivet was sitting down there, you weren’t looking down there?”

“No, I was counting the money outta the register. Then when it was ’leven ’clock I went out and locked up Sinai. Then I brought Olivet on up. That’s when I found them. They were dead.”

“But you didn’t hear anything from down there? No shots?”

“No, like I told the lady – Miss Kizmin – I wear earplugs on account of the noise underneath the station. Also, I was countin’ the money. It’s mostly all quarters. I run ’em through the machine.”

He pointed to a stainless-steel change counter next to the cash register. It looked like the machine put the quarters into paper rolls containing ten dollars. He then stamped his foot on the wood floor, indicating the machinery below. Bosch nodded that he understood.

“Tell me about the woman. You said she was a regular?”

“Yeah, once a week. Fridays. Like maybe she have a little job up here in the apartments, cleanin’ or somethin’. The bus runs down there on Hill Street. I think she caught it down there.”

“And what about Howard Elias?”

“He a regular, too. Two, three times a week, all different times, sometimes late like last night. One time I was locking up and he was down there callin’ up to me. I made a ’ception. I brought him up on Sinai. I was bein’ nice. At Christmastime he gave me a little envelope. He was a nice man, ’membering me like that.”

“Was he always alone when he rode the train?”

The old man folded his arms and thought about this for a moment.

“Mostly, I think.”

“You remember him ever being with somebody else?”

“I think one or two times I remember him bein’ with somebody. I can’t rightly remember who it was.”