Michael Connelly - Angels Flight

“She the watchdog lady, ’sposed to tell when the LAPD is runnin’ roughshod?”

“That’s her. Hold on.”

Bosch stepped to the side and handed the phone to Entrenkin.

“Tell him he’s safe.”

She took the phone, giving Bosch a look that said she now realized why he allowed her to come along. She spoke into the phone while looking at him.

“Michael, this is Carla Entrenkin. You don’t have to worry. No one is here to harm you. We need to ask you about Howard Elias, that is all.”

If Harris said anything to her Bosch didn’t hear it. The door lock buzzed and Edgar pulled it open. Entrenkin hung up the phone and they all went in.

“The guy’s a mutt,” Edgar said. “I don’t know why we’re treating him like a saint.”

Entrenkin gave Edgar her look then.

“Yes, you do, Detective Edgar.”

Edgar was sufficiently cowed by her tone.

When Harris opened the door of his fourth-floor apartment he was holding a gun at his side.

“A’right, this is my home,” he announced. “I don’t mean to be threatenin’ anybody but I need this for my pers’nal comfort and protection. Otherwise, you ain’t comin’ in the place, know what I mean?”

Bosch looked at the others, got no read, and looked back at Harris. He tried to contain his fury. Despite what Entrenkin had told him earlier, he still had little doubt that Harris was the murderer of a child. But he knew that what was important at the moment was the current investigation. He had to put his enmity for the man aside in order to extract whatever information he had.

“All right,” he said. “But you keep that weapon low and at your side. You point it at one of us and we’re going to have a big problem. We understand each other?”

“Oh, we understand.”

Harris backed away from the door and let them in by pointing the weapon toward the living room.

“Remember, keep that thing down,” Bosch said sternly.

Harris dropped the gun to his side and they all entered. The apartment was furnished with rental stuff – puffy couch and matching chairs in light blue, cheap faux wood tables and shelves. Pastoral prints were on the walls. There was a cabinet with a television in it. The news was on.

“Have a seat, ladies and gentlemen.”

Harris took one of the big chairs, slumping in it so that the back rose above his head, giving him the appearance of sitting on a throne. Bosch stepped over and turned the television off, then introduced everybody and showed his badge.

“It figure the white man in charge,” Harris said.

Bosch ignored it.

“I take it you know that Howard Elias was murdered last night?” he asked.

“Course I know. Been sittin’ here watchin’ it all got-damned day.”

“Then why’d you say you wouldn’t talk to us without your lawyer if you knew your lawyer was dead?”

“I got more than one lawyer, dumbshit. I also got a crim’nal lawyer and I got a entertainment lawyer. I got lawyers, don’t worry. And I’ll get another to take Howie’s place. I’m gonna need ’em, man, ’specially after they start cuttin’ up in South Central. I’mma have my own riot like Rodney. That’ll put me on top.”

Bosch could barely follow Harris’s line of thought but he understood enough to know Harris was on a power trip at his own community’s expense.

“Well, let’s talk about your late lawyer, Howard Elias. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last night, but you already know that, right Chet?”

“Till when?”

“Till we walked out the muthafuckin’ door. Are you throwin’ down on me, man?”

“What?”

“You in-ter-OH-gatin’ me, man?”

“I’m trying to find out who killed Elias.”

“You did that. You people got him.”

“Well, that’s a possibility. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Harris laughed as if what Bosch had said was absurd.

“Yeah, you know that thing they say about the kettle and the pot, that’s what that is.”

“We’ll see. When did you two part company? You and Howard Elias.”

“When he went to his apartment and I went home.”

“Which was when?”

“I don’t know, Chet. Quarter to ’leven, ’leven a’clock. I don’t wear a watch. People tell me the time when I want to know it. They say on the news he got his ass shot at ’leven, so we left quarter of.”

“Had he mentioned any threats? Was he afraid of anyone?”

“He wasn’t afraida shit. But he knew he was a dead man.”

“What do you mean?”

“You people is what I mean. He knew you would come gunnin’ for him someday. Somebody finally did. Prob’ly come for me, too, one day. Tha’s why as soon as I get my money I’m splittin’ this place. All you cops can have it. And tha’s all I got to say, Chet.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because that’s what you are. You’re a Chet, Chet.”

Harris’s smile was a challenge. Bosch held his gaze for a moment, then turned to Entrenkin and nodded. She took it from there.

“Michael, do you know who I am?”

“Sure, I seen ya on the TV. Just like Mr. Elias. I know you.”

“Then you know I am not a police officer. My job is to make sure the police officers in this city are honest and do their jobs the way they should be done.”

Harris snickered.

“You got a lot a work ’head you, lady.”

“I know that, Michael. But the reason I am here is to tell you that I think these three detectives want to do what is right. They want to find the person who killed Howard Elias, whether it is a cop or not. And I want to help them. You should want to help as well. You owe Howard that much. So will you please answer a few more questions?”

Harris looked around the room and at the gun in his hand. It was a Smith amp; Wesson 9 millimeter with a satin finish. Bosch wondered if Harris would have brandished it in front of them if he knew the murder weapon was a nine. Harris shoved the weapon into the crack between the seat cushion and the arm of the big chair.

“Okay, I guess. But not Chet. I don’ talk to white cops or Tom boys. You ask me.”

Entrenkin looked back at Bosch and then back to Harris.

“Michael, I want the detectives to ask the questions. They are better at it than me. But I think it’s okay for you to answer.”

Harris shook his head.

“You don’t unnerstand, lady. Why should I help these fuckers? These people tortured me for no fucking reason. I ain’t got forty percent of my hearing because of the L-A-P-D. I ain’t cop-eratin’. Now if you got a question, then you ask it.”

“Okay, Michael, that’s fine,” Entrenkin said. “Tell me about last night. What did you and Howard work on?”

“We worked on my testimony. Only you know how the cops call it testi-lying on account they never tell the damn truth when it comes to the brothers? Well, I call it my testi-money ’cause the LAPD is going to pay my ass for framin’ me and then fuckin’ with me. Damn right.”

Bosch picked up the questioning as though Harris had never said he wouldn’t speak to him. “Did Howard tell you that?”

“Sure did, Mr. Chet.”

“Did he say he could prove it was a frame?”

“Yeah, ’cause he knew who really done the murder a that little white girl and then put her in the lot near my place. An’ it wudn’t me. He was goin’ to court Monday to start to ’zonerate me completely and get my money, my man Howard.”

Bosch waited a beat. The next question and answer would be crucial.

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Who really did the murder? Did he tell you?”

“Nope. He said I didn’t need to know. Said it was dangerous to know that shit. But I bet it’s in there in his files. He ain’t gonna get away again.”