Michael Connelly - Angels Flight

Bosch glanced at Entrenkin.

“Michael, I spent all day with the files. Yes, there are indications that Howard knew who killed Stacey Kincaid but no name was recorded anywhere. Are you sure he never told you a name or gave you any indication of who this person was?”

Harris was momentarily nonplussed. He evidently realized that if Elias went down with the murderer’s name kept to himself, his case might have gone down a few notches as well. He would always carry the stigma of being a murderer who got off because a slick defense lawyer knew how to play a jury.

“Got-damn,” he said.

Bosch came over and sat on the corner of the coffee table, so that he could be close to Harris.

“Think hard,” he said. “You spent a lot of time with him. Who would it be?”

“I don’t know,” Harris said defensively. “Whyn’t you ask Pelfry about it, man?”

“Who is Pelfry?”

“Pelfry’s his leg man. His investigator.”

“You know his whole name?”

“I think it’s somethin’ like Jenks or somethin’.”

“Jenks?”

“Yeah, Jenks. Tha’s what Howard call him.”

Bosch felt a finger poke his shoulder and he turned to see Entrenkin give him a look. She knew who Pelfry was. He could let it go. Bosch stood up and looked down at Harris.

“You came back here last night after you left Elias?”

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

“Anybody with you? You call anybody?”

“What the fuck is this? You’re throwin’ down on me, man.”

“It’s routine. Relax. We ask everybody where they’ve been. Where were you?”

“I was here, man. I was beat. I came home and got in my bed. Ain’t nobody with me.”

“Okay. Mind if I have a look at your pistola for a second?”

“Jesus Christ, I shoulda known you people weren’t on the level. Got-damn.”

He pulled the gun out from the side of the chair cushion and handed it to Bosch. Bosch kept his eyes on Harris’s until the gun was safely in his hand. He then studied the weapon and smelled the barrel. He smelled no oil or burned gunpowder. He ejected the cartridge and thumbed out the top bullet. It was a Federal, full metal jacket. A very popular brand and make of ammunition, Bosch knew, and the same brand used in the Angels Flight murders. He looked back down at Harris.

“You’re a convicted felon, Mr. Harris. You realize it is a crime for you to have this weapon?”

“Not in my house, man. I need protection.”

“Anywhere, I’m afraid. This could send you back to prison.”

Harris smiled at him. Bosch could see one of his incisors was gold with a star etched on the front.

“Then take me away, man.”

He raised his arms, offering his wrists for the handcuffs.

“Take me away and watch this muthafuckin’ place burn, baby, burn.”

“No. Actually I was thinking of cutting you a break, seeing how you’ve been so helpful tonight. But I’m going to have to keep the weapon. I’d be committing a crime if I left it here with you.”

“Be my gues’, Chet. I can always get what I need from my car. Know what I mean?”

He said Chet the way some white people say the word nigger.

“Sure. I know what you mean.”

They waited for the elevator in silence. Once they were inside and descending Entrenkin spoke.

“Does that gun match?”

“It’s the same kind. Ammo’s the same. We’ll have the lab check it, but I sort of doubt he would have kept it around if he killed Elias with it. He’s not that stupid.”

“What about his car? He said he could get anything from his car.”

“He didn’t mean his car car. He meant his crew. His people. Together they’re a car, driving somewhere together. It’s a saying that comes from county lockup. Eight people to a cell. They call them cars. What about Pelfry? You know him?”

“Jenkins Pelfry. He’s a PI. An independent. I think he’s got an office over in the Union Law Center in downtown. A lot of the civil rights lawyers use him. Howard was using him on this.”

“We have to talk to him then. Thanks for telling us.”

There was annoyance in Bosch’s voice. He looked at his watch. He figured it was too late to try to run down Pelfry.

“Look, it’s in the files I gave you,” Entrenkin protested. “You didn’t ask me about it. How was I to know to tell you.”

“You’re right. You didn’t know.”

“If you want, I could put a call – ”

“No, that’s okay. We’ve got it from here, Inspector. Thanks for your help with Harris. We probably wouldn’t have gotten up there to see him without you along.”

“You think he had anything to do with the murders?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet.”

“I seriously doubt he’s involved.”

Bosch just looked at her, hoping his eyes conveyed that he believed she was treading into areas where she had neither expertise nor a mandate to be.

“We’ll give you a ride back,” he said. “Your car at the Bradbury?”

She nodded. They were crossing the lobby to the doors.

“Detective, I want to be kept apprised of the case and any significant developments.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to Chief Irving in the morning and see how he wants to do that. He might prefer to keep you informed himself.”

“I don’t want the whitewashed version. I want to hear it from you.”

“Whitewashed? You think that whatever I tell you won’t be whitewashed? I’m flattered, Inspector.”

“A poor choice of words. But my point being I would rather hear it from you than after it has been processed by the department’s management.”

Bosch looked at her as he held the door.

“I’ll remember that.”

KIZ Rider had run the telephone number from the Mistress Regina web page through the criss-cross directory contained on a CD-ROM in the squad room computer. The phone was assigned to an address on North Kings Road in West Hollywood. This did not mean that the address would be where they would find the woman, however. Most prostitutes, late-night masseuses and so-called exotic entertainers used elaborate call-forwarding systems to make it hard for law enforcement agencies to find them.

Bosch, Rider and Edgar pulled to the curb at the intersection of Melrose and Kings and Bosch used his phone to call the number. A woman answered after four rings. Bosch went into his act.

“Mistress Regina?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Harry. I was wondering if you were available tonight?”

“Have we had a session before?”

“No. I saw your web page and thought…”

“Thought what?”

“I thought I might want to try a session.”

“How advanced are you?”

“I don’t under – ”

“What are you into?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’d like to try it out.”

“You know there is no sex, right? No physical contact. I play mind games with people. Nothing illegal.”

“I understand.”

“Do you have a secure phone number that I can call you back at?”

“What do you mean secure?”

“I mean no pay phones!” she said harshly. “You have to give me a real number.”

Bosch gave her his cell phone number.

“Okay. I’ll call you back in one minute. Be there.”

“I will.”

“I will ask for three-six-seven. That is you. You are not a person to me. You do not have a name. You are simply a number.”

“Three-six-seven. I understand.”

He closed the phone and looked at his partners.

“We’ll know if it worked in about a minute.”

“You sounded nice and subservient, Harry,” Rider said.

“Thank you. I try my best.”

“You sounded like a cop to me,” Edgar said.

“We’ll see.”