Michael Connelly - Trunk Music

“It’s late,” he said. “This is not the time. I want you to understand, though, that investigations like this often shoot off into many directions. But we have to follow up on everything. We’re going to need to come in here tomorrow and go through your husband’s things. We’ll probably take a lot with us. We’ll have a warrant so everything will be perfectly legal.”

“Yes. Of course. But can’t I just give you permission to take what you need?”

“You could, but it would be better this way. I’m talking about check books, savings account records, credit card statements, insurance, everything. We’ll probably need the records on your household account, too.”

“I understand. What time?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll call first. Or someone will. Do you know, did your husband leave a will?”

“Yes. Both of us made wills. They’re with our attorney.”

“How long ago was that?”

“The will? Oh, a long time. Years.”

“In the morning, I’d like you to call the attorney and tell him we’ll need a copy of it. Are you up to doing that?”

“Of course.”

“What about insurance?”

“Yes, we have policies. The attorney, Neil Denton in Century City, will have them also.”

“Okay, we’ll worry about that tomorrow. I need to seal this room now.”

They stepped back into the hallway and Bosch closed the door. From his briefcase he took a sticker that said

CRIME SCENE

DO NOT ENTER PREMISES

CALL LAPD 213 485-4321

Bosch pressed the sticker across the door jamb. If anyone entered the room now, they would have to cut the sticker or peel it off. Bosch would know.

“Detective?” Veronica Aliso said quietly from behind him.

Bosch turned around.

“I am the suspect, aren’t I?”

Bosch put the two papers he had peeled off the back of the sticker in his pocket.

“I suppose everyone and no one is a suspect at this point. We’re looking at everything. But, yes, Mrs. Aliso, we’re going to be looking at you.”

“I guess I shouldn’t have been so candid before, then.”

Rider said, “If you’ve got nothing to hide, the truth shouldn’t hurt you.”

Bosch knew from long experience never to say such a thing. He knew the words were false before they were out of her mouth. Judging by the small, thin smile on Veronica Aliso’s face, she knew it as well.

“Are you new at this, Detective Rider?” she asked while looking at Bosch with that smile.

“No, ma’am, I’ve been a detective for six years.”

“Oh. And I guess I don’t have to ask Detective Bosch.”

“Mrs. Aliso?” Bosch asked.

“Veronica.”

“There is one last thing you could clear up for us tonight. We do not know yet exactly when your husband was killed. But it would help us concentrate on other matters if we could quickly eliminate routine avenues of-”

“You want to know if I have an alibi, is that it?”

“We just want to know where you were the last few days and nights. It’s a routine question, nothing else.”

“Well, I hate to bore you with my life’s details, because I’m afraid that’s what they are, boring. But other than a trip to the mall and supermarket Saturday afternoon, I haven’t left the house since I had dinner with my husband Wednesday night.”

“You’ve been here alone?”

“Yes…but I think you can verify this with Captain Nash at the gate. They keep records of who comes in as well as out of Hidden Highlands. Even the residents. Also, on Friday our pool man was here in the afternoon. I gave him his check. I can get you his name and number.”

“That won’t be necessary right now. Thank you. And again, I’m sorry for your loss. Is there anything we can do for you right now?”

She seemed to be withdrawing into herself. He was not sure she had heard his question.

“I’m fine,” she finally said.

He picked up his briefcase and headed down the hallway with Rider. It ran behind the living room and took them directly to the front door. All the way along the hallway there were no photographs on the wall. It didn’t seem right to him, but he guessed nothing had been right in this house for a while. Bosch studied dead people’s rooms the way scholars studied dead people’s paintings at the Getty. He looked for the hidden meanings, the secrets of lives and deaths.

At the door Rider went out first. Bosch then stepped out and looked back down the hall. Veronica Aliso was framed at the other end in the light. He hesitated for a beat. He nodded and walked out.

They drove in silence, digesting the conversation, until they got to the gatehouse and Nash came out.

“How’d it go?”

“It went.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Mr. Aliso.”

“Yeah.”

Nash whistled quietly.

“Captain Nash, you keep records here of when cars come in and out?” Rider asked.

“Yes. But this is private property. You’d need a-”

“Search warrant,” Bosch said. “Yes, we know. But before we go to all that trouble, tell me something. Say I come back with a warrant, are your gate records going to tell me when exactly Mrs. Aliso came in and out of here the last few days?”

“Nope. It’ll only tell you when her car did.”

“Gotcha.”

Bosch dropped off Rider at her car and they drove separately down out of the hills to the Hollywood Division station on Wilcox. On the way Bosch thought about Veronica Aliso and the fury she seemed to hold in her eyes for her dead husband. He didn’t know how it fit or if it even fit at all. But he knew they would be coming back to her.

Rider and Bosch stopped briefly in the station to update Edgar and pick up cups of coffee. Bosch then called Archway and arranged for the security office to call in Chuckie Meachum from home. Bosch did not tell the duty officer who took the call what it was about or what office inside the studio they would be going to. He just told the officer to get Meachum there.

At midnight they went out the rear door of the station house, past the fenced windows of the drunk tank and to Bosch’s car.

“So what did you think of her?” Bosch finally asked as he pulled out of the station lot.

“The embittered widow? I think there wasn’t much to their marriage. At least at the end. Whether that makes her a killer or not, I don’t know.”

“No pictures.”

“On the walls? Yeah, I noticed that.”

Bosch lit a cigarette and Rider didn’t say anything about it, although it was a violation of department policy to smoke in the detective car.

“What do you think?” Rider asked.

“I’m not sure yet. There’s what you said. The bitterness you could almost put in a glass if you ever ran out of ice. Couple other things I’m still thinking about.”

“Like what?”

“Like all the makeup she had on and the way she took my badge out of my hand. Nobody’s ever done that before. It’s like…I don’t know, like maybe she was waiting for us.”

When they got to the entrance of Archway Pictures, Meachum was standing under the half-size replica of the Arc de Triomphe smoking a cigarette and waiting. He was wearing a sport coat over a golf shirt and had a bemused smile on his face when he recognized Bosch pulling up. Bosch had spent time with Meachum in the Robbery-Homicide Division ten years before. Never partnered, but they worked a few of the same task forces. Meachum had gotten out when the getting out was good. He pulled the pin a month after the Rodney King tape hit the news. He knew. He told everybody it was the beginning of the end. Archway hired him as the assistant director of security. Nice job, nice pay, plus he was pulling in the twenty-year pension of half pay. He was the one they talked about when they talked about smart moves. Now, with all the baggage the LAPD carried-the King beating, the riots, the Christopher Commission, O.J. Simpson and Mark Fuhrman-a retiring dick would be lucky if a place like Archway hired him to work the front gate.