Michael Connelly - Trunk Music

When he was done Bosch stuck his head in Felton’s office. The captain was on the phone. Bosch just mock-saluted him and was gone.

Back in the rental car, Edgar and Bosch decided to go over to the jail and make arrangements for the custody transfer before trying to find Layla.

The jail was next to the courthouse. A discharge sergeant named Hackett gave the detectives a rudimentary rundown on how and where Goshen would be delivered to them. Since it was after five and the shifts had changed, Bosch and Edgar would be dealing with a different sergeant in the morning. Still, it made Bosch feel more comfortable seeing the routine ahead of time. They would be able to put Goshen into their car in an enclosed and safe loading-dock area. He felt reasonably sure that there wouldn’t be trouble. At least not there.

With directions from Hackett, they drove into a middle-class neighborhood in North Las Vegas and found the house where Goshen had once dropped Layla off. It was a small bungalow-style house with an aluminum awning over each window. There was a Mazda RX7 parked in the carport.

An older woman answered the door. She was mid-sixties and well preserved. Bosch thought he could see some of the photo of Layla in her face. Bosch held his badge up so she could see it.

“Ma’am, my name is Harry Bosch and this is Jerry Edgar. We’re over from Los Angeles and we are looking for a young woman we need to talk to. She’s a dancer and goes by the name Layla. Is she here?”

“She doesn’t live here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do, ma’am, and I’d appreciate it if you’d help us out.”

“I told you, she’s not here.”

“Well, we heard she’s staying here with you. Is that right? Are you her mother? She’s tried to contact me. There’s no reason for her to be afraid or to not want to talk to us.”

“I’ll tell her that if I see her.”

“Can we come in?”

Bosch put his hand on the door and firmly but slowly started to push it open before she could reply.

“You can’t just…”

She didn’t finish. She knew what she was going to say would be meaningless. In a perfect world the cops couldn’t just push their way in. She knew it wasn’t a perfect world.

Bosch looked around after he entered. The furnishings were old, having to last a few more years than they were intended to and she probably thought they would have to when she bought them. It was the standard couch and matching chair setup. There were patterned throws on each, probably to cover the wear. There was an old TV, the kind with a dial to change the channels. There were gossip magazines spread on a coffee table.

“You live here alone?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said indignantly, as if his question was an insult.

“When was the last time you saw Layla?”

“Her name’s not Layla.”

“That was my next question. What is her name?”

“Her name’s Gretchen Alexander.”

“And you are?”

“Dorothy Alexander.”

“Where is she, Dorothy?”

“I don’t know and I didn’t ask.”

“When’d she leave?”

“Yesterday morning.”

Bosch nodded to Edgar and he took a step back, turned and headed down a hallway leading to the rear of the house.

“Where’s he going?” the woman asked.

“He’s just going to take a look around, that’s all,” Bosch said. “Sit down here and talk to me, Dorothy. Faster we get this over with, the faster we’re out of here.”

He pointed to the chair and remained standing until she finally sat. He then moved around the coffee table and sat on the couch. Its springs were shot. He sank so low in it that he had to lean forward and even then it felt like his knees were halfway up to his chest. He got out his notebook.

“I don’t like him messing around in my things,” Dorothy said, looking back over her shoulder toward the hallway.

“He’ll be careful.” Bosch took out his notebook. “You seemed to know we were coming. How’d you know that?”

“I know what she told me, is all. She said the police might come. She didn’t say anything about them coming all the way from Los Angeles.”

She said Angeles with a hard G.

“And you know why we’re here?”

“Because of Tony. She said he went and got himself killed over there.”

“Where did Gretchen go, Dorothy?”

“She did not tell me. You can ask me all the times you like but my answer’s always going to be the same. I don’t know.”

“Is that her sports car in the carport?”

“Sure is. She bought it with her own money.”

“Stripping?”

“I always said money was the same whether it was made one way or the next.”

Edgar came in then and looked at Bosch. Harry nodded for him to report.

“Looks like she was here. There’s a second bedroom. Ashtray on the nightstand’s full. There’s a space on the rod in the closet where it looks like somebody had hung up some clothes. They’re gone now. She left this.”

He held his hand out and cradled in his palm was a small oval picture frame with a photograph of Tony Aliso and Gretchen Alexander. They had their arms around each other and were smiling at the camera. Bosch nodded and looked back at Dorothy Alexander.

“If she left, why’d she leave her car here?”

“Don’t know. A taxi came for her.”

“Did she fly?”

“How could I know that if I don’t know where she was going?”

Bosch pointed a finger at her like a gun.

“Good point. Did she say when she’d be back?”

“No.”

“How old is Gretchen?”

“She’ll be twenty-three.”

“How’d she take the news about Tony?”

“Not well. She was in love and now her heart’s broken. I’m worried about her.”

“You think she might do something to hurt herself?”

“I don’t know what she might do.”

“Did she tell you she was in love, or did you just think that?”

“I just didn’t think it up, she told me. She confided in me and it was the truth. She said they were going to get married.”

“Did she know Tony Aliso was already married?”

“Yes, she knew. But he told her, he said that it was over and it was just a matter of time.”

Bosch nodded. He wondered if it was the truth. Not the truth that Gretchen might have believed, but the truth that Tony Aliso believed. He looked down at the blank page of his notebook.

“I’m trying to think if there is anything else,” he said. “Jerry?”

Edgar shook his head, then spoke.

“I guess I’d just like to know why a mother would let her daughter do that for a living. Taking her clothes off like that.”

“Jerry, I-”

“She has a talent, mister. Men came from all over the country and when they see her they keep coming back. Because of her. And I’m not her mother. I might as well have been, her own went and left her with me a long time ago. But she has a talent and I’m not talking to you two anymore. Get out of my house.”

She stood up, as if ready to physically enforce her edict if she needed to. Bosch decided to let her have her say and stood up, putting his notebook away.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he said as he dug a business card out of his wallet. “If you hear from her, would you give her this number? And tonight she can get me at the Mirage again.”

“I’ll tell her if I hear from her.”

She took the card and followed them to the door. On the front step Bosch looked back at her and nodded.

“Thanks, Mrs. Alexander.”

“For what?”

They were quiet for a while driving back to the Strip. Eventually, Bosch asked Edgar what he thought of the interview.

“She’s a crusty old bitch. I had to ask that question. Just to see how she’d react. Other than that, I think this Layla or Gretchen is just a dead end. Just some stupid girl Tony was leading on. You know, it’s usually the strippers that are working the angles. But this time I think it was Tony.”