Michael Connelly - Trunk Music

“I’ve got a gun, you fuckers!”

Bosch stood stock-still and stared at the tarp. Because it was draped over the long branch of an acacia tree, he was in a blind spot. He could not see whoever it was who had yelled. And the man who yelled probably couldn’t see him. Bosch decided to take a chance.

“I’ve got one, too,” he called back. “And a badge.”

“Police? I didn’t call the police!”

There was a hysterical tinge to the voice now, and Bosch suspected he was dealing with one of the homeless wanderers who were dumped out of mental institutions during the massive cutbacks in public assistance in the 1980s. The city was teeming with them. They stood at almost every major intersection holding their signs and shaking their change cups, they slept under overpasses or burrowed like termites into the woods on the hillsides, living in makeshift camps just yards from million-dollar mansions.

“I’m just passing through,” Bosch yelled. “You put down yours, I’ll put down mine.”

Bosch guessed that the man behind the scared voice didn’t even have a gun.

“Okay. It’s a deal.”

Bosch unsnapped the holster under his arm but left his gun in place. He walked the final few steps and came slowly around the trunk of the acacia. A man with long gray hair and beard flowing over a blue silk Hawaiian shirt sat cross-legged on a blanket under the tarp. There was a wild look in his eyes. Bosch quickly scanned the man’s hands and the surroundings within his immediate reach and saw no weapon. He eased up a bit and nodded at the man.

“Hello,” he said.

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“I understand.”

Bosch looked around. There were folded clothes and towels under the shelter of the tarp. There was a small folding card table with a frying pan on it along with some candles and Sterno cans, two forks and a spoon, but no knife. Bosch figured the man had the knife under his shirt or maybe hidden in the blanket. There was also a bottle of cologne on the table, and Bosch could tell that it had been liberally sprinkled about the shelter. Also under the tarp were an old tar bucket filled with crushed aluminum cans, a stack of newspapers and a dog-eared paperback copy of Stranger in a Strange Land.

He stepped to the edge of the man’s clearing and squatted like a baseball catcher so they could face each other on the same level. He took a look around the outer edge of the clearing and saw that this was where the man discarded what he didn’t need. There were bags of trash and remnants of clothing. By the base of another acacia there was a brown-and-green suit bag. It was unzipped and lying open like a gutted fish. Bosch looked back at the man. He could see he wore two other Hawaiian shirts beneath the blue one on top, which had a pattern of hula girls on surfboards. His pants were dirty but had a sharper crease in them than a homeless man’s pants would usually have. His shoes were too well polished for a man of the woods. Bosch guessed that the pair he wore had made some of the prints up on the trail, the ones with the sharp-edged heels.

“That’s a nice shirt,” Bosch said.

“It’s mine.”

“I know. I just said it was nice. What’s your name?”

“Name’s George.”

“George what?”

“George whatever the hell you want it to be.”

“Okay, George whatever the hell you want it to be, why don’t you tell me about that suit bag over there and those clothes you’re wearing? The new shoes. Where did it all come from?”

“It was delivered. It’s mine now.”

“What do you mean by delivered?”

“Delivered. That’s what I mean. Delivered. They gave it all to me.”

Bosch took out his cigarettes, took one and offered the pack to the man. He waved them away.

“Can’t afford it. Take me half a day to find enough cans to buy a pack of smokes. I quit.”

Bosch nodded.

“How long you been livin’ up here, George?”

“All my life.”

“When did they kick you out of Camarillo?”

“Who told you that?”

It had been an educated guess, Camarillo being the nearest state institution.

“They did. How long ago was that?”

“If they told you about me, then they would’ve told you that. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“You got me there, George. About the bag and the clothes, when was it all delivered?”

“I don’t know.”

Bosch got up and went over to the suit bag. There was an identification tag attached to the handle. He turned it over and read Anthony Aliso’s name and address. He noticed the bag was lying on top of a cardboard box that was damaged from a tumble down the hill. Bosch tipped the box with his foot and read the markings on the side.

Scotch standard HS/T-90 VHS 96-count

He left the box and the suit bag there and went back to the man and squatted again.

“How’s last Friday night sound for the delivery?”

“Whatever you say is good.”

“It’s not what I say, George. Now if you want me to leave you alone and you want to stay here, you’ve got to help me. If you go into your nut bag, you’re not helping me. When was it delivered?”

George tucked his chin down on his chest like a boy who’d been chastised by a teacher. He brought a thumb and forefinger up and pressed them against his eyes. His voice came out as if it were being strangled with piano wire.

“I don’t know. They just came and dropped it off for me. That’s all I know.”

“Who dropped it off?”

George looked up, his eyes bright, and pointed upward with one of his dirty fingers. Bosch looked up and saw a patch of blue sky through the upper limbs of the trees. He blew out his breath in exasperation. This wasn’t going anywhere.

“So little green men dropped it down from their spaceship, is that right, George? Is that your story?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know if they were green. I didn’t see them.”

“But you saw the spaceship?”

“Nope. I didn’t say that, neither. I didn’t see their craft. Only the landing lights.”

Bosch looked at him a moment.

“Perfect size,” George said. “They got an invisible beam that measures you from up there, you don’t even know it, then they send down the clothes.”

“That’s great.”

Bosch’s knees were beginning to ache. He stood up and they painfully cracked.

“I’m getting too old for this shit, George.”

“That’s a policeman’s line. I watched ‘Kojak’ when I had the house.”

“I know. Tell you what, I’m going to take this suit bag with me, if you don’t mind. And the box of videotapes.”

“Help yourself. I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t have no video machine, either.”

Bosch walked toward the box and bag, wondering why they had been discarded and not just left in the Rolls. After a moment he decided they must have been in the trunk. And in order to make room for Aliso in there, the killers had yanked them out and thrown them down the hill out of sight. They were in a hurry. It was the kind of decision made in haste. A mistake.

He picked up the suit bag by a corner, careful not to touch the handle, though he doubted there would be any prints on it other than George’s. The box was light but bulky. He would have to make a second trip for it. He turned and looked at the homeless man. He decided not to ruin his day yet.

“George, you can keep the clothes for now.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

As he climbed back up the hill to the road, Bosch was thinking about how he should declare the area a crime scene and call out SID to process everything. But he couldn’t do that. Not without announcing he had been continuing an investigation he had been ordered away from.