Michael Connelly - Trunk Music

“Will do,” Bosch said.

By markers he knew Matthews meant that if he traced the victim’s last day and found out what he had eaten last and when, the ME could get a better fix on time of death by studying the digestion of food in the stomach.

“He’s all yours,” Bosch said to Matthews. “Any idea on the post?”

“You caught the tail end of a holiday weekend. That’s bad luck for you. Last I heard, we’ve run on twenty-seven homicides in the county so far. We probably won’t cut this one until Wednesday, if you’re lucky. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

But the delay didn’t really bother Bosch this time. In cases like this, the autopsy usually held few surprises. It was pretty clear how the victim died. The mystery was why and by whom.

Matthews and his assistants wheeled the corpse out, leaving Bosch and Donovan alone with the Rolls. Donovan stared at the car silently, contemplating it the way a matador looks at the bull he is going to fight.

“We’re going to get her secrets, Harry.”

Bosch’s phone buzzed then and he fumbled getting it out of his jacket and open. It was Edgar.

“We got the ID, Harry. It is Aliso.”

“You got this off the prints?”

“Yeah. Mossler’s got a fax at home. I sent him everything and he eyeballed it.”

Mossler was one of the SID’s latent-print men.

“This is with the DL thumbprint?”

“Right. Also, I pulled a full set of Tony’s prints from an old pop for soliciting. Mossler had those to look at, too. It’s Aliso.”

“Okay, good work. What else you got?”

“Like I said, I ran this guy. He’s pretty clean. Just the soliciting arrest back in seventy-five. Few other things, though. His name comes up as a victim on a burglary up at his house in March. And on the civil indexes I’ve got a few civil actions against the guy. Breach-of-contract stuff, it looks like. A trail of broken promises and pissed-off people, Harry, good motive stuff.”

“What were the cases about?”

“That’s all I’ve got for now, just the abstracts in the civil index. I’ll have to pull the actual cases when I can get into the courthouse.”

“Okay. Did you check Missing Persons?”

“Yeah, I did. He was never reported. You got anything there?”

“Maybe. We might’ve gotten lucky. Looks like we are going to get some prints off the body. Two sets.”

“Off the body? That’s very cool.”

“Off the leather jacket.”

Bosch could tell Edgar was excited. Both detectives knew that if the prints were not those of a suspect, then they would surely be fresh enough to belong to people who had seen the victim in the time shortly before his death.

“You call OCID?”

Bosch was waiting for him to ask.

“Yeah. They’re taking a pass.”

“What?”

“That’s what they said. At least for now. Until we find something they might be interested in.”

Bosch wondered if Edgar even believed he had made the call.

“That doesn’t figure, Harry.”

“Yeah, well, all we can do is our job. You hear from Kiz?”

“Not yet. Who’d you talk to over at Organized Crime?”

“Guy named Carbone. He was on call.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, neither had I. I gotta go, Jerry. Let me know what you know.”

As soon as Bosch hung up, the door to the shed opened and in stepped Lieutenant Grace Billets. She quickly scanned the room and saw Donovan working in the car. She asked Bosch to step outside and that was when he knew she was unhappy.

She closed the door after he stepped out. She was in her forties and had as many years on the job as Bosch, give or take a couple, but they had never worked together before her assignment as his commanding officer. She was of medium build, with reddish-brown hair she kept short. She wore no makeup. She was dressed entirely in black-jeans, T-shirt and blazer. She also wore black cowboy boots. Her only concession to femininity was the pair of thin gold hoop earrings. Her manner was no concession to anything.

“What’s going on, Harry? You moved the body in the car?”

“Had to. It was either that or dump it out of the car with about ten thousand people watching us instead of the fireworks they were supposed to see.”

Bosch explained the situation in detail and Billets listened silently. When he was done, she nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know the details. It looks like it was your only choice.”

Bosch liked that about her. She wasn’t always right and she was willing to admit it.

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“So what do we have?”

When Bosch and Billets stepped back into the shed, Donovan was at one of the worktables working with the leather jacket. He had hung it on a wire inside an empty one-hundred-gallon aquarium and then dropped in a Hard Evidence packet. The packet, when broken open, emitted cyanoacrylate fumes which would attach to the amino acids and oils of fingerprints and crystallize, thereby raising the ridges and whorls and making them more visible and photo-ready.

“How’s it look?” Bosch asked.

“Real good. We’re going to get something off this. Howdy, Lieutenant.”

“Hello there,” Billets said.

Bosch could tell she didn’t remember Donovan’s name.

“Listen, Art,” he said, “when you get those together, get them over to the print lab and then call me or Edgar and tell us. We’ll get somebody over there to do them code three.”

Code three was a patrol response code meaning lights and siren authorized. Bosch needed the prints to be handled quickly. So far, they were the best lead.

“Will do, Harry.”

“What about the Rolls? Can I get in it yet?”

“Well, I’m not quite through with it. You can go in. Just be careful.”

Bosch began searching the interior of the car, checking the door and seat pockets first and finding nothing. He checked the ashtray and found it empty, not even an ash. He made a mental note that the victim apparently didn’t smoke.

Billets stood nearby, watching but not helping. She had risen to detective bureau commander primarily on the success of her skills as an administrator, not as an investigator. She knew when to watch and not get in the way.

Bosch checked under the seats and found nothing of interest. He opened the glove compartment last and a small square piece of paper fell out. It was a receipt for an airport valet company. Holding it by the corner, Bosch walked it over to the workbench and told Donovan to check it for prints when he got the chance.

He went back to the glove compartment and found the lease agreement and registration of the car, its service records and a small tool kit with a flashlight. There was also a half-used tube of Preparation H, a hemorrhoid medication. It seemed like an odd place to keep it, but Bosch guessed that maybe Aliso kept the tube handy for long drives.

He bagged all of the items from the compartment separately and while doing so noticed an extra battery in the tool kit. It struck him as odd because the flashlight obviously took two batteries. Having one extra would not do much good.

He pressed the flashlight’s on/off switch. It was dead. He unscrewed the cap and one battery slid out. Looking into the barrel, Bosch saw a plastic bag. He used a pen to reach in and pull the bag out. It contained about two dozen brown capsules.

Billets stepped closer.

“Poppers,” Bosch said. “Amyl nitrate. Supposed to help you get it up and keep it there. You know, improve your orgasm.”

He suddenly felt the need to explain his knowledge was not based on personal experience.

“It’s come up in other cases before.”

She nodded. Donovan walked over with the valet ticket in a clear plastic envelope.