Michael Connelly - Trunk Music

“At least they don’t…they don’t get it.”

She started coughing then, a deep wet cough, and Bosch knew her chest was full of blood and it wouldn’t be long before she drowned. He couldn’t think of what to do or say to this woman. He realized they were probably his own bullets in her and that she was dying because they had fucked up and let Powers get away. He almost wanted to ask her to forgive him, to say she understood how things could go so wrong.

He looked away from her and across the lot. He could hear sirens approaching. But he had seen enough gunshot wounds to know she wasn’t going to need the ambulance. He looked back down at her. Her face was very pale and going slack. Her lips moved once more and he bent to listen. This time her voice was no more than a desperate rasp in his ear. He could not understand her words and he whispered in her ear to say it again.

“…et my gergo…”

He turned his head to look at her, the confusion in his eyes. He shook his head. An annoyed expression crossed her face.

“Let,” she said clearly, using the last of her strength. “Let…my daughter go.”

Bosch kept his eyes locked on hers as that last line ran through his mind. Then, without thinking about it, he nodded once to her. And as he watched, she died. Her eyes lost their focus and he could tell she was gone.

Bosch stood up and Rider studied his face.

“Harry, what did she say?”

“She said…I’m not sure what she said.”

Bosch, Edgar and Rider stood leaning against the trunk of Lindell’s car, watching as a phalanx of FBI and Metro people continued to descend on the crime scene. Lindell had ordered the entire shopping center closed and marked off with yellow tape, a move that prompted Edgar to comment, “When these guys throw a crime scene, they really throw a crime scene.”

Each of them had already given a statement. They were no longer part of the investigation. They were merely witnesses to the event and now observers.

The special agent in charge of the Las Vegas field office was on the scene directing the investigation. The bureau had brought in a motor home that had four separate interview rooms in it and agents were taking statements in them from witnesses to the shooting. The bodies were still there, now covered in yellow plastic on the pavement and in the limo. That splash of bright color made for good video for the news helicopters circling overhead.

Bosch had been able to pick up pieces of information from Lindell on how things stood. The ID number on the Cadillac in which Powers had hidden for at least the four hours it was under observation by the FBI was traced to an owner in Palmdale, California, a desert town northeast of Los Angeles. The owner was already on file with the bureau. He was a white supremacist who had held antigovernment rallies on his land the last two Independence Days. He was also known to have sought to contribute to the defense funds of the men charged with bombing the federal courthouse in Oklahoma City two years before. Lindell told Bosch that the SAIC had ordered an arrest warrant for the owner on charges of conspiracy to commit murder for his role in helping Powers. It had been a nice plan. The trunk of the Caddy was lined with a thick carpet and several blankets. The chain and padlock used to hold it closed could be unhooked from the inside. Through rusted-out spots on the fenders and trunk it had been possible for Powers to watch and wait for the right moment to come out, guns ready.

The driller, who it turned out was indeed Maury Pollack, was only too happy to cooperate with the agents. He was just happy he wasn’t one of the ones wearing a yellow plastic blanket. He told Lindell and the others that Joey Marks had picked him up that morning, told him to wear a working-man’s outfit and to bring his drill. He didn’t know what the situation was because there was little talking in the limo on the ride over. He just knew the woman was scared.

Inside the bank Veronica Aliso had presented a bank officer with a copy of her husband’s death certificate, his will and a court order issued Friday in Las Vegas Municipal Court granting her, as sole heir to Anthony Aliso, access to his safe deposit box. Access was approved and the box was drilled because Mrs. Aliso said she had not been able to locate her husband’s key.

The trouble was, Pollack said, when he drilled the box open, they found it was empty.

“Can you imagine that?” Lindell said as he related this information to Bosch. “All of this for nothing. I was hoping to get my hands on that two mil. Of course, we’d’ve split it with L.A. Right down the middle, Bosch.”

“Right,” Bosch said. “Did you look at the records? When was the last time Tony went into his box?”

“That’s another thing. He was just in on Friday. Like twelve hours before they killed him, he went in and cleared the box. He must’ve had a premonition or something. He knew, man. He knew.”

“Maybe.”

Bosch thought about the matchbook from La Fuentes that he had found in Tony’s room at the Mirage. Tony didn’t smoke but he remembered the ashtrays at the house where Layla had grown up. He decided that if Tony had cleared his box out on that Friday and eaten at La Fuentes while he was here, the only likely reason he would have ended up with matches from the restaurant in his room was that he had been at the restaurant with someone who needed them.

“Now the question is, where’s the money?” Lindell said. “We can seize it if we can find it. Ol’ Joey’s not going to need it.”

Lindell looked over at the limo. The door was still open and one of Marconi’s legs stuck out from under the yellow plastic. A powder blue pants leg, a black loafer and white sock. That was all Bosch could see of Joey Marks now.

“The bank people, are they cooperating or do you need a warrant for every move you make?” Bosch asked.

“No, they’re on board. The manager’s in there shaking like a leaf. Not every day you get a massacre outside your front door.”

“Then ask them to check their records and see if there’s a box in there under the name Gretchen Alexander.”

“Gretchen Alexander? Who’s that?”

“You know her, Roy. It’s Layla.”

“Layla? Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You think he’d give that bimbo two million duckets while he goes off and gets himself killed?”

“Just check, Roy. It’s worth a shot.”

Lindell went off toward the bank doors. Bosch looked at his partners.

“Jerry, you going to want your gun back? We should tell them now so they don’t destroy them or file them away forever.”

“My gun?”

Edgar looked at all of the yellow plastic with a pained look on his face.

“No, Harry, I don’t think so. That piece is haunted now. I don’t ever want it back.”

“Yeah,” Bosch said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Bosch brooded about things for a while and then heard his name being called. He turned and saw Lindell beckoning him from the door of the bank. He headed over.

“Bingo,” Lindell said. “She’s got a box.”

They walked back into the bank and Bosch saw several agents conducting interviews with the branch’s stunned employees. Lindell led him to a desk where the branch manager sat. She was a woman of about thirty with brown curly hair. The nameplate on her desk said Jeanne Connors. Lindell picked up a file that was on her desk and showed it to Bosch.

“She has a box here and she made Tony Aliso a signatory on it. He pulled the box at the same time he pulled his own on the Friday before he got nailed. You know what I’m thinking? I think he emptied his and put it all in hers.”

“Probably.”

Bosch was looking at the safe deposit entry records in the file. They were handwritten on a three by five card.