Michael Connelly: Trunk Music

“So,” Lindell said, “what we do is we get a warrant for her box and drill the sucker-maybe get Maury out there to do it, since he’s being so cooperative. We seize the money and the federal government is that much ahead. You guys’d get a split, too.”

Bosch looked at him.

“You can drill it, if you’ve got the probable cause, but there isn’t going to be anything in it.”

Bosch pointed to the last entry on the box card. Gretchen Alexander had pulled the box herself five days earlier-the Wednesday after Tony Aliso was killed. Lindell stared at it a long moment before reacting.

“Jesus, you think she cleared it out?”

“Yeah, Roy, I do.”

“She’s gone, isn’t she? You’ve been looking for her, haven’t you?”

“She’s in the wind, man. And I guess so am I.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I gave my statement, I’m clear. I’ll see you, Roy.”

“Yeah, okay, Bosch.”

Bosch headed to the door of the bank. As he opened it, Lindell came up behind him.

“But why’d he put it all in her box?”

He was still holding the box card and staring at it as if it might suddenly answer all his questions.

“I don’t know but I’ve got a guess.”

“What’s that, Bosch?”

“He was in love with her.”

“Him? A girl like that?”

“You never know. People can kill each other for all kinds of reasons. I guess they can fall in love with each other for all kinds of reasons. You gotta take it when it comes, no matter if it’s a girl like that or…someone else.”

Lindell just nodded and Bosch stepped through the door.

Bosch, Edgar and Rider took a cab to the federal building and picked up their car. Bosch said he wanted to stop by the house in North Las Vegas where Gretchen Alexander had grown up.

“She isn’t going to be there, Harry,” Edgar said. “Are you kidding?”

“I know she won’t be there. I just want to talk to the old lady for a minute.”

He found the house without getting lost and pulled into the driveway. The RX7 was still there and didn’t look like it had moved.

“This will only take a minute, if you want to stay in the car.”

“I’ll go in,” Rider said.

“I’ll stay and keep the AC going,” Edgar said. “In fact, I’ll drive the first leg, Harry.”

He got out as Bosch and Rider exited and came around and took Bosch’s place behind the wheel.

Bosch’s knock on the front door was answered quickly. The woman had heard or seen the car and was ready.

“You,” she said, looking through the two-inch crack she had allowed in the door. “Gretchen still isn’t here.”

“I know, Mrs. Alexander. It’s you I want to talk to.”

“Me? What on earth for?”

“Would you please let us in? It’s hot out here.”

She opened the door with a resigned look on her face.

“Hot in here, too. I can’t afford to put the thermostat lower than eighty.”

Bosch and Rider entered and moved into the living room. He introduced Rider and all three of them sat down. This time Bosch sat on the edge of the sofa, remembering how he had sunk in last time.

“All right, what’s this about? Why do you want to talk to me?”

“I want to know about your granddaughter’s mother,” Bosch said.

The old woman’s mouth went slack and Bosch could tell Rider wasn’t much less confused.

“Her mother?” Dorothy asked. “Her mother’s long gone. Didn’t have the decency to see her own child through. Never mind her mother.”

“When did she leave?”

“Long time ago. Gretchen wasn’t even out of diapers. She just left me a note saying good-bye and good luck. She was gone.”

“Where’d she go?”

“I have no earthly idea and I don’t want to know. Good riddance, is what I say. She turned her back on that beautiful little girl. Didn’t have the decency to ever call or even send for a picture.”

“How did you know she was even alive?”

“I didn’t. She could be dead all these years for all I know or care.”

She was a bad liar, the type who got louder and indignant when she lied.

“You know,” Bosch said. “She sent you money, didn’t she?”

The woman looked sullenly down at her hands for a long moment. It was her way of confirming his guess.

“How often?”

“Once or twice a year. It wasn’t near enough to make up for what she did.”

Bosch wanted to ask how much would have been enough but let it go.

“How did the money come?”

“Mail. It was in cash. I know it came from Sherman Oaks, California. That was always the postmark. What does this have to do with anything now?”

“Tell me your daughter’s name, Dorothy.”

“She was born to me and my first husband. My name was Gilroy back then and that was hers.”

“Jennifer Gilroy,” Rider said, repeating Veronica Aliso’s true name.

The old woman looked at Rider with surprise but didn’t ask how she knew.

“We called her Jenny,” she said. “Anyway, you see, when I took over with Gretchen I was remarried and had a new name. I gave it to Gretchen so the kids at school wouldn’t bother her about it. Everybody always thought I was her momma and that was fine with the both of us. Nobody needed to know diff’rent.”

Bosch just nodded. It had all come together now. Veronica Aliso was Layla’s mother. Tony Aliso had gone from the mother to the daughter. There was nothing else to ask or say. He thanked the old woman and touched Rider on the back so that she would go through the door first. Out on the front step, he paused and looked back at Dorothy Alexander. He waited until Rider was a few steps toward the car before speaking.

“When you hear from Layla-I mean, Gretchen-tell her not to come home. Tell her to stay as far away from here as she can.”

He shook his head.

“She shouldn’t ever come home.”

The woman didn’t say anything. Bosch waited a couple moments while looking down at the worn welcome mat. He then nodded and headed to the car.

Bosch took the backseat behind Edgar, Rider sat in the front. As soon as they were in the car and Edgar was backing out of the driveway, Rider turned around and looked at Bosch.

“Harry, how did you ever put that together?”

“Her last words. Veronica’s. She said, ‘Let my daughter go.’ I just sort of knew then. There’s a resemblance there. I just didn’t place it before.”

“You’ve never even seen her.”

“I’ve seen her picture.”

“What?” Edgar said. “What’s going on?”

“Do you think Tony Aliso knew who she was?” Rider asked, ignoring Edgar.

“Hard to say,” Bosch said. “If he did, it makes what happened to him easier to understand, easier to take. Maybe he was flaunting it with Veronica. Maybe it’s what sent her over the edge.”

“And Layla-slash-Gretchen?”

Edgar’s head was swiveling back and forth between them and the road, a look of confusion on his face.

“Something tells me she didn’t know. I think if she did, she would have told her grandmother. And the old lady didn’t know.”

“If he was just using her to get to Veronica, why’d he move all the money into her box?”

“He could’ve been using her but he also could’ve been in love with her. We’ll never know. Might’ve just been coincidence that it happened on the day he got killed. He could’ve just transferred the cash because he had the IRS on him. Maybe he was afraid they’d find out about the box and freeze his access to it. It could’ve been a lot of things. But we’ll never know now. Everybody’s dead.”

“Except for the girl.”

Edgar made a hard stop, pulling to the side of the road. Coincidentally, they happened to be across the street from Dolly’s on Madison.