Michael Connelly: Trunk Music

IT WAS THEIR first day on the beach after spending two days almost exclusively in their room. Bosch couldn’t get comfortable on the chaise lounge. He didn’t understand how people did this, just sit in the sun and bake. He was covered with lotion and there was sand caked between his toes. Eleanor had bought him a red bathing suit that he thought made him look foolish and that made him feel like a target. At least, he thought, it wasn’t one of those slingshot things some of the men on the beach were wearing.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. Hawaii was unbelievable. So beautiful it was like a dream. And the women were beautiful, too. Especially Eleanor. She lay beside him on her own lounge. Her eyes were closed and there was a small smile on her face. She wore a one-piece black bathing suit that was cut high on her hips and showed off her tanned and nicely muscled legs.

“What are you looking at?” she said without opening her eyes.

“Nothing. I just…I can’t get comfortable. I think I’m going to take a walk or something.”

“Why don’t you get a book to read, Harry? You have to relax. That’s what honeymoons are about. Sex, relaxation, good food and good company.”

“Well, two out of four isn’t bad.”

“What’s wrong with the food?”

“The food’s great.”

“Funny.”

She reached out and hit him in the arm. Then she, too, propped herself up on her elbows and gazed out at the shimmering blue water. They could see the spine of Molokini rising in the distance.

“It’s so beautiful here, Harry.”

“Yes, it is.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the people walking by at the water’s edge. Bosch brought his legs up, leaned forward and sat with his elbows on his knees. He could feel the sun burning into his shoulders. It was beginning to feel good.

He noticed a woman walking languidly along the edge. She had the attention of every man on the beach. She was tall and lithe and had long brownish-blond hair that was wet from the sea. Her skin was copper and she wore the smallest of bathing suits, just a few strings and triangles of black cloth.

As she passed in front of him, the glare dropped off Bosch’s sunglasses and he studied her face. The familiar lines and tilt of the jaw were there. He knew her.

“Harry,” Eleanor whispered then. “Is that…it looks like the dancer. The girl in that photo you had, the one I saw Tony with.”

“Layla,” Bosch said, not answering her but just to say the name.

“It’s her, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t used to believe in coincidences,” he said.

“Are you going to call the bureau? The money’s probably right here on the island with her.”

Bosch watched the woman moving away. Her back was to him now and from that angle it was almost as if she were naked. Just a few strings from her suit were visible. The glare came back on his glasses at this angle and his vision of her was distorted. She was disappearing in the glare and the mist coming in from the Pacific.

“No, I’m not calling anybody,” he finally said.

“Why not?”

“She didn’t do anything,” he said. “She let some guy give her money. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe she was even in love with him.”

He watched for another moment, thinking about Veronica’s last words to him.

“Anyway, who’s going to miss the money?” he said. “The bureau? The LAPD? Some fat old gangster in a Chicago suburb with a bunch of bodyguards around him? Forget it. I’m not calling anybody.”

He took one last look at her. She was far away now and as she walked she was looking out to sea, the sun holding her face. Bosch nodded to her, but of course she didn’t see this. He then lay back down on the lounge and closed his eyes. Almost immediately he felt the sun begin penetrating his skin, doing its healing work. And then he felt Eleanor’s hand on top of his. He smiled. He felt safe. He felt like nobody could ever hurt him again.