The Harry Bosch Novels Vol Ii Part 60

II

Bosch fell asleep a few minutes after belting himself into a window seat on the Southwest shuttle from Burbank to Las Vegas. It was a deep, dreamless sleep and he didn't wake until the clunk of the landing gear hitting the tarmac jolted him forward. As the plane taxied to its gate he came out of the fog and felt himself re-energized by the hour-long rest.

It was high noon and 104 degrees when he walked out of the terminal. As he headed toward the garage where his rental car was waiting, he felt his newfound energy being leached away by the heat. After finding his car in its a.s.signed parking stall, he put the air-conditioning on high and headed toward the Mirage.

Bosch had never liked Las Vegas, though he came often on cases. It shared a kinship with Los Angeles; both were places desperate people ran to. Often, when they ran from Los Angeles, they came here. It was the only place left. Beneath the veneer of glitz and money and energy and s.e.x beat a dark heart. No matter how much they tried to dress her up with neon and family entertainment, she was still a wh.o.r.e.

But if any place could sway him from that opinion it was the Mirage. It was the symbol of the new Las Vegas, clean, opulent, legit. The windows of its tower glinted gold in the sun. And inside no money had been spared in its rich casino design. As Bosch walked through the lobby he was first mesmerized by the white tigers in a huge gla.s.sed-in environment that any zookeeper in the world would salivate over. Next, as he waited in line to check in, he eyed the huge aquarium behind the front desk. Sharks lazily turned and moved back and forth behind the gla.s.s. Just like the white tigers.

When it was Bosch's turn to check in, the desk clerk noticed a flag on his reservation and called security. A day-shift supervisor named Hank Meyer appeared and introduced himself. He said that Bosch would have the complete cooperation of the hotel and casino.

"Tony Aliso was a good and valued customer," he said. "We want to do what we can to help. But it's highly unlikely that his death had anything to do with his stay here. We run the cleanest ship in the desert."

"I know that, Hank," Bosch said. "And I know it is a reputation you don't want blemished. I'm not expecting to find anything inside the Mirage, but I need to go through the motions. So do you, right?"

"Right."

"Did you know him?"

"No, I didn't. I've been on day shift the entire three years I've been here. From what I understand, Mr. Aliso primarily gambled at night."

Meyer was about thirty and had the clean-cut image that the Mirage, and now all of Las Vegas, wanted to present to the world. He went on to explain that the room Aliso had last stayed in at the hotel was sealed and was being held that way for Bosch's inspection. He gave Bosch the key and asked that he return it as soon as he was finished with the room. He also said the poker pit dealers and sports book clerks who worked the night shift would be made available for interviews. All of them knew Aliso because of his regular visits.

"You have an eye in the sky over the poker tables?"

"Uh, yes, we do."

"You have video from Thursday going into Friday? I'd like to see it if you do."

"That won't be a problem."

Bosch made arrangements to meet Meyer at the second-floor security office at four. That was when the casino shifts changed and the dealers who knew Aliso would report for work. He could look at the surveillance tape from the poker pit's overhead camera then as well.

A few minutes later, alone in his room, Bosch sat on the bed and looked around. The room was smaller than he had expected but it was very nice, by far the most comfortably appointed room he had ever seen in Las Vegas. He pulled the phone off the side table onto his lap and called the Hollywood Division to check in. Edgar picked up the line.

"It's Bosch."

"Well, the Michelangelo of murder, the Rodin of homicide."

"Funny. So what's going on over there?"

"Well, for one thing, Bullets won the battle," Edgar said. "n.o.body from RHD has come around to s.n.a.t.c.h the case."

"That's good. What about you? You making any progress?"

"I almost have the murder book up to speed. I have to put it aside now, though. The screenwriter is coming in at one-thirty for a sit-down. Says he doesn't need a lawyer."

"Okay, I'll leave you to it. Tell the lieutenant I checked in."

"Yeah, and by the way, she wants another confab on how things are going at six. You should call in and we'll put you on the speaker."

"Will do."

Bosch sat on the bed a few moments wishing he could lie back on it and sleep. But he knew he couldn't. He had to drive the case forward.

He got up and unpacked his overnighter, hanging his two shirts and one pair of pants in the closet. He put his extra underwear and socks on the closet shelf, then left the room and took an elevator to the top floor. The room Aliso had used was at the end of the corridor. The card key Meyer had given him worked without a problem and he stepped into a room about twice the size of his own. It was a combination bedroom and sitting room and had an oval Jacuzzi next to the windows that looked out across the expanse of the desert and the smooth cocoa-colored mountain chain to the northwest of the city. Directly below was a view of the pool and the hotel's porpoise-habitat attraction. Looking down, he could see one of the gray fish moving beneath the shimmering water. It looked as out of place as Bosch felt in the suite he stood in.

"Dolphins in the desert," he said out loud.

The room was plush by any standards in any city and obviously was kept for high rollers. Bosch stood by the bed for a few moments and just looked around. There was nothing that seemed out of place and the thick carpet had the uniformed waves left by a recent vacuuming. He guessed that if there had been anything of evidentiary value in the room it was gone now. But still he went through the motions. He looked under the bed and in the drawers. Behind the bureau he found a matchbook from a local Mexican restaurant called Las Fuentes, but there was no telling how long it had been there.

The bathroom was tiled in pink marble floor to ceiling. The fixtures were polished bra.s.s. Bosch looked around for a moment but saw nothing of interest. He opened the gla.s.s door to the shower stall and looked in and also found nothing. But as he was closing the door his eyes caught on something on the drain. He reopened the door and looked down, then pressed his finger on the tiny speck of gold caught in the rubber sealant around the drain fitting. He raised his finger and found the tiny piece of glitter stuck to his finger. He guessed that it was a match to the pieces of glitter found in the cuffs of Tony Aliso's pants. Now all he needed was to figure out what they were and where they had come from.

The Metro Police Department was on Stewart Street in downtown. Bosch stopped at the front desk and explained he was an out-of-town investigator wanting to make a courtesy check-in with the homicide squad. He was directed to the third-floor detective bureau, where a desk man escorted him through a deserted squad room to the commander's office. Captain John Felton was a thick-necked, deeply tanned man of about fifty. Bosch figured he had probably given the welcome speech to at least a hundred cops from all over the country in the last month alone. Las Vegas was that kind of place. Felton asked Bosch to sit down and he gave him the standard spiel.

"Detective Bosch, welcome to Las Vegas. Lucky for you I decided to come in on the holiday to take care of some of this paperwork that haunts me. Otherwise, there'd be n.o.body here. Anyway, I hope you find your stay enjoyable and productive. If there is anything you need, don't hesitate to call. I can promise you nothing, but if you request something that is within my power to provide, I will be more than happy to provide it. So, that out of the way, why don't you tell me what brings you here?"

Bosch gave him a quick rundown on the case. Felton wrote down the name Tony Aliso and the last days he was known to have stayed in Las Vegas and where.

"I'm just trying to run down his activities on the days he was here."

"You think he was followed from here and then taken off in L.A.?"

"I don't think anything at the moment. We don't have evidence of that."

"And I hope you won't find any. That's not the kind of press we want to get in L.A. What else you got?"

Bosch pulled his briefcase onto his lap and opened it.

"I've got two sets of prints taken off the body. We-"

"The body?"

"He was wearing a treated leather jacket. We got the prints with the laser. Anyway, we ran them on AFIS, NCIC, California DOJ, the works, but got nothing. I thought maybe you'd run them through your own computer, see what happens."

While the Automated Fingerprint Identification System used by the LAPD was a computer network of dozens of fingerprint databases across the country, it didn't connect them all. And most big-city police departments had their own private databases. In Vegas they would be prints taken from people who applied for jobs for the city or the casinos. They were also prints taken from people on the sly, prints the department shouldn't legally have because their owners had simply fallen under the suspicion of the department but had never been arrested. It was against this database that Bosch was hopeful Felton would check the sets from the Aliso case.

"Well, let me see what you have," Felton said. "I can't promise anything. We've probably got a few that the national nets don't, but it's a long shot."

Bosch handed over print cards Art Donovan had prepared for him.

"So you are starting at the Mirage?" the captain asked after he put the cards to the side of his desk.

"Yeah. I'll show his picture around, go through the motions, see what I can come up with."

"You're telling me everything you know, right?"

"Right," Bosch lied.

"Okay." Felton opened a desk drawer and took out a business card and handed it over to Bosch. "That's got my office and pager on it. Call me if anything comes up. I've got the pager with me at all times. Meantime, I'll get back to you about the prints, one way or the other, by tomorrow morning."

Bosch thanked him and left. In the lobby of the police station he called the SID office at LAPD and asked Donovan if he'd had time to check out the tiny pieces of glitter they had found in the cuffs of Tony Aliso's pants.

"Yeah, but you aren't going to like it," Donovan said. "It's just glitter. Tinted aluminum. You know, like they use in costuming and in celebrations. Your guy probably went to a party or something, they were throwing this stuff around, maybe popping it out of party favors or something, and some of it got on him. He could brush off what he could see, but he didn't see the particles that fell into the cuffs of his pants. They stayed."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Uh, no. Not on the evidence at least."

"Then on what?"

"Well, Harry, you know the guy from OCID that you were talking on the phone with last night while we were in the shed?"

"Carbone?"

"Yeah, Dominic Carbone. Well, he dropped by the lab today. He was asking questions about what we found last night."

Bosch's vision darkened. He said nothing and Donovan continued.

"He said he was here on something else and was just acting curious. But, Harry, I don't know. It seemed more than just a pa.s.sing interest, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. How much did you tell him?"

"Well, before I caught on and started wondering what was going on, I sort of let slip we pulled prints off the jacket. Sorry, Harry, but I was proud. It's rare that we pull righteous prints off a dead guy's jacket, and I guess I was sort of braggin' about it."

"It's okay. You tell him we didn't get anything with them?"

"Yeah, I said they came back clean. But then ... then he asked for a copy of the set, said he might be able to do something with them, whatever that means."

"What did you do?"

"What do you think, I gave him a set."

"You what?"

"Just kidding, Harry. I told him to call you if he wanted a set."

"Good. What else you tell him?"

"That's it, Harry."

"Okay, Art, it's cool. I'll check you later."

"See you, Harry. Hey, where are you, anyway?"

"Vegas."

"Really? Hey, put down a five for me on seven on the roulette wheel. Do it one time. I'll pay you when you get back. Unless I win. Then you pay me."

Bosch got back to his room forty-five minutes before his appointment with Hank Meyer. He used the time to shower, shave and change into one of his fresh shirts. He felt refreshed, ready to go back into the desert heat.

Meyer had arranged to have the sports book clerks and dealers who worked the poker pit on the previous Thursday and Friday evening shifts to be interviewed one at a time in his office. There were six men and three women. Eight were dealers and one was the clerk Aliso always placed his sports bets with. During any shift, the poker dealers rotated around the casino's six poker tables every twenty minutes. This meant that all eight had dealt cards to Aliso during his last visit to Las Vegas, and by virtue of his regular trips to the casino, they readily recognized him and knew him.

With Meyer sitting by watching, Bosch quickly moved through the interviews with the poker dealers in an hour. He was able to establish that Aliso usually played the five-to-ten table. This meant each hand started with a five-dollar ante and each deal carried a minimum bet of five dollars and a maximum of ten. Three raises were allowed per deal. Since the game was seven card stud, that meant there were five deals per hand. Bosch quickly realized that if a table was full with eight players, each hand could easily result in several hundred dollars being at stake in the pot. Aliso was playing in a league far removed from the Friday night poker games Bosch had partic.i.p.ated in with the d.i.c.ks from the detective bureau.

According to the dealers, Aliso had played for about three hours on Thursday night and had come out about even. He played another two hours early Friday evening, and it was estimated that he left the tables a couple thousand short. None of them recalled Aliso ever being a big winner or loser during previous visits. He always came out a few thousand light or heavy. He seemed to know when to quit.

The dealers also noted that Aliso was always quick with the gratuity. His standard tip was ten dollars in chips for every win, a twenty-five chip on particularly big pots. It was that practice more than anything else that endeared him to their memories. He always played alone, drank gin and tonic and small-talked with the other players. In recent months, the dealers said, Aliso had been in the company of a young blond woman, barely into her twenties. She never played but would work the slots nearby and come back to Tony when she needed more money. Tony never introduced her to anybody and none of the dealers ever overheard her name. In his notebook, where Bosch jotted this down, he wrote "Layla?" after this entry.

After the dealers came Aliso's favorite sports book clerk. She was a mousy-looking bottle-blonde named Irma Chantry. She lit a cigarette as soon as she sat down and talked in a voice that indicated she had never gone long without a smoke. She said that on both of the last two nights Aliso had been in town he had bet on the Dodgers.

"He had a system," she said. "He always doubled up until he won."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, that first night he put a grand down on the Dodgers to win. They lost. So the next day he comes in and puts down two big ones on them again. They won. So after you take out the casino vig, he was almost a grand up for the trip. Except he never picked it up."

"He didn't collect?"

"Nope. But that's not unusual. His chit was good as long as he kept it. He could come in anytime and we'd stick it in the computer. It'd happened before. He'd win but he wouldn't collect until the next time he was in town."

"How do you know he didn't take it to another clerk?"

"Tony wouldn't do that. He always cashed out with me, that way he could tip me. He always said I was his lucky charm."

Bosch thought a moment. He knew the Dodgers had played at home Friday night and Aliso's plane left Las Vegas at ten. Therefore, it was a pretty safe bet that Aliso had to be at McCarran International or already on his plane heading back to L.A. before the game was over. But there was no betting receipt found in his wallet or on his person. Harry considered the missing briefcase again. Would it have been in there? Could a betting slip worth four thousand dollars minus the vig be motive for his murder? It seemed unlikely, but still, it was something to pursue. He looked at Irma, who was drawing so hard on her cigarette that he could see the outline of her teeth on her cheeks.

"What if somebody else cashed the bet? With another clerk. Is there any way to tell that?"

Irma hesitated and Meyer broke in.

"There's a good chance," he said. "Each receipt is coded with a clerk number and time the bet was placed."

He looked at Irma.

"Irma, you remember taking very many two-thousand-dollar bets on the Dodgers on Friday?"

"Nope, not a one, other than Tony's."

"We'll get on it," Meyer said to Bosch. "We'll start going through the cashed receipts going back to Friday night. If Mr. Aliso's bet was cashed, then we'll know when it was cashed and we'll have video of who cashed it."

Bosch looked at Irma again. She was the only one of the casino employees he had talked to who had referred to Aliso by his first name. He wanted to ask her if there was something more than a gambling relationship between them. But he knew that it was likely that employees were forbidden by the casino to date or fraternize with the guests. He couldn't ask her in front of Meyer and expect a straight reply. He made a mental note to track Irma down later and then excused her from the interview.