The Harry Bosch Novels Vol Ii Part 71

"Yeah, this is Trindle down on the parking lot," Bosch said. "Is Carbone there?"

"Yes, he is. If you hold a -"

"Just tell him to come down. Somebody busted into his car."

Bosch hung up and waited. In three minutes one of the doors at the rear of the station house opened and a man hurried out. Bosch recognized him from the Archway surveillance tape. Billets had been right on. Bosch put the car in drive and followed along behind the man. Eventually, he pulled up alongside him and lowered the window.

"Carbone."

"Yeah, what?"

He kept walking, barely giving Bosch a glance.

"Slow down. Your car's all right."

Carbone stopped and now looked closely at Bosch.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I made the call. I just wanted to get you out here."

"Who the f.u.c.k are you?"

"I'm Bosch. We talked the other night."

"Oh, yeah. The Aliso caper."

Then it dawned on him that Bosch could have just taken the elevator up to the third floor if he wanted to see him.

"What is this, Bosch? What's going on?"

"Why don't you get in? I want to take a little ride."

"I don't know, man. I don't like the way you're doing this."

"Get in, Carbone. I think you better."

Bosch said it in a tone and with an accompanying stare that invited no choice but compliance. Carbone, who was about forty with a stocky build, hesitated a moment, then walked around the front of the car. He was wearing a nice dark blue suit like most mob cops liked to wear and he filled the car with the smell of a brisk cologne. Right away Bosch didn't like him.

They drove out of the parking lot and Bosch went north toward Broadway. There was a lot of traffic and pedestrians and they moved slowly. Bosch said nothing, waiting for Carbone.

"Okay, so what's so important you have to kidnap me away from the station?" he finally asked.

Bosch drove another block without answering. He wanted Carbone to sweat a little.

"You've got problems, Carbone," he finally said. "I just thought I should tell you. See, I want to be your friend, Carbone."

Carbone looked at Bosch with caution.

"I know I got problems," he said. "I'm paying two different women child support, my house still has cracks in the walls from the earthquake and the union ain't going to get us a raise again this year. So f.u.c.kin' what?"

"Those aren't problems, man. Those are inconveniences. I'm talking about real problems. About the break-in you did the other night over at Archway."

Carbone was silent for a long moment and Bosch wasn't sure but he thought the man was holding his breath.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Take me back."

"No, Carbone, see, that's the wrong answer. I'm here to help you, not hurt you. I'm your friend. And that goes for your boss, Fitzgerald, too."

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay, then I'll tell you what I'm talking about. I called you Sunday night and asked you about my stiff named Aliso. You call me back and tell me not only is OCID taking a pa.s.s, but you never heard of the guy. But as soon as you hang up the phone, you get over to Archway, break into the guy's office and pop the bug you people planted in his phone. That's what I'm talking about."

Bosch looked over at him for the first time and he saw the face of a man whose mind is racing to find a way out. Bosch knew he had him now.

"Bulls.h.i.t, that's what you're talking about."

"Yeah, you dumb f.u.c.k? Next time you decide to do a little breaking and entering, look up. Check for cameras. Rodney King Rule Number One, don't get caught on tape."

He waited a moment to let that sink in and then put the final nails in the coffin.

"You knocked the mug off the desk and broke it. You then dumped it outside hoping n.o.body would notice anything. And one last thing about the rules. If you're going to do a B-and-E in short sleeves, then you ought to get yourself a Band-Aid or somethin' and cover up that tattoo on your arm, know what I mean? That's a slam-bang identifier when you got it on tape. And, Carbone, you're on tape, lots of tape."

Carbone wiped a hand across his face. Bosch turned on Third and they went into the tunnel that runs under Bunker Hill. In the darkness that shrouded the car, Carbone finally spoke.

"Who knows about this?"

"For the moment, just me. But don't get any ideas. Anything happens to me and the tape will get known by a lot of people. But for the moment, I can probably contain it."

"What do you want?"

"I want to know what was going on and I want all the tapes you took off his phone."

"Impossible. Can't do it. I don't have those tapes. It wasn't even my file. I just did what ..."

"What Fitz told you to do. Yeah, I know. But I don't care about that. You go to Fitz or whoever's file it was and get it. I'll go with you if you want or I'll wait out in the car. But we're going back now to get them."

"I can't do it."

What Bosch knew he meant was that he couldn't get the tapes without going to Fitzgerald and telling him how he had so badly messed up the break-in.

"You're going to have to, Carbone. I don't give a s.h.i.t about you. You lied to me and f.u.c.ked with my case. You either get me the tapes and an explanation or this is what I do. I dub off three copies of the surveillance tape. One goes to the chief's office in the Gla.s.s House, one goes to Jim Newton at the Times Times and the last goes over to Stan Chambers at Channel 5. Stan's a good man, he'll know what to do with it. Do you know he's the one who got the Rodney King tape first?" and the last goes over to Stan Chambers at Channel 5. Stan's a good man, he'll know what to do with it. Do you know he's the one who got the Rodney King tape first?"

"Jesus, Bosch, you're killing me!"

"You've got your choice."

The autopsy was being conducted by a deputy coroner named Salazar. He had already started by the time Bosch got to the coroner's office at County-USC Medical Center. They said their perfunctory h.e.l.los and Bosch, garbed in the protective paper body suit and plastic mask, leaned back against one of the stainless counters and just watched. He wasn't expecting much from the autopsy. He had really only come for the bullets and his hope was that one of them would be usable for comparison purposes. It was well known that one reason hitters preferred to use twenty-twos on the job was that the soft bullets often became so misshapen after bouncing around in the braincase that they were worthless for ballistic comparison.

Salazar kept his long black hair in a ponytail that he then wrapped in a larger paper cap. Because he was in a wheelchair, he worked at an autopsy table that was lowered to accommodate him. This gave Bosch an unusually clear vantage point in viewing what was happening to the body.

In years past, Bosch would have maintained an ongoing banter with Salazar while the autopsy proceeded. But since his motorcycle accident, his nine-month medical leave and his return in a wheelchair, Salazar was no longer a cheerful man and rarely engaged in small talk.

Bosch watched as Salazar used a dulled scalpel to sc.r.a.pe a sample of the whitish material from the corners of Aliso's eyes. He placed the material in a paper bindle and put it in a petri dish. He placed the dish on a tray that held a small stand containing the test tubes filled with blood, urine and other samples of body materials to be scanned and tested.

"Think it was tears?" Bosch asked.

"I don't think so. Too thick. He had something in his eyes or on his skin. We'll find out what."

Bosch nodded and Salazar proceeded to open the skullcap and examine the brain.

"The bullets mushed this puppy," he said.

After a few minutes he used a pair of long tweezers to pick out two bullet fragments and drop them in a dish. Bosch stepped over and looked at them and frowned. At least one of the bullets had fragmented upon impact. The pieces were probably worthless for comparison purposes.

Then Salazar pulled out a complete bullet and dropped it in the tray.

"You might be able to work with this one," he said.

Bosch took a look. The bullet had mushroomed on impact but about half the shaft was still intact, and he could see the tiny scratches made when it was fired through the barrel of a gun. He felt a twinge of encouragement.

"This might work," he said.

The autopsy wrapped up in about ten more minutes. Overall, Aliso had gotten fifty minutes of Salazar's time. It was more than most. Bosch checked a clipboard that was on the counter and saw that it was the eleventh autopsy of the day for Salazar.

Salazar cleaned the bullets and put them in an evidence envelope. As he handed it to Bosch, he told the detective that he would be informed of the results of the a.n.a.lysis of the samples retrieved from the body as soon as it was completed. The only other thing that he thought was worth mentioning was that the bruise on Aliso's cheek was antemortem by four or five hours. This Bosch found to be very curious. He didn't know how it fit in. It would mean that someone had roughed Aliso up while he was in Las Vegas, yet he had been killed here in L.A. He thanked Salazar, calling him Sally as many people did, and headed out. He was in the hallway before he remembered something and went back to the door of the autopsy suite. When he stuck his head in, he saw Salazar tying the sheet around the body, making sure the toe tag hung free and could be read.

"Hey, Sally, the guy had hemorrhoids, right?"

Salazar looked back at him with a quizzical look on his face.

"Hemorrhoids? No. Why do you ask?"

"I found a tube of Preparation H in his car. In the glove box. It was half used."

"Hmmm ... well, no hemorrhoids. Not on this one."

Bosch wanted to ask him if he was sure but knew that would be insulting. He let it go for the moment and left.

Details fueled any investigation. They were important and not to be misplaced or forgotten. As he headed toward the gla.s.s exit doors of the coroner's office, Bosch found himself bothered by the detail of the tube of Preparation H found in the glove box of the Silver Cloud. If Tony Aliso hadn't suffered from hemorrhoids, then whom did the tube belong to and why was it in his car? He could dismiss it as probably being unimportant, but that wasn't his way. Everything had its place in an investigation, Bosch believed. Everything.

His deep concentration on this problem caused Bosch to go through the gla.s.s doors and down the stairs to the parking lot before he saw Carbone standing there smoking a cigarette and waiting. When Bosch had dropped him off earlier, the OCID detective had begged for a couple of hours to get the tapes together. Bosch had agreed but hadn't told him that he was heading to an autopsy. So he now a.s.sumed that Carbone had called the bureau in Hollywood and been told by Billets or someone else that he was at the coroner's office. Bosch wouldn't check this with Carbone because he didn't want to show any kind of concern that the OCID detective had so easily found him.

"Bosch."

"Yeah."

"Somebody wants to talk."

"Who? When? I want the tapes, Carbone."

"Cool your jets for a couple minutes. Over here in the car."

He led Bosch to the second parking row, where there was a car with its engine running and its dark-tinted windows all the way up.

"Hop in the back," Carbone said.

Bosch nonchalantly walked to the door, still showing no concern. He opened it and ducked in. Leon Fitzgerald was sitting in the back. He was a tall man-more than six and a half feet-and his knees were pressed hard against the back of the driver's seat. He wore a beautiful suit of blue silk and held the stub of a cigar between his fingers. He was almost sixty and his hair was a jet-black dye job. His eyes, behind steel-rimmed gla.s.ses, were pale gray. His skin was pasty white. He was a night man.

"Chief," Bosch said, nodding.

He had never met Fitzgerald before but had seen him often enough at cop funerals and on television news reports. He was the embodiment of the OCID. No one else from the secretive division ever went on camera.

"Detective Bosch," Fitzgerald said. "I know of you. Know of your exploits. Over the years you have been suggested to me more than once as a candidate for our unit."

"Why didn't you call?"

Carbone had come around and gotten in the driver's seat. He started moving the car slowly through the lot.

"Because like I said, I know of you," Fitzgerald was saying. "And I know you would not leave homicide. Homicide is your calling. Am I correct?"

"Pretty much."

"Which brings us to the current homicide case you are pursuing. Dom?"

With one hand, Carbone pa.s.sed a s...o...b..x over the seat. Fitzgerald took it and put it on Bosch's lap. Bosch opened it and found it full of audioca.s.sette tapes with dates written on tape stuck to the cases.

"From Aliso's phone?" he asked.

"Obviously."

"How long were you on it?"

"We'd only been listening for nine days. It hadn't been productive, but the tapes are yours."

"And what do you want in return, Chief?"

"What do I want?"

Fitzgerald looked out the window, down at the railroad switching yard in the valley below the parking lot.

"What do I want?" he asked again. "I want the killer, of course. But I also want you to be careful. The department's been through a lot these past few years. No need to hang our dirty laundry in public once again."

"You want me to bury Carbone's extracurricular activities."

Neither Fitzgerald nor Carbone said anything but they didn't have to. Everybody in the car knew that Carbone did what he did on orders. Probably orders from Fitzgerald himself.

"Then you've got to answer some questions."