Suicide Run_ Three Harry Bosch Stories - Michael Connelly [6]
But there were also files that contained only questions. Suicides without explanation, involving women who had growing credits and reason to be hopeful about their lives and careers. A few left one- or two-line notes but Bosch could not tell if these were actual suicide notes or possibly lines from auditions or parts they were playing.
Bosch studied the photos, many of which were professional headshots, and the lists of credits. He found nothing in common with Lizbeth Grayson other than that all the women had been young and hopeful. There was no shared acting school or common agent. No showcase play or work as an extra on the same movie. He didn’t see the connections and began to think that maybe Jerry Edgar was right. He was chasing something that wasn’t there.
He was on the second to the last file when Rider spoke up.
“Harry, are you finding anything?”
“No, not yet. And I’m running out of files.”
“What will you do?”
“I have to decide whether to drop it or continue on. If I continue I’ll have to work it on the side. In homicide they call it working a hobby case. You work it when you have the time. The next step is to conduct a field investigation—go out and talk to the people who knew these women, check their apartments, see if anybody has any of their belongings still. I can tell you right now my lieutenant isn’t going to let me go off and do that. I’ll have to work it like a hobby.”
“Who’s the lieutenant in Hollywood? Is that Pounds?”
“Yep. Pounds. He’s not much of an expansive thinker.”
Rider smiled and nodded.
“Look, I’m sorry I wasted your lunch break,” Bosch said.
“Not at all,” she said. “Besides, I’m not finished yet.”
She held up the five remaining files she needed to look through. He smiled and nodded. He liked her confidence. They dropped into silence and dove back into the files.
In ten minutes Bosch was finished with the files and had found nothing that would bump the case up higher than a hobby. He asked Rider if she wanted a cup of coffee but she said no. He got up to get a cup for himself. The cafeteria was thinning out and getting quiet after the lunch rush. When he got back to their table Rider was standing. Bosch thought she had finished and was about to go. But she was standing because she was excited.
“I think I found something,” she said.
Bosch put his coffee down on the table and looked at what she had. She was holding two headshot photographs. They were of two different women.
“This first one is from a case last year,” Rider said. “Her name was Nancy Crowe. Lived on Kester Avenue in Sherman Oaks. This other one is Marcie Conlon. Died five months ago. Also an overdose. Lived up in Whitley Heights.”
“Okay.”
Bosch looked at the headshots. The women had entirely different looks. Crowe had short dark hair and pale white skin. Conlon was blond and tan. Just by looking at the photos Bosch would have guessed that Crowe was a serious actress and Conlon was not. He knew that he was subscribing to a sweeping generalization so it was not something he would say out loud.
“Look,” Rider said.
She put the photos down on the table side by side.
“What’s the same?”
Bosch immediately saw what had been there all along and simply gone unnoticed in his survey of everything contained in the files. In the Crowe photo the subject was posed, looking around the corner of a brick wall. Bosch guessed that she was supposed to look mysterious, the photo showing depth of character and perhaps making up for her not being a knockout beauty. In the Conlon photo the woman was posed with her back leaning against a brick wall. Her pose was meant to be alluring, even sexually intriguing, and it counterposed the soft beauty of her features against the hard brick wall.
“The brick wall,” Bosch said.
Using her finger, Rider pointed out bricks in each photo that were the same. They were either chipped or scuffed in some way that made them unique.