Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [125]
“I know. You think you could have your assistant dub off a copy of the protocol for me?”
“No problem. I heard the FBI took an interest in the case, Harry. Is that true?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Funny thing, those agents didn’t bother talking to me. They just came in and got a copy of the protocol. The protocol only has conclusions, none of the ruminating we doctors like to do.”
“So what would you have ruminated about with them if they had talked to you?”
“I would have told them my hunch, Harry.”
“Which is?”
Salazar looked up from the body but kept his rubber-gloved and bloody hands over the open chest so they wouldn’t drip on anything else.
“My hunch is that you’re looking for a woman.”
“Why’s that?”
“The material in and below the eyes.”
“Preparation H?”
“What?”
“Nothing, never mind. What did you find?”
“The substance was analyzed and it came back oleo capsicum. Found it on the nasal swabs, too. Know what oleo capsicum is better known as, Harry?”
“Pepper spray.”
“Shit, Harry, you ruin my fun.”
“Sorry. So somebody sprayed him with pepper spray?”
“Right again. That’s why I think it’s a woman. Someone who was either having problems controlling him or afraid of problems. That makes me think it’s a woman. Besides, all these women around here, they all carry that stuff in their purses.”
Bosch wondered if Veronica Aliso was one of those women.
“That’s good, Sally. Anything else?”
“No surprises. Tests came back clean.”
“No amyl nitrate?”
“Nope, but that has a short retention. We don’t find it that often. Did you get anywhere with the slugs?”
“Yeah, we did all right. Can you call your guy?”
“Take me to the intercom.”
While Salazar held his hands up in front of himself so they wouldn’t touch anything, Bosch pushed his wheelchair to the nearby counter, where there was a phone with an intercom attachment. Salazar told Bosch which button to push and then ordered someone to make a copy of the protocol immediately for Bosch.
“Thanks,” Bosch said.
“No problem. Hope it helps. Remember, look for a woman who carries pepper spray in her purse. Not mace. Pepper spray.”
“Right.”
The end-of-the-week traffic was intense and it took Bosch nearly an hour to get out of downtown and back to Hollywood. When he got to the Cat & Fiddle pub on Sunset it was after six, and as he walked through the gate he saw Edgar and Rider already sitting at a table in the open-air courtyard. There was a pitcher of beer on their table. And they weren’t alone. Sitting at the table with them was Grace Billets.
The Cat & Fiddle was a popular drinking spot with the Hollywood cops because it was only a few blocks from the station on Wilcox. So Bosch didn’t know as he approached the table whether Billets happened to be there by coincidence or because she knew of their freelance operation.
“Howdy, folks,” Bosch said as he sat down.
There was one empty glass on the table and he filled it from the pitcher. He then held the glass up to the others and toasted to the end of another week.
“Harry,” Rider said, “the lieutenant knows what we’ve been doing. She’s here to help.”
Bosch nodded and slowly looked at Billets.
“I’m disappointed that you didn’t come to me first,” she said. “But I understand what you are doing. I agree that it might be in the bureau’s best interest to let this lie and not endanger their case. But a man was murdered. If they’re not going to look for the killer, I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”
Bosch nodded. He was almost speechless. He’d never had a boss who wasn’t a rigid by-the-book man. Grace Billets was a major change.
“Of course,” she said, “we have to be very careful. We screw this up and we’ll have more than just the FBI mad at us.”
The unspoken message was that their careers were at stake here.
“Well, my position’s already pretty much shot,” Bosch said. “So if anything goes wrong, I want you all to lay it on me.”
“That’s bullshit,” Rider said.
“No, it’s not. You all are going places. I’m not going anywhere. Hollywood is it for me and