Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [157]
He came around the table and put his hand on her shoulder and tentatively kissed her on the cheek. She patted his hand. As he straightened up, though, he noticed she was looking at ads for furnished apartments in Santa Monica, not the employment section.
“What’s cooking?” he asked.
“My spaghetti sauce. You remember it?”
He nodded that he did but he really didn’t. His memory of the days he had spent with her five years before were all centered on her, the moments they were intimate, and what happened afterward.
“How was Las Vegas?” he asked, just to be saying something.
“It was Vegas. The kind of place you never miss. If I never go back that will be fine with me.”
“You’re looking for a place here?”
“I thought I might as well start looking.”
She had lived in Santa Monica before. Bosch remembered her apartment with the bedroom balcony. You could smell the sea and if you leaned out over the railing, you could look down Ocean Park Boulevard and even see it. He knew she couldn’t afford a place like that now. She was probably looking at the listings east of Lincoln.
“You know there’s no hurry,” he said. “You can stay here. Nice view, it’s private. Why don’t you…I don’t know, take your time.”
She looked up at him but decided not to say what she was about to say. Bosch could tell.
“Do you want a beer?” she asked instead. “I bought some more. They’re in the fridge.”
He nodded, letting her escape from the moment, and went into the kitchen. He saw a Crock-Pot on the counter and wondered if she had bought it or brought it back with her from Las Vegas. He opened the refrigerator and smiled. She knew him. She had bought bottles of Henry Weinhard’s. He took two out and brought them back to the dining room. He opened hers and gave it to her, then his own. They both started to speak at the same time.
“Sorry, go ahead,” she said.
“No, you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, what?”
“I was just going to ask how things went today.”
“Oh. Well, they went good and bad. We broke the guy down and he told us the story. He gave up the wife.”
“Tony Aliso’s wife?”
“Yeah. It was her plan all along. According to him. The Vegas stuff was just a misdirection.”
“That’s great. What’s the bad part?”
“Well, first of all, our guy is a cop and —”
“Oh, shit!”
“Yeah, but it’s even worse. He got away from us today.”
“Got away? What do you mean got away?”
“I mean he escaped. Right out of the station. He had a pistol, a little Raven, in his boot. We missed it when we hooked him up. Edgar and me took him into the can, and he must’ve stepped on his shoelace while we were going over. You know, on purpose. Then, when Edgar noticed it and told him to tie his shoe, he came up with the Raven. He got away from us, went into the back lot and just took a squad car. He was still in uniform.”
“Jesus, and they didn’t find him yet?”
“That was about eight hours ago. He’s in the wind.”
“Well, where could he go in a patrol car and in a uniform?”
“Oh, he dumped the car — they already found that — and I doubt, wherever he is, he’s in the uniform. It looks like he was into the far-right, white-supremacy thing. He probably knew people who’d get him clothes, no questions asked.”
“Sounds like a helluva cop.”
“Yeah. It’s funny. He was the guy who found the body, you know, last week. It was on his beat. And because he was a cop, I didn’t give him a second thought. I knew that day he was an asshole, but I didn’t even look at him at all as anything other than the cop who found the stiff. And he must’ve known that. And he timed it so that we’d be in a rush out there. He was pretty smart about it.”
“Or she was.”
“Yeah. More likely it was her. But, anyway, I feel more, I don’t know, upset or disappointed about that first day, that I didn’t take a look at him, than I do about letting him get away today. I should’ve looked at him. More often than not the one who finds the body is the one. His uniform blinded me to that.”
She got up from the table and came over to him. She put her arms around his neck and smiled up at him.
“You’ll get him. Don’t worry.”
He nodded.