Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [7]
He realized as he made the fruitless search that he was feeling relaxed, maybe even happy. He was back on the beat and following his mission once again. Mindful that the man in the trunk had to have perished for him to feel this way, Bosch quickly wrote that guilt off. The man would have ended up in the trunk whether Bosch had ever made it back to the homicide table or not.
When Bosch got to Mulholland he saw the fire trucks. There were two of them and a battalion of firefighters standing around them, seemingly waiting for something. He lit another cigarette and looked at Powers.
“You’ve got a problem,” the uniform cop said.
“What?”
Before Powers answered, one of the firefighters stepped up. He wore the white helmet of a battalion chief.
“You in charge?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“Chief Jon Friedman,” he said. “We’ve got a problem.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“The show down in the Bowl is supposed to end in ninety minutes. After that we’ve got the fireworks. Problem is this fellow says you got yourself a dead body up there and a crime scene. That’s the problem. If we can’t get up there to set up a safety position for the fireworks, there isn’t going to be any fireworks. We can’t allow it. If we’re not in position, we could see the whole down slope of these hills go up with one errant missile. Know what I mean?”
Bosch noticed Powers smirking at his dilemma. Bosch ignored him and returned his attention to Friedman.
“Chief, how long do you need to set up?”
“Ten minutes max. We just got to be there before the first one goes up.”
“Ninety minutes?”
“About eighty-five now. There’s gonna be a lot of angry people down there if they don’t get their fireworks.”
Bosch realized he wasn’t as much making decisions as having them made for him.
“Chief, hold here. We’ll be out in an hour and fifteen. Don’t cancel the show.”
“You sure about that?”
“Count on it.”
“Detective?”
“What, Chief?”
“You’re breaking the law with that cigarette.”
He nodded toward the graffiti-covered sign.
“Sorry, Chief.”
Bosch walked out to the road to stamp out the smoke while Friedman headed back to his people to radio in that the show would go on. Bosch realized the danger and caught up to him.
“Chief, you can say the show will go on, but don’t put anything out on the air about the body. We don’t need the media out here, helicopters swooping over.”
“I gotcha.”
Bosch thanked him and turned his attention to Powers.
“You can’t clear a scene in an hour and fifteen,” Powers said. “The ME isn’t even here.”
“Let me worry about that, Powers. You write something up yet?”
“Not yet. Been dealing with these guys. Would’ve helped if one of you folks had a two-way with you up there.”
“Then why don’t you run it down for me from the start.”
“What about them?” Powers asked, nodding in the direction of the clearing. “Why isn’t one of them talking to me? Edgar and Rider?”
“Because they’re busy. You want to run it down for me or not?”
“I already told you.”
“From the start, Powers. You told me what you did once you checked the car out. What made you check it?”
“There’s nothin’ much to tell. I usually make a pass by here each watch, chase away the dirtbags.”
He pointed across Mulholland and up to the crest of the hill. There was a line of houses, most on cantilevers, clinging to the crestline. They looked like mobile homes suspended in air.
“People up there call the station all the time, say they got campfires going down here, beer parties, devil worship, who knows what. Guess it ruins their view. And they don’t want nothin’ to spoil that million-dollar view. So I come up and sweep out the trash. Mostly bored little pissants from the Valley. Fire Department used to have a lock on the gate here, but a deuce plowed through it. That was six months ago. Takes the city at least a year to repair anything ’round here. Shit, I requisitioned batteries for my Mag three weeks ago and I’m still waiting for