Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [86]
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why do they use it?”
“Under their eyes, Detective Bosch. You know, shrinks the swelling? Well, you put it under your eyes and the bags from all that hard living get shrunk, too. Probably half the people who buy that stuff in this town use it under their eyes, not what it’s supposed to be used for. My husband…he was a vain man. If he was going to Las Vegas to be with some young girl, I think he would have done this. It was just like him.”
Bosch nodded. He thought of the unidentified substance under Tony Aliso’s eyes. You learn something new every day, he thought. He would have to call Salazar.
“How do you think he would have known about that?” he asked.
She was about to answer but hesitated, then she just hiked her shoulders.
“It’s a not-so-secret Hollywood secret,” she said. “He could’ve learned it anywhere.”
Including from you, Bosch thought but didn’t say. He just nodded and stepped through the door.
“Oh, one last thing,” he said before she closed it. “This arrest is probably going to hit the media today or tomorrow. We’ll try to contain it as much as possible. But in this town, nothing’s ever sacred or secret for long. You should be prepared for that.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
“You might want to think about a small funeral. Something inside. Tell the director not to give information out over the phone. Funerals always make good video.”
She nodded and closed the door.
On the way out of Hidden Highlands, Bosch lit a cigarette and Edgar didn’t object.
“She’s a cold piece of work,” Edgar said.
“That she is,” Bosch answered. “What do you think of the phone call from Lucky?”
“It’s just one more piece. We got Lucky by the balls. As far as he’s concerned, it’s over.”
Bosch took Mulholland along the crest of the mountains until it wound down to the Hollywood Freeway. They passed without comment the fire road down which Tony Aliso had been found. At the freeway, Bosch turned south so he could pick up the IO in downtown and head east.
“Harry, what’s up?” Edgar asked. “I thought we were leavin’ outta Burbank.”
“We’re not flying. We’re driving.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I only reserved the flights in case somebody checked. When we get to Vegas, we let on that we flew in and that we’re flying out right after the hearing with Goshen. Nobody has to know we’re driving. You okay with that?”
“Yeah, sure, fine. I get it. Precautions, settin’ a smoke screen in case somebody checks. I can dig it. You never know with the mobsters, do you?”
“Or with the cops.”
IV
AVERAGING OVER NINETY miles an hour, including a fifteen-minute stop at a McDonald’s, they got to Las Vegas in four hours. They drove to McCarran International Airport, parked in the garage and took their briefcases and overnighters out of the trunk. While Edgar waited outside, Bosch went into the terminal and rented a car at the Hertz counter.
It was almost four-thirty by the time they got to the Metro building. As they walked through the detective bureau, Bosch saw Iverson sitting at his desk and talking to Baxter, who stood nearby. A thin smile played on Iverson’s face but Bosch ignored it and went straight to Felton’s office. The police captain was behind his desk doing paperwork. Bosch knocked on the open door and then entered.
“Bosch, where ya been?”
“Taking care of details.”
“This your prosecutor?”
“No, this is my partner, Jerry Edgar. The prosecutor isn’t coming out until the morning.”
Edgar and Felton shook hands but Felton continued to look at Bosch.
“Well, you can call him and tell him not to bother.”
Bosch looked at him a moment. He knew now why Iverson had smiled. Something was going on.
“Captain, you’re always full of surprises,” he said. “What is it this time?”
Felton leaned back in his chair. He had an unlit cigar, one end soggy with saliva, on the edge of the desk. He picked it up and clenched it between two fingers. He was playing it out, obviously trying to get a rise out of Bosch. But Bosch didn’t bite and the captain finally spoke.
“Your boy, Goshen, is packing his bags.