Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [91]
“She’s a crusty old bitch. I had to ask that question. Just to see how she’d react. Other than that, I think this Layla or Gretchen is just a dead end. Just some stupid girl Tony was leading on. You know, it’s usually the strippers that are working the angles. But this time I think it was Tony.”
“Maybe.”
Bosch lit a cigarette and dropped back into silence. He was no longer thinking of the interview. As far as he was concerned, the work for the day was over and he was now thinking about Eleanor Wish.
When he got to the Mirage, Bosch swung the car into the circle in front and pulled to a stop near the front doors.
“Harry, man, what are you doing?” Edgar said. “Bullets might pop for the Mirage, but she isn’t going to dig into the company wallet for valet parking.”
“I’m just dropping you off. I’m going to go switch the cars tonight. I don’t want to go anywhere near that airport tomorrow.”
“That’s cool, but I’ll go with you, man. Nothin’ to do here but lose money on the machines.”
Bosch reached over and opened the glove box and pushed the trunk-release button.
“No, Jed, I’m going on my own. I want to think about some things. Grab your stuff outta the trunk.”
Edgar looked at him a long moment. Bosch had not called him Jed in a long time. Edgar was about to say something but apparently thought better of it. He opened the door.
“Okay, Harry. You want to grab dinner or something later?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll call you in your room.”
“You’re the man.”
After Edgar slammed the trunk, Bosch drove back out onto Las Vegas Boulevard and then north to Sands. It was dusk and the day’s dying light was being replaced with the neon glow of the city. In ten minutes he pulled into a parking space in front of Eleanor Wish’s apartment building. He took a deep breath and got out of the car. He had to know. Why had she not answered his calls? Why had she not responded to his message?
When he got to the door, he felt his guts seize as if gripped in a huge fist. The note he had carefully folded and squeezed into the doorjamb two nights before was still there. Bosch looked down at the worn doormat and then squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a tremendous wave of the guilt he had worked so hard to bury come forth from inside. He had once made a phone call that got an innocent man killed. It had been a mistake, something he could not possibly have seen coming, but it happened just the same and he had worked hard to put it not behind him but, at least, in a place where he could live with it. But now Eleanor. Bosch knew what he would find behind the door. Asking Felton for her number and address had sent things into motion, a terrible motion that ended with her being hauled into Metro and her fragile dignity and belief that bad things were behind her being crushed.
Bosch kicked over the doormat on the off chance she had left a key. There was none. His lock picks were in the glove compartment of the car parked at the airport. He hesitated a moment, focused on a spot over the doorknob, then stepped back, raised his left leg and drove his heel into the door. It splintered along the jamb and flew open. Bosch slowly stepped into the apartment.
He noticed nothing amiss in the living room. He moved quickly into the hallway and then down into the bedroom. The bed was unmade and empty. Bosch stood there for a moment, taking it all in. He realized he hadn’t taken a breath since he had kicked in the door. He slowly exhaled and began breathing normally. She was alive. Somewhere. At least he thought so. He sat down on the bed, took out a cigarette and lit it. His feeling of relief was quickly crowded by other doubts and nagging questions. Why hadn’t she called? Hadn’t there been something real about what they had shared?
“Hello?”
A man’s voice came from the front of the apartment. Bosch assumed it was someone who had heard him pop the door. He stood up and headed out of the bedroom.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m back here. I’m with the police.”
He stepped into the living room and saw a man impeccably dressed in