She turned from him and put her thumb out as a wave of southbound traffic started by.
“Wait a minute, just tell me something. Tell me where Tommy is these days. I need to get with him on something.”
“On what? I don’t know where he is.”
“A girl. You remember Becky? Couple years ago. Blonde, liked red lipstick, had a set like yours. She mighta used the name Maggie. I want to find her and she was working for Tom. You remember her?”
“I wasn’t even around then. And I haven’t seen Tommy in four months. And you are full of shit.”
She walked off and Bosch called after her, “Twenty bucks.”
She stopped and came back.
“For what?”
“An address. I’m not bullshitting. I want to talk to him.”
“Well, give it.”
He took the money out of his wallet and gave it to her. It occurred to him that Van Nuys Vice might be watching him from somewhere around here and wondering why he was giving a hooker a twenty.
“Try the Grandview,” she said. “I don’t know the number or anything but it’s on the top floor. You can’t tell’m I sent ya. He’ll fuck me up.”
She walked away putting the money in one of the flapping pockets. He didn’t have to ask her where the Grandview was. He watched her cut in between two apartment buildings and disappear, probably going to get a rock. He wondered if she had told the truth and why he could find it in himself to give her money but not the woman in apartment six. The police operator had hung up by the time he got back to the pay phone.
Bosch redialed and asked for her and she gave him the address that went with the phone number he’d gotten. Suite P-1, the Grandview Apartments, on Sepulveda in Sherman Oaks. He had just wasted twenty bucks on crack cocaine. He hung up.
In the car, he finished looking through the mail. Half of it was junk mail, the rest credit card bills and mailers from Republican candidates. There was also a postcard invitation to an Adult Film Performers Guild awards banquet in Reseda the following week.
Bosch opened the American Express bill. The illegality of this did not concern him in the least. Cerrone was a criminal who was lying to his probation officer. There would be no complaint from him. The pimp owed American Express $1855.05 this month. The bill was two pages, and Bosch noticed two billings for airline flights to Las Vegas and three billings from Victoria’s Secret. Bosch was familiar with Victoria’s Secret, having studied the mail-order lingerie catalog at Sylvia’s on occasion. In one month, Cerrone had ordered nearly $400 in lingerie by mail. The money paid by the poor woman who rented the apartment Cerrone was using as a front for a probation address was basically subsidizing the lingerie bills of Cerrone’s whores. It angered Bosch, but it gave him an idea.
• • •
The Grandview Apartments were the ultimate California ideal. Built alongside a shopping mall, the building afforded its tenants the ability to walk directly from their apartment into the mall, thereby cutting out the heretofore required middle ground for all Southern California culture and interaction: the car. Bosch parked in the mall’s garage and entered the outer lobby through the rear entrance. It was an Italian marble affair with a grand piano in its center that was playing by itself. Bosch recognized the song as a Cab Calloway standard, “Everybody That Comes to My Place Has to Eat.”
There was a directory and a phone on the wall by the security door that led to the elevators. The name next to P-1 was Kuntz. Bosch took it to be an inside joke. He lifted the phone and pushed the button. A woman answered and he said, “UPS. Gotta package.”
“Uh,” she said. “From who?”
“Um, it says, I can’t read the writing—looks like Victor’s secretary or something.”
“Oh,” she said and he heard her giggle. “Do I have to sign?”
“Yes, ma’am, I need a signature.”
Rather than buzz him in, she said she would come down. Bosch stood at the glass door for two minutes waiting before he realized the scam wouldn’t work. He was standing there in a suit and had no package in his hand. He turned his back to the elevator just as the polished chrome doors began to part.
He took a step toward the piano and looked down as if he was fascinated by it and didn’t notice the elevator’s arrival. From behind him he heard the security door start to open and he turned around.
“Are you UPS?”
She was blonde and stunning even in her blue jeans and pale blue Oxford shirt. Their eyes met and right away Bosch knew she knew it was a scam. She immediately tried to close the door but Bosch got there in time and pushed his way through.
“What are you doing? I—”
Bosch clamped a hand over her mouth because he thought she was about to scream. Covering half her face accentuated the fright in her eyes. She didn’t seem as stunning to Bosch anymore.
“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to talk to Tommy. Let’s go up.”
He slowly pulled his hand back and she didn’t scream.
“Tommy’s not there,” she said in a whisper, as if to signal her cooperation.
“Then we can wait.”
He gently pushed her toward the elevator and punched the button.
She was right. Cerrone wasn’t there. But Bosch didn’t have to wait long. He had barely had time to check on the opulent furnishings of the two-bedroom, two-bath and loft apartment with private roof garden when the man arrived.
Cerrone stepped through the front door, Racing Forum in hand, just as Bosch stepped into the living room from the balcony that overlooked Sepulveda and the crowded Ventura Freeway.
Cerrone initially smiled at Bosch but then the face became blank. This often happened to Bosch with crooks. He believed it was because the crooks often thought they recognized him. And it was true they probably did. Bosch’s picture had been in the paper and on TV several times in the last few years, including once this week. Harry believed that most crooks who read the papers or watched the news looked closely at the pictures of the cops. They probably thought it gave them an added advantage, someone to look out for. But instead it bred familiarity. Cerrone had smiled as though Bosch was a long-lost friend, then he realized it was probably the enemy, a cop.
“That’s right,” Bosch said.
“Tommy, he made me bring him up,” the girl said. “He called on the—”
“Shut up,” Cerrone barked. Then, to Bosch, he said, “If you had a warrant, you wouldn’t be here alone. No warrant, get the fuck out.”
“Very observant,” Bosch said. “Sit down. I have questions.”
“Fuck you and the questions you rode in on. Get out.”
Bosch sat down on a black leather couch and took out his cigarettes.
“Tom, if I go, it’s to go see your PO and see about getting you revoked for this address scam you’re playing. The probation department frowns on cons telling them they live one place when they actually live somewhere else. Especially when one’s a dump and one’s the Grandview.”
Cerrone threw the Forum across the room at the girl. “See?” he said. “See the shit you got me in?”
She seemed to know better than to say anything. Cerrone folded his arms and stood in the living room but he wasn’t going to sit down. He was a well-built guy gone to fat. Too many afternoons at Hollywood or Del Mar, sipping cocktails and watching the ponies.
“Look, what do you want?”
“I want to know about Becky Kaminski.”
Cerrone looked puzzled.
“You remember, Maggie Cum Loudly, the blonde with the tits you probably had her enlarge. You were bringing her up through the video business, doin’ some outcall work on the side, and then she disappeared on you.”
“What about her? That was a long time ago.”
“Twenty-two months and three days, I am told.”
“So what? She turned up and is saying some shit about me, it don’t matter. Take it to court, man. We’ll see—”
Bosch jumped up off the co
uch and slapped him hard across the face, then pushed him over a black leather chair onto the floor. Cerrone’s eyes immediately went to the girl’s, which told Bosch that he had complete control of the situation. The power of humiliation sometimes was more awesome than a gun held to the head. Cerrone’s face was a bright red all over.
Bosch’s hand stung. He bent over the fallen man and said, “She didn’t turn up and you know it. She’s dead and you knew it when you made the missing person report. You were just covering your ass. I want to know how you knew.”
“Look, man, I didn’t have any—”
“But you knew she wasn’t coming back. How?”
“I just had a hunch. She didn’t turn up for a couple days.”
“Guys like you don’t go to the police on hunches. Guys like you, they get their place broken into, they don’t even call the cops. Like I said, you were just covering your ass. You didn’t want to get blamed ’cause you knew she wasn’t coming back alive.”
“Awright, awright, it was more than a hunch. Okay? It was the guy. I never saw him but his voice and some of the things he said. It was familiar, you know? Then after I sent her and she didn’t come back, it dawned on me. I remembered him. I had sent him somebody else once and she ended up dead.”
“Who?”
“Holly Lere. I can’t remember her real name.”
Bosch could. Holly Lere was the porno name of Nicole Knapp. The seventh victim of the Dollmaker. He sat back down on the couch and put a cigarette in his mouth.
“Tommy,” the girl said, “he’s smoking.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he said to her.
“Well, you said no smoking in here except on the bal—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Nicole Knapp,” Bosch said.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“You knew the cops said the Dollmaker got her?”
“Yeah, and I always thought that until Becky disappeared and I remembered this guy and what he said.”
“But you didn’t tell anybody. You didn’t call the cops.”
“It’s like you said, man, guys like me, we don’t call.”
Bosch nodded.
“What did he say? The caller, what was it he said?”
“He said, ‘I have a special need tonight.’ Both times. Just like that. He said the same thing both times. And his voice was weird. It was like he was talking through clenched teeth or something.”
“And you sent her to that.”
“I didn’t put it together until after she didn’t come back. Look, man, I made a report. I told the cops the hotel she went to and they never did nothing. I’m not the only one to blame. Shit, the cops said that guy was caught, that he was dead. I thought it was safe.”
“Safe for you, or the girls you put out on the street?”
“Look, you think I would’ve sent her if I knew? I had a lot invested in her, man.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Bosch looked over at the blonde and wondered how long it would be before she looked like the one he had given the twenty to on the street. His guess was that Cerrone’s girls all ended up used up and on the street with their thumb out, or they ended up dead. He looked back at Cerrone.
“Did Rebecca smoke?”
“What?”
“Smoke. Did she smoke? You lived with her, you should know.”
“No, she didn’t smoke. It’s a disgusting habit.”
Cerrone looked over at the blonde and glared. Bosch dropped his cigarette on the white rug and ground it out as he stood up. He headed toward the door but stopped after he opened it.
“Cerrone, the woman in that dump your mail goes to?”
“What about her?”
“She doesn’t pay rent anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
He climbed up from the floor, regaining a measure of his pride.
“I’m talking about her not paying you rent anymore. I’m going to check on her from time to time. If she’s paying rent, your PO gets a call and your scam gets blown. Probation gets revoked and you do your time. It’s tough to run an outcall business from county lockup. Only two phones on each floor and the brothers control who uses them and for how long. I guess you’d have to cut them in.”
Cerrone just stared at him, anger thumping in his temples.
“And she better still be there when I check,” Bosch said. “If I hear she went back to Mexico, I blame you and make the call. If I hear she bought a fucking condo, I make the call. She just better be there.”
“That’s extortion,” Cerrone said.
“No, asshole, that’s justice.”
He left the door open. Out in the hallway waiting for the elevator, he once again heard Cerrone yell, “Shut the fuck up!”
13
The last vestiges of the evening rush hour made it a slow run up to Sylvia’s. She was sitting at the dining room table in faded blue jeans and a Grant High T-shirt, reading book reports, when he came in. One of the eleventh-grade English classes she taught down in the Valley at Grant was called Los Angeles in Literature. She had told him she developed the class so the students might come to know their city better. Most of them came from other places, other countries. She had once told him that the students in one of her classes accounted for eleven different native languages.
He put his hand on the back of her neck and bent down to kiss her. He noticed the reports were on Nathanael West’s Day of the Locust.
“Ever read it?” she asked.
“Long time ago. Some English teacher in high school made us read it. She was crazy.”
She elbowed him in the thigh.
“All right, wise guy. I try to rotate the tough ones with the easy ones. I assigned them The Big Sleep.”
“That’s probably what they thought this one should’ve been called.”
“Aren’t you the life of the party today. Something good happen?”
“Actually, no. Everything is turning to shit out there. But in here . . . it’s different.”
She got up and they embraced. He ran his hand up and down her back the way he knew she liked.
“What’s happening on the case?”
“Nothing. Everything. I might be going into the mud puddle. Wonder if I can get a job after this as a private eye. Like Marlowe.”
She pushed away.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not sure. Something. I have to work on it tonight. I’ll take the kitchen table. You can stay out here with the locusts.”
“It’s your turn to cook.”
“Then, I’m going to hire the colonel.”
“Shit.”
“Hey, that’s not a good thing for an English teacher to say. What’s the matter with the colonel?”
“He’s been dead for years. Never mind. It’s okay.”
She smiled at him. This ritual occurred often. When it was his turn to cook he usually took her out. He could see she was disappointed by the prospect of fried chicken to go. But there was too much going on, too much to think about.
She had a face that made him want to confess everything bad he had ever done. Yet he knew he could not. She knew it, too.
“I humiliated a man today.”
“What? Why?”
“Because he humiliates women.”
“All men do that, Harry. What did you do to him?”
“Knocked him down in front of his woman.”
“He probably needed it.”
“I don’t want you to come to court tomorrow. I’m probably going to be called by Chandler to testify but I don’t want you there. It’s going to be bad.”
She was silent for a moment.
“Why do you do this, Harry? Tell me all these things that you do but keep the rest a secret? In some ways we are so intimate and in others . . . You tell me about the men you knock down but not about you. What do I know about you, your past? I want us to get to that, Harry. We have to or we’ll end up humiliating each other. Tha
t’s how it ended for me before.”
Bosch nodded and looked down. He didn’t know what to say. He was too burdened by other thoughts to get into this now.
“You want the extra crispy?” he finally asked.
“Fine.”
She went back to her book reports and he went out to get dinner.
• • •
After they were done eating and she went back to the dining room table, he opened his briefcase on the kitchen table and took out the blue murder books. He had a bottle of Henry Weinhard’s on the table but no cigarette. He wouldn’t smoke inside. At least not while she was awake.
He unsnapped the first binder and laid out the sections on each of the eleven victims across the table. He stood up with the bottle so he could look down and take them all in at once. Each section was fronted by a photograph of the victim’s remains, as they were found. There were eleven of these photos in front of him. He did some thinking on the cases and then went into the bedroom and checked the suit he had worn the day before. The Polaroid of the concrete blonde was still in the pocket.
He brought it back to the kitchen and laid it on the table with the others. Number twelve. It was a horrible gallery of broken, abused bodies, their garish makeup showing false smiles below dead eyes. Their bodies were naked, exposed to the harsh light of the police photographer.
Bosch drained the bottle and kept staring. Reading the names and the dates of the deaths. Looking at the faces. All of them lost angels in the city of night. He didn’t notice Sylvia come in until it was too late.
“My God,” she said in a whisper as she saw the photos. She took a step backward. She was holding one of her students’ papers in her hand. Her other hand had come up to her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” Bosch said. “I should’ve warned you not to come in.”
“Those are the women?”
He nodded.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not sure. Trying to make something happen, I guess. I thought if I looked at them all again I might get an idea, figure out what’s happening.”
“But how can you look at those? You were just standing there looking.”
“Because I have to.”