a black leather athletic shoe with a black rubber sole, and peeled off the black sock. On the ball of the dead man’s foot was a circular discoloration that was brown at its center, tapering outward in yellow.
“Whadaya got, Harry?”
Bosch looked up. It was Braxton.
“I’m not sure yet. You see a glove? The guy’s missing a glove.”
“Over here.”
It was Edgar. He was behind another display case on the other side ofustther si the shop. Bosch stood up and walked over. Edgar crouched and pointed beneath the case.
“There’s a black leather glove under the case. I don’t know if it’s a match but it is a glove.”
Bosch got down on his hands and knees so he could look underneath the display case. He reached under and pulled out the glove.
“Looks the same,” he said.
“If it does not fit, you must acquit,” said Edgar.
Bosch looked at him.
“Johnnie Cochran,” Edgar said. “You know, the O.J. gloves.”
“Right.”
Bosch stood up. One of his knees made a popping sound as he did so. He looked into the case. It contained two shelves lighted from inside. On the shelves were non-jewelry items of what appeared to be high value. There were coins and some small jade sculptures, gold and silver pillboxes, cigarette cases and other ornate and bejeweled trinkets. It was high-end stuff. Most of the coins, Bosch noticed, were Russian.
Bosch stepped away from the case and surveyed the shop. Other than the two display cases there was mostly junk, the property of financially desperate people willing to part with almost anything in exchange for cash.
“Brax,” Bosch said. “Where’s the entry?”
Braxton signaled him toward the back and led the way. Bosch and Edgar followed. They came to a rear room that was used as an office and for storage. Gravel and other debris were scattered on the floor. They all looked up. There was a hole roughly cut in the ceiling. It was two feet wide and there was blue sky above.
“It’s a composite roof,” Braxton said. “No big thing cutting through. A half hour maybe.”
“It would make noise,” Edgar said. “Anybody know when the porno palace closes?”
“I remember I checked one of the other times this place was hit,” Braxton said. “He closes at four, reopens at eight. Four-hour window.”
“The roof the entry point in the other three hits?” Bosch asked.
Braxton shook his head.
“He hit the back door the first two times and then the roof. This is the second time through the roof.”
“You think it was Monty all three times before?”
“Wouldn’t doubt it. That’s what these guys do. Hit the same places over and over. After the second time the back door was used, Mr. Servan took precautions there. Added more steel reinforcement. So the guy went up onto the rook ionto thf.”
“Why this place so many times?” Edgar asked.
“A lot of immigrants come here. Russians, Koreans, from all over. They pawn the stuff they brought with them from the homeland. Jade. Gold. Coins. Small, expensive stuff. Burglars love that shit, man. That case where you found that glove? It’s all in there. That’s what the guy came in for. I don’t know why he ended up behind the jewelry case.”
“What’s been the take on the prior three?” Bosch asked.
“It’s probably averaged out to forty to fifty grand a hit,” Braxton said. “That’s on the high side for a pawnshop. That’s why this guy kept getting hit.”
A patrolman stepped back into the rear room and told the detectives that the medical examiner’s people had arrived.
The three detectives continued to huddle for a moment to discuss initial impressions and Bosch’s theory on what had happened to the burglar and to set a case strategy. It was decided that Edgar would stay on scene and assist the ME and SID teams as necessary. Bosch and Braxton would handle Servan and next-of-kin notification.
As soon as the medical examiner’s investigator rolled a set of prints off the burglar’s exposed hand, Bosch and Braxton headed back to Hollywood Division along with Nikolai Servan.
Bosch scanned the prints into the computer and sent them downtown to the print lab at Parker Center. He then conducted a formal and taped interview with Servan. Though the pawnbroker added nothing new to what he had told them in his shop, it was important for Bosch to lock down his story on tape.
By the time he was done with the interview he had a message waiting from a print technician named Tom Rusch. The prints were matched by computer to a thirty-nine-year-old ex-convict named Montgomery George Kelman. Kelman was on parole for a burglary conviction.
It took Bosch three calls to locate Kelman’s parole agent and to get the dead man’s current address and employer. He was told Kelman worked a morning dishwashing shift at a restaurant on Hillview. The parole agent had already received a call that morning from the restaurant owner, who reported that Kelman had not shown up for work or called in sick-as parole regulations dictated. The agent seemed pleased to learn he didn’t have to bother filing all the paperwork needed to show Kelman violated parole.
“Merry Christmas!” he said to Bosch before hanging up.
After checking with Edgar by phone and learning the techs were still working the body and scene, Bosch told his partner that the victim had been IDed as Kelman and that he and Braxton were headed to the address the parole agent had provided for Kelman. He said they were going to leave Nikolai Servan behind in an interview room at the division.
Monty Kelman’s address was an apartment on Los Feliz near Griffith Park. Bosch’s knock was answered by a young woman in shorts andresn short a long-sleeve turtleneck shirt. She was thin to the point of being gaunt. An obvious junkie. She abruptly collapsed into the fetal position on the couch when they gave her the bad news about Monty. While Braxton attempted to console her and gather information from her at the same time, Bosch took a quick look around the one-bedroom apartment. As he expected, there was no obvious sign that the premises belonged to a burglar. This apartment was the front-the place where the parole agent visited and Kelman kept the semblance of a law-abiding life. Bosch knew that any active burglar with a parole tail would keep a separate and secret place-a safe house-for his tools and swag.
In the bedroom was a small desk in which Kelman kept his checkbook and personal papers. Bosch flipped through the checkbook and saw nothing unusual. He looked through everything else in the drawer but found no lead to Kelman’s safe house. He wasn’t particularly anxious about it. It was just a loose end, something that would be of greater concern to Braxton, as a burglary detective, than to Bosch.
As he turned to leave the bedroom he saw a saxophone propped on a stand in the corner by the door. He recognized from its size that it was an alto. He stepped over and lifted it into his hands. It looked old but well cared for. It was polished brass and he saw the buffing cloth pushed down into the mouth of the instrument. Bosch had never played the saxophone, had never even tried, but the instrument’s sound was the only music that had ever been able to truly light him up inside.
He held the instrument with a sense of reverence he rarely exhibited for any person or thing. And for a moment he was tempted to raise the mouthpiece to his lips and try to sound a note. Instead, he gripped the instrument the way he had seen countless musicians-from Art Pepper to Wayne Shorter-hold theirs.
“Harry, you got anything?” Braxton said from the other room.
Bosch carried the saxophone and stand out to the living room. The woman was sitting up on the couch now, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Tears streaked her face. Bosch didn’t know if she was crying over her lost love or her lost junk ticket.
He held up the saxophone.
“Whose is this?”
She swallowed before answering.
“It’s Monty’s. Was.”
“He played?”
“He tried. He liked jazz. He always said he wanted to take lessons. He never did.”
