husband?”
“It was right before six. That is when he calls and tells me, otherwise I have to figure out what’s for supper and how many I’m cooking for.”
“How about you, Martin? When did you last speak to your father?”
Martin opened his eyes.
“I don’t know, man. Couple days ago, at least. But what’s this got to do with anything? You know who did it. Somebody with a badge did this thing.”
Tears finally began to slide down Martin’s face. Bosch wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“If it was a cop, Martin, you have my word, we will find him. He won’t get away with it.”
“Sure,” Martin replied, without looking at Bosch. “The man gives us his word. But who the hell is the man?”
The statement made Bosch pause a moment before continuing.
“A few more questions,” he finally said. “Did Mr. Elias have an office here at home?”
“No,” the son said. “He didn’t do his work here.”
“Okay. Next question. In recent days or weeks, had he mentioned any specific threat or person who he believed wanted to harm him?”
Martin shook his head and said, “He just always said that it was the cops who would get him someday. It was the cops…”
Bosch nodded, not in agreement but in his understanding of Martin’s belief.
“One last question. There was a woman who was killed on Angels Flight. It looks like they were not together. Her name was Catalina Perez. Does that name mean anything to either of you?”
Bosch’s eyes moved from the woman’s face to her son’s. Both stared blankly and shook their heads.
“Okay then.”
He stood up.
“We will leave you alone now. But either myself or other detectives will need to speak with you again. Probably later on today.”
Neither the mother nor son reacted.
“Mrs. Elias, do you have a spare photo of your husband we could borrow?”
The woman looked up at him, her face showing confusion.
“Why do you want a picture of Howard?”
“We may need to show people in the course of the investigation.”
“Everybody already knows Howard, what he looks like.”
“Probably, ma’am, but we might need a photo in some cases. Do you – ”
“Martin,” she said, “go get me the albums out of the drawer in the den.”
Martin left the room and they waited. Bosch took a business card from his pocket and put it down on the wrought-iron-and-glass coffee table.
“There’s my pager number if you need me or if there is anything else I can do. Is there a family minister you would like us to call?”
Millie Elias looked up at him again.
“Reverend Tuggins over at the AME.”
Bosch nodded but immediately wished he hadn’t made the offer. Martin came back into the room with a photo album. His mother took it and began to turn through the pages. She began to weep silently again at the sight of so many pictures of her husband. Bosch wished he had put off getting the photo until the follow-up interview. Finally, she came upon a close-up shot of Howard Elias’s face. She seemed to know it would be the best photo for the police. She carefully removed it from the plastic sleeve and handed it to Bosch.
“Will I get that back?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll see that you do.”
Bosch nodded and was about to make his way to the door. He was wondering if he could just forget about calling Reverend Tuggins.
“Where’s my husband?” the widow suddenly asked.
Bosch turned back.
“His body is at the coroner’s office, ma’am. I will give them your number and they will call you when it is time for you to make arrangements.”
“What about Reverend Tuggins? You want to use our phone?”
“Uh, no, ma’am. We’ll contact Reverend Tuggins from our car. We can see ourselves out now.”
On the way to the door, Bosch glanced at the collection of framed photographs that hung on the wall in the entrance hallway. They were photos of Howard Elias with every notable black community leader in the city as well as many other celebrities and national leaders. There he was with Jesse Jackson, with Congresswoman Maxine Waters, with Eddie Murphy. There was a shot of Elias flanked by Mayor Richard Riordan on one side and City Councilman Royal Sparks on the other. Bosch knew that Sparks had used outrage over police misconduct to forge his rise in city politics. He would miss having Elias around to keep the fire fanned, though Bosch also knew that Sparks would now use the lawyer’s murder to any advantage he could. Bosch wondered how it was that good and noble causes often seemed to bring slick opportunists to the microphones.
There were also family photos. Several depicted Elias and his wife at social functions. There were shots of Elias and his son – one of them on a boat, both holding up a black marlin and smiling. Another photo showed them at a firing range posing on either side of a paper target with several holes shot through it. The target depicted Daryl Gates, a former police chief whom Elias had sued numerous times. Bosch remembered that the targets, created by a local artist, were popular toward the end of Gates’s tumultuous stewardship of the department.
Bosch leaned forward to study the photo and see if he could identify the weapons Elias and his son held but the photo was too small.
Chastain pointed to one of the photos, which showed Elias and the chief of police at some formal affair, supposed adversaries smiling at the camera.
“They look cozy,” he whispered.
Bosch just nodded and went out through the door.
Chastain pulled the car out of the driveway and headed down out of the hills and back to the freeway. They were silent, both absorbing the misery they had just brought to a family and how they had received the blame for it.
“They always shoot the messenger,” Bosch said.
“I think I’m glad I don’t work homicide,” Chastain replied. “I can deal with cops being pissed at me. But that, that was bullshit.”
“They call it the dirty work – next-of-kin notification.”
“They ought to call it something. Fucking people. We’re trying to find out who killed the guy and they’re saying it was us. You believe that shit?”
“I didn’t take it literally, Chastain. People in that position are entitled to a little slack. They’re hurting, they say things, that’s all.”
“Yeah, you’ll see. Wait until you see that kid on the six o’clock news. I know the type. You won’t have much sympathy then. Where are we going anyway, back to the scene?”
“Go to his apartment first. You know Dellacroce’s pager number?”
“Not offhand, no. Look at your list.”
Bosch opened his notebook and looked up the pager number Dellacroce had written down. He punched the number into his phone and made the page.
“What about Tuggins?” Chastain asked. “You call him, you give him the head start on getting the south end ready to rock and roll.”
“I know. I’m thinking.”
Bosch had been thinking about that decision since the moment Millie Elias had mentioned the name Preston Tuggins. As with many minority communities, pastors carried as much weight as politicians when it came to shaping that community’s response to a social, cultural or political cause or event. In the case of Preston Tuggins, he carried even more. He headed a group of associated ministers and together they were a force, a major
