Bosch took Laurel Canyon Boulevard over the hill and dropped down into Hollywood ahead of the evening traffic. At Sunset he took a right and pulled to the curb a few blocks into West Hollywood. He fed the meter and went into the small, drab white office building across Sunset from a strip bar. The two-story courtyard building catered to small production companies. They were small offices with small overheads. The companies lived from movie to movie. In between there was no need for opulent offices and space.
Bosch checked his watch and saw that he was right on time. It was quarter to five and the audition was set for five. He took the stairs up to the second floor and went through a door with a sign that said NUFF SAID PRODUCTIONS. It was a three-room suite, one of the biggest in the building. Bosch had been there before and knew the layout: a waiting room with a secretary’s desk, the office of Bosch’s friend, Albert “Nuff” Said, and then a conference room. A woman behind the secretary’s desk looked up at Bosch as he stepped in.
“I’m here to see Mr. Said. My name’s Harry Bosch.”
She nodded and picked up the phone and punched a number. Bosch could hear it beep in the other room and recognized Said’s voice answering.
“It’s Harry Bosch,” the secretary said.
Bosch heard Said order her to send him in. He headed that way before she was off the phone.
“Go on in,” she said to his back.
Bosch stepped into an office that was furnished simply with a desk, two chairs, a black leather couch and a television/video console. The walls were crowded with framed one-sheet posters advertising Said’s movies and other mementos, such as the back panels of the producers’ chairs with the names of the movies printed on them. Bosch had known Said at least fifteen years, ever since the older man had hired him as a technical adviser on a movie thinly based on one of Bosch’s cases. They had kept in touch sporadically over the ensuing decade, Said usually calling Bosch when he had a technical question about a police procedure he was using in a movie. Most of Said’s productions were never seen on the silver screen. They were television and cable movies.
Albert Said stood up behind the desk and Bosch extended his hand.
“Hey, Nuff, howzit going?”
“Going fine, my friend.”
He pointed to the television.
“I watched your fine performance on Court TV today. Bravo.”
He politely clapped his hands. Bosch waved the demonstration off and looked at his watch again.
“Thanks. So are we all set here?”
“I believe so. Marjorie will have her wait for me in the conference room. You can take it from there.”
“I appreciate this, Nuff. Let me know what I can do to square it.”
“You can be in my next movie. You have a real presence, my friend. I watched the whole thing today. I taped it if you would like to see for yourself.”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think we’ll have the time anyway. What have you got going these days?”
“Oh, you know, waiting for the light to turn green. I have a project I think is about to go with overseas financing. It is about this cop who gets sent to prison and the trauma of being stripped of his badge and his respect and everything gives him amnesia. And so there he is in prison and he can’t remember which guys he put there and which ones he didn’t. He’s in a constant fight to survive. The one convict who befriends him turns out to be a serial killer he sent there in the first place. It’s a thriller, Harry. What do you think? Steven Segal is reading the script.”
Said’s bushy black eyebrows were arched into sharp points on his forehead. He was clearly excited by the premise of the movie.
“I don’t know, Nuff,” Bosch said. “I think it’s been done before.”
“Everything’s been done before. But what do you think?”
Bosch was saved by the bell. In the silence after Said’s question they both could hear the secretary talking to someone in the next room. Then the speakerphone on Said’s desk beeped and the secretary said, “Ms. Crowe is here. She will be waiting in the conference room.”
Bosch nodded at Said.
“Thanks, Nuff,” he whispered. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll let you know if I need any help.”
He turned to the office door but then went back to the desk and put out his hand.
“I may have to split kind of fast. So I’ll say good-bye. Good luck with that project. Sounds like another winner.”
They shook hands.
“Yes, we shall see,” Said said.
Bosch left the office and crossed a small hallway and entered the conference room. There was a square, glass-topped table at center with a chair on each side. Annabelle Crowe sat in the chair on the side opposite the door. She was studying a black-and-white photograph of herself as Bosch entered. She looked up with a bright smile and perfect teeth. The smile held for a little longer than a second and then crashed off her face like a Malibu mudslide.
“What – what are you doing here?”
“Hello, Annabelle, how’ve you been?”
“This is an audition – you can’t just -”
“You’re right, this is an audition. I am auditioning you for the role of witness in a murder trial.”
The woman stood up. Her head shot and a resume slipped off the table to the floor.
“You can’t just – what is going on here?”
“You know what is going on. You moved and left no forwarding. Your parents wouldn’t help. Your agent wouldn’t help me. The only way I could get to you was to set up an audition. Now sit down and we’re going to talk about where you’ve been and why you’re ducking the trial.”
“So there is no part?”
Bosch almost laughed. She still didn’t get it.
“No, no part.”
“And they’re not remaking Chinatown?”
This time he did laugh but quickly covered.
“One of these days they’ll get around to it. But you’re too young for the part and I’m no Jake Gittes. Sit down, please.”
Bosch started to pull out the chair opposite hers. But she refused to sit down. She looked very put out. She was a beautiful young woman with a face that often got her what she wanted. But not this time.
“I said sit down,” Bosch said sternly. “You have to understand something here, Miss Crowe. You broke the law when you did not respond to a court-issued subpoena to appear today. That means if I want, I can just place you under arrest and we can talk about this in lockup. Or the alternative is that we sit down here because they’re letting us use the nice room and talk about this in a civilized manner. Your choice, Annabelle.”
She dropped back into her chair. Her mouth was a thin, tight line. The lipstick she had carefully painted on for a casting session was already starting to crack and wear. Bosch studied her for a long moment before beginning.
“Who got to you, Annabelle?”
She looked at him sharply.
“Look,” she said, “I was scared, okay? I still am. David Storey is a powerful man. He has some scary people behind him.”
Bosch leaned across the table.
“Are you saying you were threatened by him? By them?”
“No, I am not saying that. They didn’t need to threaten me. I know the picture.”
Bosch leaned back away from her and quietly studied her. Her eyes moved everywhere around the room but to him. The traffic noise from out on Sunset filtered through the room’s one closed window. Somewhere in the building a toilet was flushed. Finally, she looked at Bosch.
“What? What do you want?”
“I want you to testify. I want you to make a stand against this guy. For what he tried to do to you. For Jody
