to. It was a print of the Hieronymus Bosch painting called The Garden of Earthly Delights. He’d had it for a long time, since he was a kid. The surface of the print was warped and scratched. It was in bad shape. It had been Eleanor who moved it from the living room to the hallway. She didn’t like it being in the place where they sat every night. Bosch never understood whether that was because of what was in the painting or because the print was old and deteriorated.
As he looked at the landscape of human debauchery and torment depicted in the painting, Bosch thought about maybe moving it back to its spot in the living room.
In Bosch’s dream he was moving through dark water, unable to see his hands in front of his own face. There was a ringing sound and he pushed upward through the darkness.
He came awake. The light was on but all was silent. The stereo was off. He started to look at his watch when the phone rang again and he quickly grabbed it off the bedside table.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Harry, it’s Kiz.”
His old partner.
“Kiz, what’s up?”
“You okay? You sound… out of it.”
“I’m fine. I was just… I was asleep.”
He looked at his watch. It was just after ten.
“Sorry, Harry, I thought you’d be burning the oil, getting ready for tomorrow.”
“I’m going to get up early and do it.”
“Well, you did good today. We had the box on in the squad. Everybody was pulling for you.”
“I’ll bet. How is it going down there?”
“It’s going. In a way I’m starting over. I’ve got to prove myself to them.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll be passing those guys like they’re standing still. Just like you did with me.”
“Harry…, you’re the best. I learned more from you than you’ll ever know.”
Bosch hesitated. He was genuinely touched by what she had said.
“That’s nice of you to say, Kiz. You should call me more often.”
She laughed.
“Well, that’s not why I’m calling. I told a friend I’d do this. It reminds me of high school but here goes. There’s somebody that is interested in you. I said I’d check to see if you were back out in the field, if you know what I mean?”
Bosch didn’t even have to think before answering.
“Nah, Kiz, I’m not. I… I’m not giving up on Eleanor yet. I’m still hoping she’ll call or show up and maybe we can work it out. You know how it is.”
“I do. And that’s cool, Harry. I just said I’d ask. But if you change your mind, she’s a neat lady.”
“I know her?”
“Yeah, you know her. Jaye Winston, over at the sheriff’s. We’re in a women’s group together. Dicks without Dicks. We got to talking about you tonight.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. A strange constricting feeling filled his gut. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Harry, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I was just thinking about something.”
“Well, I’ll let you go. And listen, Jaye asked me not to give you her name. You know, she just wanted to ask about you and put an anonymous feeler out. So next time you both run across each other on the job it wouldn’t be embarrassing. So you didn’t get it from me, right?”
“Right. She asked you questions about me?”
“A few. Nothing big. I hope you don’t mind. I told her she made a good choice. I said if I wasn’t, you know, the way I was, I’d be interested too.”
“Thanks, Kiz,” Bosch said but his mind was flying.
“Well, look, I’m gonna go. I’ll see you. Knock ’em dead tomorrow, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
She hung up and Bosch slowly put the phone back in its cradle. The tightening in his gut got more intense. He started thinking about McCaleb’s visit and what he had asked and what Harry had said. Now Winston was asking questions about him.
He did not believe it was a coincidence. It was clear to Bosch that they had a bead on him. They were looking at him for the Edward Gunn killing. And he knew he had probably given McCaleb the right amount of psychological insight to believe he was on the right course.
Bosch drained the bottle of beer that was on the nightstand. The last swallow was room temperature and sour. He knew there were no more bottles in the refrigerator. He got up to get a cigarette instead.
Chapter 22
Nat’s was a railroad car-sized bar that was like a lot of Hollywood haunts – favored during daylight hours by hard-core drinkers, during early evening hours by casual hookers and their clientele, and late at night by the black leather and tattoo crowd. It was the kind of place where a person would stand out as a target if he tried to pay for drinks with a gold credit card.
McCaleb had stopped at Musso’s for dinner – his body clock demanding nourishment before a complete shutdown occurred – and didn’t get to Nat’s until after ten. While eating his chicken pot pie he had wondered whether going to the bar to ask questions about Gunn was even worth the time. The tip had come from the suspect. Would the suspect knowingly point the investigator in the right direction? It seemed not, but McCaleb factored in Bosch’s drinking and his being unaware of McCaleb’s true mission during the visit to the house on the hill. The tip might very well be valid and he decided no part of the investigation should be overlooked.
As he walked in it took him a few seconds to adjust to the dim, reddish lighting. When the room became clear he saw it was half empty. It was the time between the early evening crowd and the late-night group. Two women – one black, one white – sitting at one end of the bar that ran along the left side of the room sized him up and McCaleb could see cop register in their eyes at the same moment hookers registered in his. It secretly pleased him that he still had the look. He walked by them and further into the lounge. The booths lining the right side of the room were mostly full. No one in these bothered to give him a glance.
He stepped up to the bar between two empty stools and signaled one of the bartenders.
An old Bob Seger song, “Night Moves,” was blaring from a jukebox in the back. The bartender leaned over the bar so she could get McCaleb’s order. She was wearing a buttoned black vest with no shirt underneath. She had long straight black hair and a thin gold hoop pierced her left eyebrow.
“What can I get you?”
“Some information.”
McCaleb slid a driver’s-license picture of Edward Gunn across the counter. It was a three-by-five blowup that had been in the files Winston gave him. The bartender looked at it for a moment and then back up at McCaleb.
“What about him? He’s dead.”
“How do you know that?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know. Word just got around, I guess. You a cop?”
McCaleb nodded, lowered his voice so the music would cover it and said, “Something like that.”
The bartender leaned further over the bartop so she could hear him. This position opened the top of her vest, exposing most of her small but round breasts. There was a tattoo of a heart wrapped in barbed wire on the left side. It looked like a bruise on a pear, not very appetizing. McCaleb looked away.
