“Eighty-nine suicides of females between twenty and thirty.”
Bosch nodded, trying to think of ways to narrow the search.
“Do you have it by method?” he asked.
“Yes. What are you looking for?”
“Pills.”
“That would be overdose.”
She typed it in and had the answer in seconds. “Fifty-six.”
“What about by profession? I think I’m looking at actresses only.”
“That would be a catchall: entertainer.”
She typed and had the answer before Bosch took his next breath.
“Twenty-six.”
“White females?”
She typed.
“Twenty-three.”
Bosch nodded. He could think of nothing else to narrow it down to cases similar to Lizbeth Grayson’s phony suicide.
“Can you print out the names and case numbers for me?”
“No problem.”
Thirty seconds later Bosch had the list and was ready to go down to archives to pull the files.
“You need any help with that, Harry?” Rider asked.
“You mean like you might want to do some detective work?”
She smiled.
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said. “It gets kind of boring up here looking at the computer all day.”
Bosch checked his watch. It was almost lunchtime.
“Tell you what. I’ll go pull the twenty-three files and then meet you in the cafeteria for lunch. We can look through them then. I could probably use the help because my partner thinks this is the wildest goose chase I’ve ever been on. He’s working on our backlog while I do this. And he’s losing his patience.”
She kept her smile.
“I’ll get a table and see you down there.”
Bosch opened his briefcase and pulled out the Grayson file.
“Start with this.”
In the cafeteria, Bosch put the stack of files down on a table Rider had commandeered. She had half of a tuna fish sandwich on a plate and was looking through the last few documents in the Grayson file.
“Are you sure you can do this?” he asked her.
“No problem. What are we looking for?”
“I don’t know yet. But if you read that file, you know there are inconsistencies in the Grayson case. The suicide note was a plant and a piece of jewelry is missing. A silver-chain necklace with a single pearl on it.”
Rider frowned.
“What about the autopsy?”
“That was yesterday. We’re waiting on the tox.”
“Was she raped?”
“No abrasions. No DNA recovered.”
“What do you think happened, Harry?”
“What do I
“What can you prove?”
“Nothing. That’s why I pulled these files.”
“Looking for what?”
“Sometimes you don’t know what you are looking for until you find it,” he explained. “But I’m convinced Lizbeth Grayson was murdered with such careful planning that it wasn’t the only time this happened.”
“The guy hit before.”
Rider nodded at the stack of thin files.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Bosch said. “So I am looking for anything that is a commonality between her and any of these other suicides.”
Rider frowned.
“And we’ll know it when we see it,” she said.
“Hopefully.”
They got to work. Bosch split the stack in two and they both began working through the files. When one of them finished with a file they put it on the stack for the other to read. This way they each looked at every file. Because the cases were suicides the files were thin and filled largely with autopsy and toxicological reports. All contained photos of the victims in death and most contained a photo of the victim in life as well.
Hollywood has always ground up a good share of the young women who come with their hopes and dreams. Ever since actress Peg Entwistle gave up her celluloid dreams and jumped off the H on the Hollywood sign, many others have followed suit-but in less attention-getting ways. It is the dark secret of the industry. It grinds many of the fragile ones to powder. The powder blows away.
The files contained tragically similar stories. Young women whose lives collapsed when they didn’t get the part and realized they never would get the part. Young women taken advantage of by those who could. Men mostly, but not always. Young women who were clearly fragile before even getting to Hollywood, who had come like moths to the flame, seeking to fill the empty spaces inside with long-shot fame and fortune.
But there were also files that contained only questions. Suicides without explanation, involving women who had growing credits and reason to be hopeful about their lives and careers. A few left one- or two-line notes but Bosch could not tell if these were actual suicide notes or possibly lines from auditions or parts they were playing.
Bosch studied the photos, many of which were professional headshots, and the lists of credits. He found nothing in common with Lizbeth Grayson other than that all the women had been young and hopeful. There was no shared acting school or common agent. No showcase play or work as an extra on the same movie. He didn’t see the connections and began to think that maybe Jerry Edgar was right. He was chasing something that wasn’t there.
He was on the second to the last file when Rider spoke up.
“Harry, are you finding anything?”
“No, not yet. And I’m running out of files.”
“What will you do?”
“I have to decide whether to drop it or continue on. If I continue I’ll have to work it on the side. In homicide they call it working a hobby case. You work it when you have the time. The next step is to conduct a field investigation-go out and talk to the people who knew these women, check their apartments, see if anybody has any of their belongings still. I can tell you right now my lieutenant isn’t going to let me go off and do that. I’ll have to work it like a hobby.”
“Who’s the lieutenant in Hollywood? Is that Pounds?”
“Yep. Pounds. He’s not much of an expansive thinker.”
Rider smiled and nodded.
“Look, I’m sorry I wasted your lunch break,” Bosch said.
“Not at all,” she said. “Besides, I’m not finished yet.”
She held up the five remaining files she needed to look through. He smiled and nodded. He liked her confidence. They dropped into silence and dove back into the files.
In ten minutes Bosch was finished with the files and had found nothing that would bump the case up higher than a hobby. He asked Rider if she wanted a cup of coffee but she said no. He got up to get a cup for himself. The cafeteria was thinning out and getting quiet after the lunch rush. When he got back to their table Rider was standing. Bosch thought she had finished and was about to go. But she was standing because she was excited.
“I think I found something,” she said.
