“Bosch, I gotta tell you something.”
Bosch looked back at him and Meachum raised his hands.
“We’re going to have a problem if you want to take anything out of that office without a warrant. I mean, I heard what you said about that tape and now she’s in there stacking stuff on the desk to go. But I can’t let you take anything.”
“Then you are going to be here all night, Chuck. There are a lot of files in there and a lot of work to do. It’d be a lot easier for us to haul it all back to the bureau now.”
“I know that. I’ve been there. But this is the position I’ve been instructed to take. We need the warrant.”
Bosch used the phone on the receptionist’s desk to call Edgar, who was still in the detective bureau just beginning the paperwork the case would generate. Bosch told him to drop that work for the moment and start drawing up search warrants for all financial records in Aliso’s home and the Archway offices and any being held by his attorney.
“You want me to call the duty judge tonight?” Edgar asked. “It’s almost two in the morning.”
“Do it,” Bosch said. “When you have ’em signed, bring them out here to Archway. And bring some boxes.”
Edgar groaned. He was getting all the shit work. Nobody liked waking up a judge in the middle of the night.
“I know, I know, Jerry. But it’s got to be done. Anything else going on?”
“No. I called the Mirage, talked to a guy in security. The room Aliso used was rebooked over the weekend. It’s open now and he’s got a hold on it, but it’s spoiled.”
“Probably… Okay, man, next time you’ll eat the bear. Get on those warrants.”
In Aliso’s office, Rider was already looking through the files. Bosch told her Edgar was working on a warrant and that they would have to draw up an inventory for Meachum. He also told her to take a break if she wanted but she declined.
Bosch sat down behind the desk. It had the usual clutter. There was a phone with a speaker attachment, a Rolodex, a blotter, a magnetic block that held paper clips to it and a wood carving that said TNA Productions in script. There was also a tray stacked with paperwork.
Bosch looked at the phone and noticed the redial button. He lifted the handset and pushed the button. He could tell by the quick procession of tones that the last call made on the phone had been long distance. After two rings it was answered by a female voice. There was loud music in the background.
“Hello?” she said.
“Yes, hello, who’s this?”
She giggled.
“I don’t know, who’s this?”
“I might have the wrong number. Is this Tony’s?”
“No, it’s Dolly’s.”
“Oh, Dolly’s. Okay, uh, then where are you located?”
She giggled again.
“On Madison, where do you think? How do you think we got the name?”
“Where’s Madison?”
“We’re in North Las Vegas. Where are you coming from?”
“The Mirage.”
“Okay, just follow the boulevard out front to the north. You go all the way past downtown and past a bunch of cruddy areas and into North Las Vegas. Madison is your third light after you go under the overpass. Take a left and we’re a block down on the left. What’s your name again?”
“It’s Harry.”
“Well, Harry, I’m Rhonda. As in…”
Bosch said nothing.
“Come on, Harry, you’re supposed to say, ‘Help me, Rhonda, help, help me, Rhonda.’”
She sang the line from the old Beach Boys song.
“Actually, Rhonda, there is something you can help me with,” Bosch said. “I’m looking for a buddy of mine. Tony Aliso. He been in there lately?”
“Haven’t seen him this week. Haven’t seen him since Thursday or Friday. I was wondering how you got the dressing room number.”
“Yeah, from Tony.”
“Well, Layla isn’t here tonight, so Tony wouldn’t be coming in anyway, I don’t think. But you can come on out. He don’t have to be here for you to have a good time.”
“Okay, Rhonda, I’ll try to swing by.”
Bosch hung up. He took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down the name of the business he had just called, the directions to it and the names Rhonda and Layla. He drew a line under the second name.
“What was that?” Rider asked.
“A lead in Vegas.”
He recounted the call and the inference made about the person named Layla. Rider agreed that it was something to pursue, then went back to the files. Bosch went back to the desk. He studied the things on top of it before going to the things in it.
“Hey, Chuckie?” he asked.
Meachum, leaning against the door with his arms folded in front of him, raised his eyebrows by way of response.
“He’s got no phone tape. What about when the receptionist isn’t out there? Do phone calls go to the operator or some kind of a phone service?”
“Uh, no, the whole lot’s on voice mail now.”
“So Aliso had voice mail? How do I get into it?”
“Well, you’ve got to have his code. It’s a three-digit code. You call the voice mail computer, punch in the code and you pick up your messages.”
“How do I get his code?”
“You don’t. He programmed it himself.”
“There’s no master code I can break in with?”
“Nope. It’s not that sophisticated a system, Bosch. I mean, what do you want, it’s phone messages.”
Bosch took out his notebook again and checked the notes for Aliso’s birthday.
“What’s the voice mail number?” he asked.
Meachum gave him the number and Bosch called the computer. After a beep he punched in 721 but the number was rejected. Bosch drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. He tried 862, the numbers corresponding with TNA, and a computer voice told him he had four messages.
“Kiz, listen to this,” he said.
He put the phone on speaker and hung up. As the messages were played back Bosch took a few notes, but the first three messages were from men reporting on technical aspects of a planned film shoot, equipment rental and costs. Each call was followed by the electronic voice which reported when on Friday the call had come in.
The fourth message made Bosch lean forward and listen closely. The voice belonged to a young woman and it sounded like she was crying.
“Hey, Tone, it’s me. Call me as soon as you get this. I almost feel like calling your house. I need you. That bastard Lucky says I’m fired. And for no reason. He just wants to get his dick into Modesty. I’m so…I don’t want to have to work at the Palomino or any of those other places. The Garden. Forget it. I want to come out there to L.A. Be with you. Call me.”
The electronic voice said the call had come in at 4 A.M. on Sunday-long after Tony Aliso was dead. The caller had not given her name. It was therefore obviously someone Aliso would have known. Bosch wondered if it was the woman Rhonda had mentioned, Layla. He looked at Rider and she just shook her shoulders. They knew too little to judge the significance of the call.
Bosch sat in the desk chair contemplating things a few moments. He opened a drawer but didn’t start through it. His eyes traveled up the wall to the right of the desk and roamed across the photos of the smiling Tony Aliso posed with celebrities. Some of them had written notes on the photos but they were hard to read. Bosch studied
