of his Caprice he pulled out two stepladders that they would use to scale the wall next to the driveway gate. Iverson was the first to go over. When he got to the top of the wall, he put the other ladder in place on the other side but hesitated before climbing down into the front yard.
“Anybody see any dogs?”
“No dogs,” Baxter said. “I checked this morning.”
Iverson went down and the others followed him over. While he waited for his turn, Bosch looked around and could just see the neon demarcation of the Strip several miles to the east. Above this the sun was a neon red ball. The air had gone from warm to hot and was as dry and rough as sandpaper. Bosch thought of the cherry-flavored Chap Stick in his pocket that he had bought at the hotel gift shop. But he didn’t want to use it in front of the local boys.
After Bosch had scaled the wall and was approaching the house behind the others, he looked at his watch. It was now almost nine but the house seemed dead. No movement, no sound, no lights, nothing. Curtains were closed across every window.
“You sure he’s here?” Bosch whispered to Baxter.
“He’s here,” Baxter replied without lowering his voice. “I jumped the wall about six and touched the hood of the Vette. It was warm. He hadn’t been home long. He’s in there asleep, I guarantee it. Nine o’clock to this guy is like four in the morning for normal people.”
Bosch looked over at the Corvette. He remembered it from the night before. As he looked around further, he realized the confines within the walls of the compound were carpeted in lush, green grass. It must have cost a fortune to plant and another one to keep it watered. The property sat in the desert like a towel on the beach. Bosch was drawn from his wonder by the sound of Iverson hitting the front door with his foot.
With weapons drawn, Bosch and the others followed Iverson into the dark opening to the house. They went in screaming the usual identifiers-Police! and Don’t Move!-and quickly moved down a hallway to the left. Bosch followed the sharp slashes of light from their flashlights. Almost immediately he heard female screams and then a light came on in a room at the end of the hall.
By the time he got in there, he saw Iverson kneeling on a king-size bed, holding his Smith amp; Wesson short barrel six inches from the face of Luke Goshen. The big man Bosch had encountered the night before was wrapped in the bed’s black silk sheets and looked as calm about the situation as Magic Johnson used to look while shooting free throws with the game on the line. He even took the time to glance up at the ceiling to view the reflection of the scene in the mirror.
It was the women who weren’t calm. Two of them, both nude, stood on either side of the bed, oblivious to their nakedness but fully in the latter stages of fright. Finally, Baxter quieted them with a loud shout of “Shut up!”
It took a few moments for the silence to sink in. Nobody moved. Bosch never took his eyes off Goshen. He was the only danger in the room. He sensed that the other cops, who had branched off to search the house, had now moved into the room behind him along with the two uniform cops.
“On your face, Luke,” Iverson finally ordered. “You girls get some clothes on. Now!”
One of the women said, “You can’t just-”
“Shut up!” Iverson cut her off. “Or you go in to town like that. Your choice.”
“I’m not go-”
“Randy!” Goshen boomed with a voice as deep as a barrel. “Shut the fuck up and get dressed. They’re not taking you anywhere. You, too, Harm.”
All the men but Goshen instinctively looked at the woman he had called Harm. She looked like she weighed about ninety pounds. She had soft blond hair, breasts she could hide in a child’s tea cups and a gold hoop piercing one of the folds of her vagina. There was a look of fright etched on her face that had completely crowded out any hint of beauty.
“Harmony,” she whispered, understanding their dilemma.
“Well, get dressed, Harmony,” Felton said. “Both of you. Turn to the wall and get dressed.”
“Just get ’em their clothes and get ’em out of here,” Iverson said.
Harmony was stepping into a pair of jeans when she stopped and looked at the men giving conflicting orders.
“Well, which is it?” Randy asked in an irritated voice. “You people got your shit together or what?”
Bosch recognized her as the woman who had been dancing in Dolly’s the night before.
“Get ’em out of here!” Iverson yelled. “Now.”
The uniforms moved in to usher the naked women out.
“We’re going,” Randy yelped. “Don’t touch me.”
Iverson yanked the sheets off Goshen and began cuffing his hands behind his back. Goshen’s blond hair ran in a thin and tightly braided ponytail down his back. Bosch hadn’t noticed that the night before.
“Whatsa matter, Iverson?” he said, his face against the mattress. “You got a problem with a little poon hangin’ around? You a little punk or something?”
“Goshen, do yourself a favor, shut your fuckin’ hole.”
Goshen laughed off the threat. He was a deeply tanned man who seemed even larger than Bosch recalled from the night before. He was completely buffed, his arms the size of hams. For a short moment, Bosch thought he understood Goshen’s desire to sleep with two women. And why they willingly went with him in twos.
Goshen faked a yawn to make sure everyone knew he wasn’t the least bit threatened by what was happening. He wore only black bikini underwear that matched the sheets. There were tattoos on his back. A one percent sign on the left shoulder blade, a Harley Davidson insignia on the right. On the upper left arm there was another tattoo. The number eighty-eight.
“What’s this, your IQ?” Iverson said as he sharply slapped the arm.
“Fuck you, Iverson, and the phony fuckin’ warrant you rode in on.”
Bosch knew what the tattoo meant. He had seen it enough in L.A. The eighth letter of the alphabet was H. Eight-eight meant HH, short for Heil Hitler. It meant Goshen had spent some time with white supremacists. But most of the assholes Bosch came across with similar tattoos had gotten them in prison. It was amazing to him that Goshen apparently had no criminal record and had spent no time in stir. If he had, his name would have come up when the prints from Tony Aliso’s jacket had been run through the AFIS computer. He put thoughts of this contradiction aside when Goshen managed to turn his head so that he was looking at Bosch.
“You,” he said. “You’re the one they should be arresting. After what you did to Gussie.”
Bosch bent over the bed to reply.
“This ain’t about last night. This is about Tony Aliso.”
Iverson roughly turned Goshen over on the bed.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Goshen asked angrily. “I’m clean on that, man. What are you-”
He tried to pull himself up into a sitting position but Iverson pushed him back down hard.
“Just sit tight,” Iverson said. “We’ll hear your sorry side of things. But we’re going to have a look around first.”
He took the warrant out of his pocket and dropped it on Goshen’s chest.
“There’s your warrant.”
“I can’t read it.”
“Not my fault you didn’t stay in school.”
“Just hold it up for me.”
Iverson ignored him and looked at the others.
“Okay, let’s split up and see what we’ve got here. Harry, you take this room, okay, keep our friend here company?”
“Right.”
Iverson then addressed the two uniforms.
“I want one of you guys in here. Just stand out of the way and keep your eyes on douche bag here.”
One of the uniforms nodded and the others left the room. Bosch and Goshen looked at each other.
“I can’t read this thing,” Goshen said.
“I know,” Bosch said. “You said that.”
“This is bullshit. It’s just a roust. You couldn’t possibly have anything on me because I didn’t do it.”
