Lost Light (26 page)

It also made me conclude that maybe the two partners had not been close. They were close now, inextricably linked in department mythology as keepers of the ultimate bad luck. But maybe if they had been close that moment in the bar, things would have been different.

Thinking about what could have been made me remember Danny Cross singing to her husband. I finally got up and went to the CD player and put in a disc of the collected works of Louis Armstrong. It had been put out in unison with the Ken Burns documentary on jazz. Most of it was the very early stuff but I knew it ended with “What a Wonderful World,” his last hit.

Back at the table I looked at my notepad. I had written down only three things during my first read-through.

$100K

Sandor Szatmari

The money, stupid

The company that had insured the money on the movie set, Global Underwriters, had put up a $100,000 reward for an arrest and conviction in the case. I hadn’t known about the reward and was surprised that Lawton Cross hadn’t told me. I guessed that it was just another detail that had escaped from his mind due to trauma and the passage of time.

The fact that there was a reward was of little personal consequence to me. I assumed that since I was a former cop who at one time was involved in the case, albeit before the heist that spawned the reward, I would not be eligible for it if my efforts resulted in an arrest and conviction. I also knew that it was likely that the small print on the reward proclamation said that full recovery of the $2 million was required for collection of the hundred thousand, with the amount prorated according to the amount of recovery. And four years after the crime the chances of there being anything left to recover were small. Still, the reward was good to know about. It might be useful as a tool of leverage or coercion. I might not be eligible but I might encounter someone useful who would be. I was glad I found out about it.

Next on the notepad was the name Sandor Szatmari. He or she—I didn’t know which—was listed as the case investigator for Global Underwriters. He or she was someone I needed to talk to. I opened the murder book to the first page, where investigators usually kept a page of most often called phone numbers. There was no listing for Szatmari but there was for Global. I went into the kitchen to get the phone, turned down Louis Armstrong on the CD player and made the call. I was transferred twice before I finally got a woman who answered with “Investigations.”

I had trouble with Szatmari’s name and she corrected me and then told me to hold. In less than a minute Szatmari picked up. The name belonged to a he. I explained my situation and asked if we could meet. He seemed skeptical, but that might have just been because he had an accent from Eastern Europe that made him hard to read. He declined to discuss the case over the phone with a stranger but ultimately agreed to meet me in person at ten o’clock the next morning at his office in Santa Monica. I told him I’d be there and hung up.

I looked at the last line I had written on the notepad. It was just a reminder of an old adage good for almost any investigation. Follow the money, stupid. It always leads to the truth. In this case the money was gone and the trail—other than blips on the radar in Phoenix and involving Mousouwa Aziz and Martha Gessler—had gone cold. I knew that left me one alternative. To go backwards. Trace the money backwards and see what came up.

To do that I needed to start at the bank. I checked the phone number page in the murder book again and called Gordon Scaggs, the vice president at BankLA who had arranged the one-day loan of $2 million to Alexander Taylor’s film company.

Scaggs was a busy man, he told me. He wanted to put off meeting with me until the following week. But I was persistent and got him to squeeze me in for fifteen minutes the next afternoon at three. He asked me for a callback number so his secretary could confirm in the morning. I made up a number and gave it to him. I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to have the secretary call me back and tell me the meeting had been canceled.

I hung up and weighed my options. It was late afternoon and at the moment I was clear until ten the following morning. I wanted to take another run at the murder book but knew I didn’t need to be sitting in the house to do that. I could just as easily be sitting on a plane.

I called Southwest Airlines and reserved a flight from Burbank to Las Vegas, arriving at 7:15, and a return flight leaving early the next morning and arriving at 8:30 back at Burbank.

Eleanor answered her cell phone on the second ring and seemed to be whispering.

“It’s Harry. Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Why are you whispering?”

She spoke up.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was. What’s going on?”

“I’m thinking about coming over there tonight to get my bag and my credit cards.”

When she did not respond right away, I asked, “Are you going to be around?”

“Well, I was going to play tonight. Later.”

“My plane gets in at seven-fifteen. I could come by around eight. Maybe we could have dinner before you go to play.”

I waited and again it seemed like she was taking too long to respond.

“Dinner would be nice. Are you staying overnight?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an early flight out. I have some things to do over here in the morning.”

“Where are you going to stay?”

There was as clear a signal as any.

“I don’t know. I didn’t reserve anything yet.”

“Harry, I don’t think it would be good for you to stay here.”

“Right.”

The line was as silent as the three hundred miles of desert between us.

“I know, I can get you comped at the Bellagio. They’ll do it for me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, Eleanor. You want me to come to your place after I get in?”

“No, I’ll come pick you up. Are you checking luggage?”

“No. You already have my bag.”

“Then I’ll be parked out in front of the terminal at seven-fifteen. I’ll see you then.”

I noticed she was whispering again but I didn’t say anything about it this time.

“Thanks, Eleanor.”

“Okay, Harry, I need to juggle some things to get free tonight. So I’m going to go. I’ll see you at the airport. Seven-fifteen. Bye.”

I said good-bye but she had already hung up. It sounded as though there was another voice in the background just as she disconnected the call.

As I thought about this, Louis Armstrong started singing “What a Wonderful World” and I turned it up.

 

A
t 7:15 that night Eleanor and I repeated the same airport scene. Right down to the kiss when I got into the car. Afterward, I turned awkwardly and lifted the heavy murder book I’d been carrying over the front seats to the back. I dropped it on the backseat next to my suitcase which was on the seat behind Eleanor.

“That looks like a murder book, Harry.”

“It is. I thought I might be able to go through it on the flight.”

“And?”

“I had a screaming baby in the seat behind me. Couldn’t concentrate. Why would anybody bring a kid to Vegas anyway?”

“It’s actually not a bad place to raise a kid. Supposedly.”

“I’m not talking about raising. I mean, why take a little kid like that on a vacation to Sin City? Take him to Disneyland or something.”

“I think you need a drink.”

“And some food. Where do you want to eat?”

“Well, remember when we were still . . . in L.A. and we’d go to Valentino on special occasions?”

“Don’t tell me.”

She laughed and just being able to look at her again thrilled me. I really liked the way her hair accented her lovely neck.

“Yep, they have one here. I made a reservation.”

“They must have one of everything in Las Vegas.”

“Except you. There’s absolutely no duplicating Harry Bosch.”

The smile stayed on her face as she said it and I liked that, too. We soon dropped into a silence probably as comfortable as it can get with two formerly married people. She expertly maneuvered through traffic that looked like it could easily rival anything found on Los Angeles’ clogged streets and freeways.

It had been about three years since I’d been on the strip but Vegas was a place that taught that time was relative. In three years it had all seemed to change again. I saw new resorts and attractions, taxicabs with electronic ad placards on their roofs, monorails connecting the casinos.

The Las Vegas version of Valentino was in the Venetian, one of the newest jewels in the crown of high-end casinos on the strip. It was a place that didn’t even exist the last time I had been in town. When Eleanor pulled into the valet parking circle I told her to pop the trunk so I could put my suitcase and the murder book in it.

“I can’t. It’s full.”

“I don’t want to leave this stuff out, especially the murder book.”

“Well, put it in the bag and put it on the floor. It will be all right.”

“Don’t you have room back there for just the book?”

“No, everything is jam-packed in there and if I open it, then it will all spill out. I don’t want that to happen here.”

“What is in it?”

“Just clothes and things. Stuff I want to take to the Salvation Army but haven’t had the time.”

Two valets opened our doors simultaneously and welcomed us to the resort. I got out, opened the back door and leaned in to open the carry-on bag and put the murder book inside it. After closing the bag I slid it down to the floor behind Eleanor’s seat.

“You coming, Harry?” Eleanor asked from behind me.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

As the valet was driving the car away I looked at the trunk and back end. It didn’t seem particularly heavy. I looked at the license plate and silently read it three times to myself.

Valentino was Valentino. As far as I could tell, the L.A. restaurant had been perfectly cloned. It was like trying to tell the difference between one McDonald’s and another—on a much different culinary level.

I didn’t force the conversation while we ate. I was comfortable and happy just being with her. At first the conversation, though spare, was focused on me and my retirement or lack thereof. I told her about the case I was working, including the connection to her old friend and colleague Marty Gessler. In another lifetime Eleanor had been an FBI agent and she still had the analytical mind of an investigator. When we were together in L.A. she had often been a sounding board for me and on more than one occasion had helped with a suggestion or idea.

This time she had only one piece of advice and that was to stay clear of Peoples and Milton and even Lindell. Not that she knew them personally. She just knew the FBI culture and knew their kind. Of course, her advice came too late for me.

“I’m doing my best to do just that,” I told her. “It would be fine with me if I never see any of them ever again.”

“But not very likely.”

I suddenly thought of something.

“You don’t have your cell phone on you, do you?”

“Yes, but I don’t think they like you using cells in a place like this.”

“I know. I’ll go outside. I just remembered I have to make a call or the shit’s going to hit the fan.”

She got her phone out of her purse and gave it to me. I left the restaurant and stood in an indoor shopping mall that had been built to look like a Venetian canal complete with gondolas. The concrete sky was painted blue with wisps of white clouds. It was phony but at least it was air-conditioned. I called Janis Langwiser’s cell number and told her the coast was clear.

“I was beginning to worry because I hadn’t heard from you. I’ve called your house twice.”

“Everything’s fine. I’m in Vegas and will be back tomorrow.”

“How do I know you’re not under duress? You know, being held and forced to say that.”

“You got caller ID?”

“Oh, that’s right. I saw it was a seven-oh-two number. All right, Harry. Don’t forget, call me tomorrow. And don’t lose too much money over there.”

“I won’t.”

When I got back to the table Eleanor wasn’t there. I sat down and was anxious about it but she came back from the rest room in a few minutes. As I watched her approach I felt she was different but I couldn’t place how. It was more than the hair and the deeper tan. It was like she carried more confidence than I remembered. Maybe she had found what she needed on the blue-felt poker tables on the strip.

I gave her back the phone and she dropped it into her purse.

“So how has it been here?” I asked. “We’ve been talking about my case. Let’s talk about your case for a while.”

“I don’t have a case.”

“You know what I mean.”

She shrugged.

“Things are going well this year. I won a satellite and took a button. I get to play in the series.”

I knew she was talking about winning a qualifying tournament for the World Series of poker. The last time we talked about poker she had told me that her secret goal was to be the first woman to ever win the series. The winner of a qualifying tournament can take the cash prize or a so-called button, which is an entry into the series.

“This will be your first time in the series, right?”

She nodded and smiled and I could tell she was proud and excited.

“It starts pretty soon.”

“Well, good luck. Maybe I’ll come over and watch.”

“Bring me luck.”

“It still must be hard, Eleanor, making a living on the turn of the cards.”

“I’m good at it, Harry. Besides, I’ve got backers now. It spreads the risks.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s how it works these days. I have backers. I use their money when I play. They get seventy-five percent of what I win. If I lose, they take the loss. But I don’t lose too often, Harry.”