“That fits with the time frame the ME’s looking at and the plane ticket. I think we’re zeroing in on Friday night, sometime after he got in from Vegas. Probably on his way home from the airport. Nobody heard any shots?”
“Not that I’ve found. There’s two houses where I got no answer. I was going to go back and try them now.”
“Maybe you can catch them tomorrow. I’m heading up to Hidden Highlands. I think you should go with me.”
They made arrangements to meet outside the entrance to the development where Aliso had lived, and Bosch closed the phone. He wanted Kiz along when he told Aliso’s next of kin he was dead because it would be good for her to learn the grim routine and because the percentages called for whoever that next of kin was to be considered a possible suspect. It was always good to have a witness with you when you first spoke to the person who later could become your quarry.
Bosch looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. Taking care of the notification meant they probably wouldn’t be getting to the victim’s office until midnight. He called the communications center and gave the operator the address on Melrose and had her look it up in the cross directory. It came back to Archway Pictures, as Bosch had guessed. He knew they had caught a bit of a break. Archway was a midsize studio that largely rented offices and production facilities to independent filmmakers. As far as Bosch knew, it hadn’t made its own films since the 1960s. The break was that he knew someone in security over there. Chuckie Meachum was a former Robbery-Homicide bull who had retired a few years earlier and taken a job as assistant director of security at Archway. He would be useful in smoothing their way in. Bosch considered calling ahead and arranging for Chuckie Meachum to meet them at the studio but decided against it. He decided he didn’t want anyone to know he was coming until he got there.
He got to Hidden Highlands fifteen minutes later. Rider’s car was parked on the shoulder off Mulholland. Bosch pulled up and she got in his car. Then he pulled into the entrance lane next to the gatehouse. It was a small brick structure with a single guard inside. Hidden Highlands was maybe a little richer but not that different from many of the other small, wealthy and scared enclaves nestled in the hills and valleys around Los Angeles. Walls and gates, guardhouses and private security forces were the secret ingredients of the so-called melting pot of southern California.
A guard in a blue uniform stepped out of the gatehouse carrying a clipboard and Bosch had his badge wallet out and open. The guard was a tall, thin man with a worn, gray face. Bosch didn’t recognize him, though he had heard in the station that most of the guards working here were off-duty uniforms from Hollywood Division. In the past he had seen postings for part-time jobs on the bulletin board outside the roll call room.
The guard gave Bosch a once-over in a laconic manner, avoiding a look at the badge on purpose.
“Kenahepyou?” he finally said.
“I need to go to the home of Anthony Aliso.”
He gave the address on Hillcrest that had been on the victim’s driver’s license.
“Your names?”
“Detective Harry Bosch, LAPD. Says it right here. This is Detective Kizmin Rider.”
He proffered the badge wallet, but it was still ignored. The guard was writing on his clipboard. Bosch saw his name tag said Nash. He also saw that the tin badge said CAPTAIN across it.
“They expecting you at the Aliso place?”
“I don’t think so. It’s police business.”
“Okay, but I’ve got to call ahead. It’s the development’s rules, you know.”
“I prefer you didn’t do that, Captain Nash.”
Bosch hoped his use of the security guard’s title would win him over. Nash thought a moment.
“Tell you what,” he said. “You go on ahead and I’ll come up with a reason for delaying making the call a few minutes. I’ll just say I’m up here by myself t’night and I got kind of busy, if there’s a complaint.”
He stepped back and reached in the open door of the gatehouse. He pressed a button on the inside wall and the crossguard went up.
“Thanks, Captain. You work out of Hollywood?”
Bosch knew he didn’t. He could tell Nash wasn’t even a cop. He didn’t have the cold eyes of a cop. But Bosch was playing to him, just in case he became a useful source of information later on.
“Nah,” Nash said. “I’m full-time. That’s why they made me captain of the watch. Everybody else is part-time out of Hollywood or West Hollywood sheriffs. I run the schedule.”
“Then how’d you get stuck on the night shift on Sunday night?”
“Everybody can use some OT now and then.”
Bosch nodded.
“You’re right about that. Hillcrest, where’s that?”
“Oh, yeah, forgot. Take your second left. That’s Hillcrest. The Aliso place is about the sixth house on the right. Nice view of the city from the pool.”
“Did you know him?” Rider asked, leaning down so she could see Nash through Bosch’s window.
“Aliso?” Nash said, bending further to look in at her. He thought a moment. “Not really. Just like I know people when they come through here. I’m just the same to them as the pool man, I guess. I notice you asked did I know him. Am I not going to get the chance?”
“Smart man, Mr. Nash,” Rider said.
She straightened up, finished with the conversation. Bosch nodded his thanks and drove through the gate to Hillcrest. As he passed the broad, manicured lawns surrounding houses the size of apartment buildings, he filled Rider in on what he had learned at the print shed and from Edgar. He also admired the properties they were passing. Many of them were surrounded by walls or tall hedges that looked as though they were trimmed into sharp edges every morning. Walls within walls, Bosch thought. He wondered what the owners did with all of their space besides fearfully guard it.
It took them five minutes to find the Aliso house on a cul-de-sac at the top of the hill. He passed through the open gates of an estate with a Tudor-style mansion set behind a circular driveway made of gray paver stones. Bosch got out with his briefcase and looked up at the place. It was intimidating in its size, but its style was not much to speak of. He wouldn’t want it, even if he had the money.
After getting to the door and pushing the doorbell button, he looked at Rider.
“You ever done this before?”
“No. But I grew up in South L.A. A lot of drive-bys. I was around when people got the news.”
Bosch nodded.
“Not to belittle that experience, but this is different. What is important is not what you hear said, it’s what you observe.”
Bosch pushed the lighted button again. He could hear the bell sound from inside the house. He looked at Rider and could tell she was about to ask a question, when the door was opened by a woman.
“Mrs. Aliso?” Bosch asked.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Aliso, I’m Detective Harry Bosch with the LAPD. This is my partner, Detective Kizmin Rider. We need to speak with you concerning your husband.”
He held out his badge wallet and she took it from his hand. Usually, they didn’t do that. Usually, they recoiled from it or looked at it like it was some strange and fascinating object not to be touched.
“I don’t under-”
She stopped when the sound of a phone ringing began somewhere behind her in the big house.
“Would you excuse me a moment. I have to-”
“That’s probably Nash at the gate. He said he had to call ahead, but there was a lineup of cars behind us. I guess we beat him here. We need to come in to talk to you, ma’am.”
She stepped back in and opened the door wide for him. She looked about five to ten years younger than her husband had been. She was maybe forty, attractive, with dark straight hair and a trim build. She wore a lot of makeup on a face Bosch guessed had been sculpted at times by the surgeon’s knife. Still, through the makeup she looked tired, worn. He could see her face was flushed pink, as though she might have been drinking. She wore a light blue dress that showed off her legs. They were tan and the muscles still taut. Bosch could see she had been considered very beautiful at one time but was sliding into that stage when a woman believes her beauty may be leaving-even if it isn’t. Maybe that was why she had all the makeup on, Bosch guessed. Or maybe it was because she was still expecting her husband to show up.