Free Angels Flight by Michael Connelly Page A

suicide note. We found other stuff that was hers.”
    “Why’d he keep the stuff?”
    “Because people are stupid, that’s why, Chastain. You want clever killers, watch TV. He kept the stuff because he never thought we’d think it wasn’t a suicide. And because he was in the notebook. She wrote about him stalking her, about how she was sort of flattered and scared of him at the same time. He probably got off on reading it. He kept it.”
    “When’s the trial?”
    “Couple months.”
    “Sounds like a slam dunk.”
    “Yeah, we’ll see. So was O.J.”
    “What did he do, drug her somehow, then put her in the tub and cut her?”
    “He was letting himself in her apartment when she was out. There was stuff in the diary about her thinking someone had been creeping her place. She was a runner — did three miles a day. We think that was when he liked to go in. She had prescription painkillers in the medicine cabinet — she got hurt playing racquetball a couple years before. We think he took the pills on one of his visits and dissolved them in orange juice. The next time he went in he poured it into the juice bottle in her fridge. He knew her habits, knew that after jogging she liked to sit on the steps out front, drink her juice and cool down. She may have realized she had been drugged and looked around for help. It was him who came. He took her back inside.”
    “He rape her first?”
    Bosch shook his head.
    “He probably tried but he couldn’t get it up.”
    They drove in silence for a few moments.
    “You’re cool, Bosch,” Chastain said. “Nothing gets by you.”
    “Yeah, I wish.”

Chapter 7
     
    C HASTAIN parked the car in the passenger loading zone in front of the modern high-rise building called The Place. Before they were out of the car the night doorman came through the glass entrance to either greet them or tell them to move. Bosch got out and explained that Howard Elias had been murdered less than a block away and that they needed to check his apartment to make sure there were no additional victims or someone needing help. The doorman said no problem but wanted to go along. Bosch told him in a tone that invited no debate to wait in the lobby for other officers who would be arriving.
    Howard Elias’s apartment was on the twentieth floor. The elevator moved quickly but the silence between Bosch and Chastain made the trip seem longer.
    They found their way to 20E and Bosch knocked on the door and rang the doorbell on the wall next to it. After getting no response, Bosch stooped and opened his briefcase on the floor, then took the keys out of the evidence bag Hoffman had given him earlier.
    “You think we ought to wait on the warrant?” Chastain asked.
    Bosch looked up at him as he closed the briefcase and snapped the locks.
    “No.”
    “That was a line of bullshit you gave the doorman, that people maybe needed help.”
    Bosch stood up and started trying keys in the door’s two locks.
    “Remember what you said before about me eventually having to trust you? This is where I start to trust you, Chastain. I don’t have the time to wait on a warrant. I’m going in. A homicide case is like a shark. It’s gotta keep moving or it drowns.”
    He turned the first lock.
    “You and your fucking fish. First fighting fish, now a shark.”
    “Yeah, you keep sticking around, Chastain, you might even learn how to catch something.”
    Just as he said the line he turned the second lock. He looked at Chastain and winked, then opened the door.
    They entered a medium-sized living room with expensive leather furnishings, cherrywood bookcases, and windows and a balcony with an expansive southern view across downtown and the civic center. The place was neatly kept except for sections of Friday morning’s Times spread across the black leather couch and an empty coffee mug on the glass-topped coffee table.
    “Hello?” Bosch called out, just to be sure the place was empty. “Police. Anyone home?”
    No