Free Trunk Music by Michael Connelly Page B

still thinking about.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like all the makeup she had on and the way she took my badge out of my hand. Nobody’s ever done that before. It’s like…I don’t know, like maybe she was waiting for us.”
    When they got to the entrance of Archway Pictures, Meachum was standing under the half-size replica of the Arc de Triomphe smoking a cigarette and waiting. He was wearing a sport coat over a golf shirt and had a bemused smile on his face when he recognized Bosch pulling up. Bosch had spent time with Meachum in the Robbery-Homicide Division ten years before. Never partnered, but they worked a few of the same task forces. Meachum had gotten out when the getting out was good. He pulled the pin a month after the Rodney King tape hit the news. He knew. He told everybody it was the beginning of the end. Archway hired him as the assistant director of security. Nice job, nice pay, plus he was pulling in the twenty-year pension of half pay. He was the one they talked about when they talked about smart moves. Now, with all the baggage the LAPD carried — the King beating, the riots, the Christopher Commission, O.J. Simpson and Mark Fuhrman — a retiring dick would be lucky if a place like Archway hired him to work the front gate.
    “Harry Bosch,” Meachum said, leaning down to look in. “What it is, what it is?”
    The first thing Bosch had noticed was that Meachum had gotten his teeth capped since he’d last seen him.
    “Chuckie. Long time. This is my partner, Kiz Rider.”
    Rider nodded and Meachum nodded and studied her a moment. Black female detectives were a rarity in his day, even though he hadn’t been off the job more than five years.
    “So what’s shaking, Detectives? Why’d you want to go and pull me out of the hot tub?”
    He smiled, showing off the teeth. Bosch guessed he knew that they had been noticed.
    “We got a case. We want to take a look at the vic’s office.”
    “It’s here? Who’s the stiff?”
    “Anthony N. Aliso. TNA Productions.”
    Meachum crinkled his eyes. He had the deep tan of a golfer who never misses his Saturday morning start and usually gets away for at least nine once or twice during the week.
    “Doesn’t do anything for me, Harry. You sure he —”
    “Look it up, Chuck. He’s here. Was.”
    “All right, tell you what, park the car over in the main lot and we’ll go back to my office, grab a cup and look this guy up.”
    He pointed toward a lot directly through the gate and Bosch did as instructed. The lot was almost empty and was next to a huge soundstage with an outside wall painted powder blue with puffs of white clouds. It was used for shooting exteriors when the real sky was too brown with smog.
    They followed Meachum on foot to the studio security offices. Entering the suite, they passed by a glass-walled office in which a man in a brown Archway Security outfit sat at a desk surrounded by banks of video monitors. He was reading the Times sports page, which he quickly dropped into a trash can next to the desk when he saw Meachum.
    Bosch saw that Meachum didn’t seem to notice because he had been holding the door open for them. When he turned, he casually saluted the man in the glass office and led Bosch and Rider back to his office.
    Meachum slid in behind his desk and turned to his computer. The monitor screen depicted an intergalactic battle among assorted space ships. Meachum hit one key and the screen saver disappeared. He asked Bosch to spell Aliso’s name and he punched it into the computer. He then tilted the monitor so Bosch and Rider couldn’t see the screen. Bosch was annoyed by this but he didn’t say anything. After a few moments, Meachum did.
    “You’re right. He was here. Tyrone Power Building. Had one of the little cubbyholes they rent to nonplayers. Three-office suite. Three losers. They share a secretary who comes with the rent.”
    “How long’s he been here? That say?”
    “Yeah. Almost seven years.”
    “What else you got