Angels Flight

what he had just been told, Bosch went back down the hall to his bedroom. He stepped in and looked around. It looked the same. He opened the door to the walk-in closet and hit the light. Eleanor’s clothes were gone. He looked down at the floor. Her shoes had been cleared out as well. On the rug he saw a little bundle of netting tied with a blue ribbon. He bent down and picked it up. The netting was wrapped around a handful of rice. He remembered that the chapel in Las Vegas had provided the rice bundles as part of the wedding package – for tossing at the happy couple. Eleanor had kept one as a keepsake. Now Bosch wondered if she had mistakenly left it behind or had simply discarded it.
    Bosch dropped the bundle into his pocket and turned off the light.

Chapter 28
    EDGAR and Rider had rolled the television out of the lieutenant’s office and were watching the news when Bosch walked into the squad room after leaving Sheehan at his house. They barely looked up to acknowledge him.
    “What?” Bosch asked.
    “I guess people didn’t like us cutting Sheehan loose,” Edgar said.
    “Sporadic looting and arson,” Rider said. “Nothing like last time. I think we’ll make it if we get through this night. We got roving platoons out there and they’re coming down on anything that moves.”
    “No bullshit like last time,” Edgar added.
    Bosch nodded and stared at the TV for a few moments. The screen showed firefighters aiming three-inch hoses into the balling flames pouring through the roof of another strip mall. It was too late to save it. It almost seemed as though it was being done for the media.
    “Urban redevelopment,” Edgar said. “Get rid of all the strip malls.”
    “Problem is, they just put strip malls back,” Rider said.
    “At least they look better than before,” Edgar said. “Real problem is the liquor stores. These things always start in the liquor stores. We put a squad out front of every liquor store, no riot.”
    “Where are we on the warrants?” Bosch asked.
    “We’re done,” Rider said. “We just have to take them over to the judge.”
    “Who are you thinking about?”
    “Terry Baker. I already called and she said she’d be around.”
    “Good. Let’s have a look.”
    Rider got up and walked over to the homicide table while Edgar stayed behind and continued to watch the television. Stacked neatly at her spot were the search warrant applications. She handed them to Bosch.
    “We’ve got the two houses, all cars, all offices and on Richter we have his car at the time of the killing and his apartment – we threw that in, too,” she said. “I think we’re set.”
    Each petition was several pages stapled together. Bosch knew that the first two pages were always standard legalese. He skipped these and quickly read the probable cause statements of each package. Rider and Edgar had done well, though Bosch knew it was likely Rider’s doing. She had the best legal mind of the team. Even the PC statements on the proposed search of Richter’s apartment and car were going to fly. Using clever language and selected facts from the investigation, the PC statement said the evidence of the case indicated two suspects were involved in the disposal of Stacey Kincaid’s body. And by virtue of the close employer/employee relationship that existed at the time between Sam Kincaid and D.C. Richter, Richter could be considered a second suspect. The petition asked permission to search all vehicles operated or accessible by the two men at the time of the crime. It was a carefully worded tap dance but it would work, Bosch believed. Asking to search all cars “accessible” by the two men was a masterstroke by Rider. If approved, this essentially would allow them access to any car on any one of the car lots owned by Kincaid because he most certainly had access to those cars.
    “Looks good,” Bosch said when he had finished reading. He handed the stack back to Rider. “Let’s get them signed tonight so tomorrow we can move when we want to.”
    A search warrant was good for twenty-four hours following approval from a judge. In most cases it could be extended another twenty-four hours with a phone call to the signing judge.
    “What about this Richter guy?” Bosch asked then. “We get anything on him yet?”
    “A little,” Edgar said.
    He finally got up, turned the sound down on the television and came over to the table.
    “Guy was a washout at the academy. This is way back, fall of