Angels Flight

confusion.
    “Why do you want a picture of Howard?”
    “We may need to show people in the course of the investigation.”
    “Everybody already knows Howard, what he looks like.”
    “Probably, ma’am, but we might need a photo in some cases. Do you – ”
    “Martin,” she said, “go get me the albums out of the drawer in the den.”
    Martin left the room and they waited. Bosch took a business card from his pocket and put it down on the wrought-iron-and-glass coffee table.
    “There’s my pager number if you need me or if there is anything else I can do. Is there a family minister you would like us to call?”
    Millie Elias looked up at him again.
    “Reverend Tuggins over at the AME.”
    Bosch nodded but immediately wished he hadn’t made the offer. Martin came back into the room with a photo album. His mother took it and began to turn through the pages. She began to weep silently again at the sight of so many pictures of her husband. Bosch wished he had put off getting the photo until the follow-up interview. Finally, she came upon a close-up shot of Howard Elias’s face. She seemed to know it would be the best photo for the police. She carefully removed it from the plastic sleeve and handed it to Bosch.
    “Will I get that back?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I’ll see that you do.”
    Bosch nodded and was about to make his way to the door. He was wondering if he could just forget about calling Reverend Tuggins.
    “Where’s my husband?” the widow suddenly asked.
    Bosch turned back.
    “His body is at the coroner’s office, ma’am. I will give them your number and they will call you when it is time for you to make arrangements.”
    “What about Reverend Tuggins? You want to use our phone?”
    “Uh, no, ma’am. We’ll contact Reverend Tuggins from our car. We can see ourselves out now.”
    On the way to the door, Bosch glanced at the collection of framed photographs that hung on the wall in the entrance hallway. They were photos of Howard Elias with every notable black community leader in the city as well as many other celebrities and national leaders. There he was with Jesse Jackson, with Congresswoman Maxine Waters, with Eddie Murphy. There was a shot of Elias flanked by Mayor Richard Riordan on one side and City Councilman Royal Sparks on the other. Bosch knew that Sparks had used outrage over police misconduct to forge his rise in city politics. He would miss having Elias around to keep the fire fanned, though Bosch also knew that Sparks would now use the lawyer’s murder to any advantage he could. Bosch wondered how it was that good and noble causes often seemed to bring slick opportunists to the microphones.
    There were also family photos. Several depicted Elias and his wife at social functions. There were shots of Elias and his son – one of them on a boat, both holding up a black marlin and smiling. Another photo showed them at a firing range posing on either side of a paper target with several holes shot through it. The target depicted Daryl Gates, a former police chief whom Elias had sued numerous times. Bosch remembered that the targets, created by a local artist, were popular toward the end of Gates’s tumultuous stewardship of the department.
    Bosch leaned forward to study the photo and see if he could identify the weapons Elias and his son held but the photo was too small.
    Chastain pointed to one of the photos, which showed Elias and the chief of police at some formal affair, supposed adversaries smiling at the camera.
    “They look cozy,” he whispered.
    Bosch just nodded and went out through the door.
    Chastain pulled the car out of the driveway and headed down out of the hills and back to the freeway. They were silent, both absorbing the misery they had just brought to a family and how they had received the blame for it.
    “They always shoot the messenger,” Bosch said.
    “I think I’m glad I don’t work homicide,” Chastain replied. “I can deal with cops being pissed at me. But that, that was bullshit.”
    “They call it the dirty work – next-of-kin notification.”
    “They ought to call it something. Fucking people. We’re trying to find out who killed the guy and they’re saying it was us. You believe that shit?”
    “I didn’t take it literally, Chastain. People in that position are entitled to a little slack. They’re hurting, they say things, that’s all.”
    “Yeah, you’ll see. Wait until you see that kid on the six o’clock news. I know the type. You