Angels Flight

where this guy would have hidden from Elias. This could have been as good a spot as any. Elias wouldn’t see him, he’d come out after Elias walked by, move up behind him at the train car.”
    “Maybe he didn’t need to hide. Maybe they walked here together.”
    Bosch looked at her and nodded.
    “Maybe. As good as anything I’m coming up with in here.”
    “What about the bus bench?”
    “Too open, too well lighted. If it was someone Elias had reason to fear, he’d’ve seen him.”
    “What about a disguise? He could have sat in the bus stop in a disguise.”
    “There’s that.”
    “You’ve already considered all of this but you let me go on talking, saying things you already know.”
    He didn’t say anything. He handed the flashlight back to Rider and headed out of the bushes. He looked over at the bus stop once more and felt sure he was right in his thinking. The bus stop hadn’t been used. Rider came up next to him and followed his gaze.
    “Hey, did you know Terry McCaleb over at the bureau?” she asked.
    “Yeah, we worked a case once. Why, you know him?”
    “Not really. But I’ve seen him on TV. He doesn’t look like Clint Eastwood, if you ask me.”
    “Yeah, not really.”
    Bosch saw Chastain and Baker had crossed the street and were standing in the hollow created by the closed roll-up doors at the entrance of the huge Grand Central Market. They were looking at something on the ground.
    Bosch and Rider walked over.
    “Got something?” Rider asked.
    “Maybe, maybe not,” Chastain said.
    He pointed to the dirty, worn tiles at his feet.
    “Cigarette butts,” Baker said. “Five of them – same brand. Means somebody was waiting here a while.”
    “Could have been a homeless,” Rider said.
    “Maybe,” Baker replied. “Could’ve been our shooter.”
    Bosch wasn’t that impressed.
    “Any of you smokers?” he asked.
    “Why?” Baker asked.
    “Because then you’d see what this probably is. What is it you see when you go in the front doors at Parker Center?”
    Chastain and Baker looked puzzled.
    “Cops?” Baker tried.
    “Yeah, but cops doing what?”
    “Smoking,” Rider said.
    “Right. No smoking in public buildings anymore, so the smokers gather round the front doors. This market is a public facility.”
    He pointed at the cigarette butts crushed on the tiles.
    “It doesn’t necessarily mean somebody was waiting there a long time. I think it means somebody in the market came out five times during the day for smokes.”
    Baker nodded but Chastain refused to acknowledge the deduction.
    “Still could be our guy,” he said. “Where else did he wait, the bushes over there?”
    “He could have. Or like Kiz said, maybe he didn’t wait. Maybe he walked right up to the train with Elias. Maybe Elias thought he was with a friend.”
    Bosch reached into his jacket pocket and took out a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Chastain.
    “Or maybe I’m all wrong and you’re all right. Bag ’em and tag ’em, Chastain. Make sure they get to the lab.”
    A few minutes later Bosch was finished with his survey of the lower crime scene. He got on the train, picked up his briefcase where he had left it and moved up the stairs to one of the benches near the upper door. He sat down heavily, almost dropping onto the hard bench. He was beginning to feel fatigue take over and wished he had gotten some sleep before Irving’s call had come. The excitement and adrenaline that accompany a new case caused a false high that always wore off quickly. He wished he could have a smoke and then maybe a quick nap. But only one of the two was possible at the moment, and he would have to find an all-night market to get the smokes. Again he decided against it. For some reason he felt that his nicotine fast had become part of his vigil for Eleanor. He thought that if he smoked all would be lost, that he would never hear from her again.
    “What are you thinking, Harry?”
    He looked up. Rider was in the doorway of the train, coming aboard.
    “Nothing. Everything. We’re really just getting started on this. There’s a lot to do.”
    “No rest for the weary.”
    “Say that again.”
    His pager sounded and he grabbed it off his belt with the urgency of a man who has had one go off in a movie theater. He recognized the number on the display but couldn’t remember where he had seen it before. He took the phone out of his briefcase and punched it in. It was the home of Deputy Chief Irvin Irving.
    “I