Angels Flight

Susana Mountains. He could pick out Oat Mountain above Chatsworth. He remembered going there years before on a field trip from the youth hall. The overall view, however, could not be called beautiful. A heavy layer of smog – especially for April – stretched across the Valley. They were high enough in the Kincaid house to be above it. Or so it seemed.
    “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a million-dollar-view of the smog.”
    Bosch turned around. A smiling man and a blank-faced woman had entered the living room. Behind them stood a second man in a dark suit. Bosch recognized the first man from TV. Sam Kincaid, the car czar. He was smaller than Bosch expected. More compact. His deep tan was real, not television makeup, and his jet-black hair seemed legitimate. On TV it always looked like a wig. He was wearing a golf shirt like the ones he always wore on his commercials. Like the ones his father had worn when he was the one on the commercials a decade earlier.
    The woman was younger than Kincaid by a few years, about forty and well preserved by weekly massages and trips to the salons down on Rodeo Drive. She looked past Bosch and Edgar to the view. She had a vague expression on her face and Bosch immediately realized that Katherine Kincaid had probably not come close to recovering from the loss of her daughter.
    “But you know what?” Sam Kincaid continued, smiling. “I don’t mind seeing the smog. My family’s been selling cars in this city for three generations. Since nineteen hundred and twenty-eight. That’s a lot of years and a lot of cars. That smog out there reminds me of that.”
    His statement sounded rehearsed, as if he used it as an opener with all of his guests. He stepped forward with his hand out.
    “Sam Kincaid. And my wife, Kate.”
    Bosch shook his hand and introduced himself and Edgar. The way Kincaid studied Edgar before shaking his hand made Bosch think that his partner might have been the first black man to set foot in his living room – not counting the ones who were there to serve canapés and take drink orders.
    Bosch looked past Kincaid to the man still standing beneath the arch of the entryway. Kincaid noticed and made the last introduction.
    “This is D.C. Richter, my chief of security,” Kincaid said. “I asked him to come up and join us, if you don’t mind.”
    Bosch was puzzled by the addition of the security man but didn’t say anything. He nodded and Richter nodded back. He was about Bosch’s age, tall and gaunt and his short graying hair was spiked with gel. Richter also had a small earring, a thin gold hoop on his left ear.
    “What can we do for you gentlemen?” Kincaid asked. “I have to say I’m surprised by this visit. I would have guessed that with everything going on, you two would be out on the street somewhere, trying to keep down the animals.”
    There was an awkward silence. Kate Kincaid looked down at the rug.
    “We’re investigating the death of Howard Elias,” Edgar said. “And your daughter’s.”
    “My daughter’s? I don’t understand what you mean.”
    “Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Kincaid?” Bosch said.
    “Sure.”
    Kincaid led them to one of the furniture groupings. Two couches faced each other across a glass coffee table. To one side was a fireplace Bosch could almost walk into, to the other was the view. The Kincaids sat on one couch while Bosch and Edgar took the other. Richter stood to the side and behind the couch where the Kincaids sat.
    “Let me explain,” Bosch said. “We are here to inform you that we are reopening the investigation of Stacey’s death. We need to start again.”
    Both Kincaids opened their mouths into small looks of puzzlement. Bosch continued.
    “In the course of investigating the killing Friday night of Howard Elias we have uncovered information that we believe exonerates Michael Harris. We -”
    “Impossible,” Sam Kincaid barked. “Harris was the killer. His fingerprints were found in the house, the old house. You’re going to tell me that the Los Angeles Police Department now believes its own people planted this evidence?”
    “No, sir, I’m not. I’m telling you that we now have what we think is a reasonable explanation for that evidence.”
    “Well, I’d love to hear it.”
    Bosch took two folded pieces of paper from his jacket pocket and opened them. One was a photocopy of the car wash receipt Pelfry had found. The other was a photocopy of Harris’s time card, also from