Lost Light

King.”
    I didn’t respond as I thought about this.
    “So how did I do, Harry?”
    “You did real good, Janis. Which reminds me, you’ve been doing a hell of a lot of work on this. Are you sure you don’t want to bill me?”
    “Yes, I’m sure. I still owe you.”
    “Well, now I’ll owe you. I want you to do one last thing for me. I just decided that tomorrow I’m going to give what I’ve got to the powers that be. It might be good if you were there. You know, to sort of make sure I don’t step across any lines with these people.”
    “I’m there. Where?”
    “You want to check your calendar first?”
    “I already know I have the morning free. You want to do it here or are you going into the police station?”
    “No, I’ve got butting jurisdictions. I’d like to do it at your place. You have a room we can put about six or seven people in?”
    “I’ll book the conference room. What time?”
    “How about nine o’clock?”
    “Fine. I’ll be here early if you want to come in and talk first and go over everything.”
    “That would be good. I’ll see you about eight-thirty.”
    “I’ll be here. Do you think you have it?”
    I knew what she meant. Did I have the story, if not the actual evidence that would push the LAPD and FBI into running with the case again.
    “It’s coming together. There’s maybe one more thing I can do and then I’ve got to give it to somebody who can get warrants and knock down doors.”
    “I get it. I’ll see you tomorrow. And I’m glad you made it through on this. I really am.”
    “Yeah, me too. Thanks, Janis.”
    After hanging up I realized I had forgotten about the parking meter. I went out to feed it but it was too late. West Hollywood Parking Enforcement had beat me there. I left the ticket on the windshield and went back inside. I got Lindell in his office just before he was leaving for the day.
    “What do you got?”
    “Herpes simplex five. What do you got?”
    “Come on, man.”
    “You’re an asshole, Bosch, asking me to wash your dirty laundry.”
    I realized what he was mad about.
    “The plate number?”
    “Yeah, the plate number. As if you didn’t know. It belongs to your ex-wife, man, and I really don’t appreciate being pulled into your bullshit. I mean, either kill her or get over her, you know what I mean?”
    I agreed that I knew what he meant but not what he had suggested. I could tell that I had seriously put him out with the plate check.
    “Roy, all I can tell you is that I didn’t know. I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t drag you in and I am sorry I did.”
    There was silence and I thought that I had placated him.
    “Roy?”
    “What?”
    “Did you write down the address from the registration?”
    “You fucking asshole.”
    He vented for another minute but eventually, grudgingly gave me the address Eleanor’s car was registered to. There was no apartment number with it. It looked like she had not only come up a level in wheels. She was living in a house now.
    “Thanks, Roy. It’s the last time on that. I promise. Anything come up on the other thing I asked about?”
    “Nothing good, nothing useful. The guy’s record is pretty clean. There is some juvenile stuff but it’s all sealed. I didn’t go any further with it.”
    “Okay.”
    I wondered if the juvenile stuff involved his former Beverly Hills High classmates and now partners.
    “The only other thing is that he’s a junior. There is another Linus Simonson on the computer. Going by the age it looks like Daddy.”
    “What’s he on there for?”
    “He’s got an IRS rap and a bankruptcy. It’s all old stuff.”
    “How old?”
    “The IRS came first, like they usually do. That was in ’ninety-four. The old man went bankrupt two years later. Who is this guy Linus and why did you want me to check him for a tail?”
    I didn’t answer as I found myself looking into a Most Wanted picture on the post office wall. A serial rapist. But I wasn’t really looking at him. I was looking at Linus. I was working the interior circuits as another piece fell into place. Linus said he wasn’t going to make the same mistakes as his father, who had gone belly-up and broke, an IRS collar around his neck. The question that poked through all of that was, how does a guy with no job and no backing from Daddy parlay the thirty grand he’s got in his pocket into the purchase and major renovation of a bar? And then another, and then another.
    Loans maybe-if he qualified. Or maybe