Suicide Run

around the counter and through a door into the loft space. There were three different photo setup areas with light stands and pull-down backgrounds. There were a few pieces of furniture to use as props. There were wires running across the ceiling and black curtains that would allow the different photo areas to be partitioned for privacy. Bosch saw the brick wall from the photos running the length of the space. He guessed that Stephen Jepson’s session on Friday had been with Lizbeth Grayson.
    Bosch was staring at the wall when he remembered something that had been wrong about the conversation with Reineke. He turned and looked at the young script reader.
    “Why did you ask if we were with Internal Affairs?”
    Reineke stuck out his lower lip and shook his head as he looked over at the doorway and then back to the counter.
    “Did I? I don’t know. I guess I was just wondering.”
    “Why would you wonder if we were with Internal Affairs?”
    Reineke did not look at him. The classic act of a liar.
    “I don’t know. I was just guessing.”
    “No, Louis, you were just lying. Why did you ask about IAD?”
    “Look, man, I just was goofing. I was trying to think of something to ask.”
    “Call the manager, Louis. Tell him he better get here for the three o’clock because you are going to the station with us. We’ll sit you down in a room for a while and when you’re finished
goofing
and want to tell us the truth, then we’ll talk.”
    “No, man, I’ll lose my job here, man. I can’t go to the station now!”
    Bosch made a move toward him.
    “Let’s go.”
    “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. I don’t owe the guy anything anyway.”
    “What guy?”
    Reineke shrugged off any further hesitation.
    “The guys you asked about. They’re all one guy. He’s a cop.”
    “A cop?” Bosch asked.
    “I think so. He says he is. He takes photos for the police. All the crime scenes.”
    “He told you this?”
    “Yeah, he told me. He said that’s why he uses all the different names when he comes in. Because it’s like moonlighting and that’s not allowed. When you came in asking about all those names, I thought you were like Internal Affairs and you were onto him.”
    Bosch looked over at Rider and then back at Reineke.
    “Louis, call the manager. You still have to come to the station to look at photographs.”
    “Ah, come on, man! I told you everything I know. I don’t even know the guy’s real name.”
    “But you know his real face. Let’s go.”
    Bosch took him by the arm and started to lead him toward the door to the counter. As they approached, Edgar stepped into the studio.
    “About time,” Bosch said.
    “Where’s the crime scene?” Edgar said.
    “There is no crime scene,” Bosch said. “We’re taking Louis here back to the station to look at photos.”
    “That’s weird.”
    “What is?”
    “I just passed Mark Baron, the crime scene guy, coming out of the elevator. He was in a hurry. I thought he was going to get his camera.”

    They found police photographer Mark Baron in his apartment in West Hollywood. The door was unlocked and open two inches. Bosch called his name and then entered. Edgar and Rider were with him.
    After overhearing Reineke tell Bosch and Edgar about the police photographer who used phony names to take Hollywood headshots of young women, Baron had rushed home, gone into the bedroom and gotten the gun he kept in a shoebox under his bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and put the muzzle into the fleshy spot under his chin. He pulled the trigger and blew the top of his head off.
    Bosch didn’t look too long at the body of the dead photographer. Instead his eyes were drawn to the walls of the bedroom. Three of the four were covered floor to ceiling with collages of crime scene photos. All were of dead women. Next to each photo of death was a photo of life. The same woman alive and posing for him.
    “Oh my God,” Rider murmured. “How long was he doing this?”
    Bosch scanned the room and all of the photos of all of the different women. He didn’t want to guess.
    “I better call this in to the captain,” Edgar said.
    He left the room. Bosch continued to look. Finally, he found the headshot photo of Lizbeth Grayson on the wall. A photo of her lying dead on the bed was taped to the wall next to it.
    Bosch wondered which of the photos Baron had prized the most. Dead or alive?
    “I better call my office and tell them where I’m at,” Rider said.
    Bosch nodded his