The Last Coyote

decades behind anyone Bosch had seen around the complex so far. She had an attractive and evenly tanned face framed in brown shoulder-length hair. She wore blue jeans, a blue oxford shirt and a black vest with a colorful pattern in the front. She didn’t bother with much makeup, which Bosch liked. She had serious green eyes, which he also didn’t disagree with.
    “I’m Jasmine. Are you Mr. Bosch?”
    “Yes. Harry. I just called.”
    “That was quick.”
    “I was nearby.”
    She invited him in and started the rundown.
    “It’s three bedrooms, like the paper said. Master suite has a private bath. Second bath off the main hall. The view is what makes the place, though.”
    She pointed Bosch toward a wall of sliding glass doors that looked out on a wide expanse of water dotted with mangrove islands. Hundreds of birds perched in the branches of these otherwise untouched islands. She was right, the view was beautiful.
    “What is that?” Bosch asked. “The water.”
    “That’s-you’re not from around here, are you? That’s Little Sarasota Bay.”
    Bosch nodded while computing the mistake he had made by blurting out the question.
    “No, I’m not from around here. I’m thinking of moving here though.”
    “Where from?”
    “Los Angeles.”
    “Oh, yes, I’ve heard. A lot of people are bailing out. Because the ground won’t stop shaking.”
    “Something like that.”
    She led him down a hallway to what must have been the master suite. Bosch was immediately struck by how the room didn’t seem to fit this woman. It was all dark and old and heavy. A mahogany bureau that looked like it weighed a ton, matching bedside tables with ornate lamps and brocaded shades. The place smelled old. It couldn’t be where she slept.
    He turned and noticed on the wall next to the door an oil painting that was a portrait of the woman standing next to him. It was a younger likeness of her, the face much gaunter, more severe. Bosch was wondering what kind of person hangs a painting of herself in her bedroom when he noticed that the painting was signed. The artist’s name was Jazz.
    “Jazz. Is that you?”
    “Yes. My father insisted on hanging that in here. I actually should have taken it down.”
    She went to the wall and began to lift the painting off.
    “Your father?”
    He moved to the other side of the painting to help her.
    “Yes. I gave this to him a long time ago. At the time I was thankful he didn’t hang it out in the living room where his friends would see it but even here is a little too much.”
    She turned the painting so the back faced outward and leaned it against the wall. Bosch put together what she had been saying.
    “This is your father’s place.”
    “Oh, yes. I’ve just been staying here while the ad ran in the paper. You want to check out the master bath? It has a Jacuzzi tub. That wasn’t mentioned in the ad.”
    Bosch moved closely by her to the bathroom door. He looked down at her hands, a natural instinct, and saw no rings on any of her fingers. He could smell her as he passed and the scent he picked up was the same as her name: Jasmine. He was beginning to feel some kind of attraction to her but wasn’t sure if it was the titillation of being there under false pretenses or an honest pull. He was exhausted, he knew, and decided that was it. His defenses were down. He gave the bathroom a quick once-over and stepped out.
    “Nice. Did he live here alone?”
    “My father? Yes, alone. My mother died when I was little. My father passed away over Christmas.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Thank you. What else can I tell you?”
    “Nothing. I was just curious about who had been living here.”
    “No. I mean, what else can I tell you about the condo?”
    “Oh, I…nothing. It’s very nice. I’m still in the looking-around stage, I guess, not sure what I’m going to do. I-”
    “What are you really doing?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “What are you doing here, Mr. Bosch? You’re not looking to buy a condo in here. You’re not even looking at the place.”
    There was no anger in her voice. It was a voice full of the confidence she had in reading people. Bosch felt himself turning red. He had been found out.
    “I’m just…I’m just here to look at places.”
    It was a terribly weak comeback and he knew it. But it was all he could think of to say. She sensed his predicament and let him off the hook.
    “Well, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. Do you want to see the rest of the