The Overlook

brand.”
    “No, a sedan is a type of car, not a brand. Four doors, trunk-like a police car.”
    “Yes, like that.”
    Bosch thought about Alicia Kent’s description of her missing car.
    “Do you know what a Chrysler Three Hundred looks like?”
    “No.”
    “What color was the car you saw?”
    “I don’t know for sure but it was dark. Black or dark blue.”
    “What about the other car? The one that was behind the Porsche.”
    “Same thing. A dark sedan. It was different from the one in front-maybe a little bit smaller, eh-but I don’t know what kind it was. Sorry.”
    The boy frowned, as though it was a personal failing that he didn’t know the makes and models of cars.
    “It’s all right, Jesse, you’re doing fine,” Bosch said. “You’ve been very helpful. Do you think if I showed you photos of various sedans you could pick out the cars?”
    “No, I didn’t see them enough. The lighting on the street wasn’t good and I was too far away.”
    Bosch nodded but was disappointed. He considered things for a moment. Mitford’s story matched up with information provided by Alicia Kent. The two intruders to the Kent house had to have had transportation to get there. One would have taken the original vehicle, while the other took Alicia Kent’s Chrysler to transport the cesium with. It seemed like the obvious thing.
    His thoughts prompted a new question for Mitford.
    “Which way did the second car go when he drove off?”
    “He also made a U-turn and drove down the hill.”
    “And that was it?”
    “That was it.”
    “What did you do then?”
    “Me? Nothing. I just stayed where I was.”
    “Why?”
    “I was scared. I was pretty sure I had just seen some guy get murdered.”
    “You didn’t go check on him to see if he was alive and needed help?”
    Mitford looked away from Bosch and shook his head.
    “No, I was afraid. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay, Jesse. You don’t have to worry about that. He was already dead. He was dead before he hit the ground. But what I’m curious about is why you stayed in hiding for so long. Why didn’t you go down the hill? Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?”
    Mitford raised his hands and dropped them on the table.
    “I don’t know. I was afraid, I guess. I followed the map up the hill, so that was the only way I knew back. I would have had to walk right by there and I thought, what if the cops come while I’m walking right there? I could get blamed. And I thought, if it was like the mafia or something that did it and they found out I had seen everything, then I’d be killed or something.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “I think you watch too much American TV up there in Canada. You don’t have to worry. We’ll take care of you. How old are you, Jesse?”
    “Twenty.”
    “So, what were you doing at Madonna’s house? Isn’t she a little old for you?”
    “No, it wasn’t like that. It was for my mother.”
    “You were stalking her for your mother?”
    “I’m not a stalker. I just wanted to get my mother her autograph or see if she had a picture or something I could have. I wanted to send something back to my mom and I don’t have anything. You know, just to show her I’m okay. I thought if I told her I had met Madonna, then I wouldn’t feel like such a… you know. I grew up listening to Madonna because my mom listens to her stuff. I just thought it would be kind of cool to send her something. Her birthday’s coming up and I didn’t have anything.”
    “Why’d you come to L.A., Jesse?”
    “I don’t know. It just seemed like the place to go. I was hoping I could get in a band or something. But it’s looking like most people come here with their band already. I don’t have one.”
    Bosch thought Mitford had adopted the pose of the wandering troubadour but there had been no guitar or other mobile instrument with his backpack in the squad room.
    “Are you a musician or a singer?”
    “I play the guitar but I had to pawn it a few days ago. I’ll get it back.”
    “Where are you staying?”
    “I don’t really have a place right now. I was going to sleep up in the hills last night. I guess it’s the real answer to why I didn’t leave after I saw what happened to that guy up there. I really didn’t have anyplace to go.”
    Bosch understood. Jesse Mitford was no different from a thousand others who got off the bus every month or thumbed it into town. More dreams than plans or currency. More hope than cunning, skill or intelligence. Not all of