Trunk Music

habit.”
    Samuels made his way around the table toward the door. The others got up and were following. Bosch wanted to jump up and throttle him but he remained outwardly calm. His dark eyes followed Samuels as the federal attorney moved to the door. He never looked back at Bosch. But before stepping out, he took one last shot at Irving.
    “The last thing I want to have to do is air your dirty laundry, Chief. But if you don’t take care of this, you’ll leave me no choice.”
    With that, the federals filed out and those remaining sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the sound of the steps tracking down the polished linoleum in the hallway. Bosch looked at Billets and nodded.
    “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
    “For what?”
    “Sticking up for me at the end there.”
    “I just don’t believe you’d do it, is all.”
    “I wouldn’t plant evidence on my worst enemy. If I did that I’d be lost.”
    Chastain shifted in his seat while a small smile played on his face, but not small enough to pass Bosch’s notice.
    “Chastain, you and I have hooked up a couple times before and you missed me both times,” Bosch said. “You don’t want to strike out, do you? You better sit this one out.”
    “Look, Bosch, the chief asked me to sit in on this and I did that. It’s his call, but I think you and that story you just wove out of thin air are full of shit. I agree with the feds on this one. If it was my choice, I wouldn’t let you out of this room with a badge.”
    “But it’s not your choice, is it?” Irving said.
    When Bosch got to his house, he carried a bag of groceries to the door and knocked but there was no answer. He kicked over the straw mat and found the key he had given Eleanor there. A feeling of sadness came over him as he bent to pick it up. She was not there.
    Upon entering he was greeted by the strong smell of fresh paint, which he thought was odd because it had now been four days since he had painted. He went directly into the kitchen and put away the groceries. When he was finished, he took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and leaned against the counter drinking it slowly, making it last. The smell of paint reminded him that now he would have plenty of time to finish all the work the house needed. He was strictly a nine-to-fiver at the moment.
    He thought of Eleanor again and decided to look to see if there was a note from her or whether her suitcase might be in the bedroom. But he went no further than the living room, where he stopped and looked at the wall he had left half-painted after getting the call to the crime scene on Sunday. The wall was now completely painted. Bosch stood there a long moment, appraising the work as though it were a masterpiece in a museum. Finally he stepped to the wall and lightly touched it. It was fresh but dry. Painted just a few hours before, he guessed. Though no one was there to see it, a broad smile broke across his face. He felt a jolt of happiness break through the gray aura surrounding him. He didn’t need to look for her suitcase in the bedroom. He took the painted wall as a sign, as her note. She’d be back.
    An hour later, he had unpacked his overnighter and the rest of her belongings from the car and was standing in the darkness on the rear deck. He held another bottle of beer and watched the ribbon of lights moving along the Hollywood Freeway at the bottom of the hill. He had no idea how long she had stood in the frame of the sliding door to the deck and watched him. When he turned around, she was just there.
    “Eleanor.”
    “Harry…I thought you wouldn’t be back until later.”
    “Neither did I. But I’m here.”
    He smiled. He wanted to go to her and touch her, but a cautious voice told him to move slowly.
    “Thanks for finishing.”
    He gestured toward the living room with his bottle.
    “No problem. I like to paint. It relaxes me.”
    “Yeah. Me, too.”
    They looked at each other a moment.
    “I saw the print,” she said. “It looks good there.”
    Bosch had taken her print of Hopper’s Nighthawks out of the trunk and hung it on the freshly painted wall. He knew that how she reacted to seeing it there would tell him a lot about where they were and where they might be headed.
    “Good,” he said, nodding and trying not to smile.
    “What happened to the one I sent you?”
    That had been a long time ago.
    “Earthquake,” he said.
    She nodded.
    “Where’d you just come from?”
    “Oh, I went and rented a car. You