Trunk Music

the agents involved in this?”
    “They’re from all over; Chicago, Vegas, L.A.”
    “Who from L.A.?”
    “Guy named John O’Grady? You know him?”
    It had been more than five years since she had worked in the bureau’s L.A. field office. FBI agents moved around a lot. He doubted she would know O’Grady and she said she didn’t.
    “What about John Samuels? He’s the AUSA on it. He’s from the OC strike force.”
    “Samuels I know. Or knew. He was an agent for a while. Not a particularly good one. Had the law degree and when he figured out he wasn’t much of an investigator, he decided he wanted to prosecute.”
    She started laughing and shook her head.
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Just something they used to say about him. It’s kind of gross.”
    “What?”
    “Does he still have his mustache?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, they used to say that he could sure put a case together for prosecution, but as far as investigating it out on the street went, he couldn’t find shit if it was in his own mustache.”
    She laughed again-a little too hard, Bosch thought. He smiled back.
    “Maybe that’s why he became a prosecutor,” she added.
    Something occurred to Bosch then and he quickly withdrew into his thoughts. Eventually he heard Eleanor’s voice.
    “What?”
    “You disappeared. I asked what you were thinking. I didn’t think it was that bad a joke.”
    “No, I was just thinking about what a bottomless hole I’m in. About how it doesn’t really matter whether Samuels actually believes I’m dirty on this. He needs me to be dirty.”
    “How so?”
    “They’ve got cases to make with their undercover guy against Joey Marks and his crew. And they’ve got to be ready and able to explain how a murder weapon got to be in their guy’s house. Because if they can’t explain it, then Joey’s lawyers are going to shove it down their throats, make it look like their guy is tainted, is a killer worse than the people he was after. That gun has reasonable doubt written all over it. So the best way to explain away the gun is to blame it on the LAPD. On me. A bad cop from a bad department who found the gun in the weeds and planted it on the guy he thought did it. The jury will go along. They’ll make me out to be this year’s Mark Fuhrman.”
    He saw the humor was long gone from her face now. There was obvious concern in her eyes but he thought there was also sadness. Maybe she understood, too, how well he was boxed in.
    “The alternative is to prove that Joey Marks or one of his people planted the gun because they somehow knew Luke Goshen was an agent and needed to discredit him. Though that’s the likely truth, it’s a harder road to follow. It’s easier for Samuels just to throw the mud on me.”
    He looked down at his half-finished dinner and put his knife and fork on the plate. He couldn’t eat anymore. He took a long drink of wine and then kept the glass in his hand, ready.
    “I think I’m in big trouble, Eleanor.”
    The gravity of his situation was finally beginning to weigh on him. He’d been operating on his faith that the truth would win out and now clearly saw how little truth would have to do with the outcome. He looked up at her. Their eyes connected and he saw that she was about to cry. He tried to smile.
    “Hey, I’ll think of something,” he said. “I might be riding a desk for the time being, but I’m not taking both oars out of the water. I’m going to figure this out.”
    She nodded but her face still looked distraught.
    “Harry, remember when you found me in the casino that first night and we went to the bar at Caesar’s and you tried to talk to me? Remember what you said about doing things differently if you had the chance to go back?”
    “Yes, I remember.”
    She wiped her eyes with her palms, before any tears could show.
    “I have to tell you something.”
    “You can tell me anything, Eleanor.”
    “What I told you about me paying Quillen and the street tax and all of that…, there’s more to it.”
    She looked at him with intensity now, trying to read his reaction before going further. But Bosch sat stone still and waited.
    “When I first went to Vegas after getting out of Frontera, I didn’t have a place or a car and I didn’t know anyone. I just thought I’d give it a shot. You know, playing cards. And there was a girl I knew from Frontera. Her name was Patsy Quillen. She told me to look up her uncle-that was Terry Quillen-and that he’d probably stake me