Trunk Music

within the greater closed society of the department. Bosch knew very little about OCID and was acquainted with few detectives assigned to the unit. The OCID was a mysterious force, even to those within the department. Not many knew exactly what it did. And this, of course, bred suspicions and jealousies.
    Most OCID detectives were known in Detective Services as big-footers. They swooped down to take investigations away from detectives like Bosch, but they didn’t often make cases in return. Bosch had seen many investigations disappear under their door with not many prosecutions of OC wise guys resulting. They were the only division in the department with a black budget-approved in closed session by the chief and a police commission that largely followed his lead. From there, the money disappeared into the dark, to pay for informants, investigations and high-tech equipment. Many of their cases disappeared in that netherworld as well.
    Bosch asked the communications operator to connect his call to the OCID supervisor on call for the weekend. As he waited for the patch through, he thought again about the body in the trunk. Anthony Aliso-if that was who it was-had seen it coming and closed his eyes. Bosch hoped it wouldn’t be that way for himself. He didn’t want to know.
    “Hello,” a voice said.
    “Yes, this is Harry Bosch. I’m the D-three on a homicide call out in Hollywood. Who am I speaking with?”
    “Dom Carbone. I’ve got the weekend call out. You going to spoil it?”
    “Maybe.” Bosch tried to think. The name was vaguely familiar but he could not place it. He was sure they had never worked together. “That’s why I’m calling. You might want to take a look at this.”
    “Run it down for me.”
    “Sure. White male found in the trunk of his Silver Cloud with two in the back of the head. Probably twenty-twos.”
    “What else?”
    “Car was on a fire road off Mulholland. Doesn’t look like a straight robbery. At least, not a personal robbery. I got cards and cash in the wallet and a Presidential on his wrist. Diamonds at every hour on the hour.”
    “You’re not telling me who the stiff is. Who’s the stiff?”
    “Nothing confirmed yet but-”
    “Just give it to me.”
    Bosch had trouble not being able to put a face with the voice over the phone.
    “It looks like the ID is going to be Anthony N. Aliso, forty-eight years old. Lives up in the hills. Looks like he has some kind of company with an office at one of the studios down on Melrose near Paramount. TNA Productions is the name of his outfit. I think it’s over at Archway Studios. We’ll know more in a little while.”
    He only got silence in return.
    “Mean anything?”
    “Anthony Aliso.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “Anthony Aliso.”
    Carbone repeated the name slowly, as if it were a fine wine he was tasting before deciding whether to accept the bottle or spit it out. He was then quiet for another long moment.
    “Nothing hits me right away, Bosch,” he finally said. “I can make a couple calls. Where you going to be?”
    “The print shed. He’s here with us and I’ll be here a while.”
    “What do you mean, you got the guy’s body there in the shed?”
    “It’s a long story. When do you think you can get back to me?”
    “As soon as I make the calls. You been over to his office?”
    “Not yet. We’ll get there sometime tonight.”
    Bosch gave him the number of his cellular phone, then closed it and put it in his coat pocket. For a moment he thought about Carbone’s reaction to the victim’s name. He finally decided he could not read anything into it.
    After the Cloud was rolled into place in the shed and the doors shut, Donovan pulled the curtains closed. There was fluorescent lighting overhead which he left on while he got his equipment ready. Matthews, the coroner’s tech, and his two assistants-the body movers-huddled over a workbench getting the tools they would need out of a case.
    “Harry, I’m going to take my time with this, okay? First I’ll laser the trunk with the guy in it. Then we take him out. Then we glue it and laser it again. Then we worry about the rest of it.”
    “Your show, man. Whatever time you need.”
    “I’ll need your help with the wand when I shoot pictures. Roland had to go to shoot another scene.”
    Bosch nodded and watched as the SID tech screwed an orange filter onto a Nikon camera. He put the camera strap over his head and turned on the laser. It was a box about the size of a