Trunk Music

Harry. I get guys who like driving around in the carts all day, hoping they’re going to be discovered like Clint Eastwood or something. Had a guy run into a wall the other day ’cause he was so intent on talking with a couple creative execs walking by. There’s one of them oxymorons for you. Creative executive…”
    Bosch was silent. He didn’t care about anything that Meachum had just said.
    “You ought to come work here, Harry. You’ve gotta have your twenty in by now. You should pull the pin and then come work for me. Your lifestyle will rise a couple of notches. I guarantee it.”
    “No thanks, Chuck. Somehow I just don’t see myself tooling around in one of your golf carts.”
    “Well, the offer’s there. Anytime, buddy. Anytime.”
    Bosch put his cigarette out on the side of the trash can and dropped the dead butt inside. He decided that he didn’t want to go picking through the can with Meachum watching. He told Meachum he was heading back in.
    “Bosch, I gotta tell you something.”
    Bosch looked back at him and Meachum raised his hands.
    “We’re going to have a problem if you want to take anything out of that office without a warrant. I mean, I heard what you said about that tape and now she’s in there stacking stuff on the desk to go. But I can’t let you take anything.”
    “Then you are going to be here all night, Chuck. There are a lot of files in there and a lot of work to do. It’d be a lot easier for us to haul it all back to the bureau now.”
    “I know that. I’ve been there. But this is the position I’ve been instructed to take. We need the warrant.”
    Bosch used the phone on the receptionist’s desk to call Edgar, who was still in the detective bureau just beginning the paperwork the case would generate. Bosch told him to drop that work for the moment and start drawing up search warrants for all financial records in Aliso’s home and the Archway offices and any being held by his attorney.
    “You want me to call the duty judge tonight?” Edgar asked. “It’s almost two in the morning.”
    “Do it,” Bosch said. “When you have ’em signed, bring them out here to Archway. And bring some boxes.”
    Edgar groaned. He was getting all the shit work. Nobody liked waking up a judge in the middle of the night.
    “I know, I know, Jerry. But it’s got to be done. Anything else going on?”
    “No. I called the Mirage, talked to a guy in security. The room Aliso used was rebooked over the weekend. It’s open now and he’s got a hold on it, but it’s spoiled.”
    “Probably… Okay, man, next time you’ll eat the bear. Get on those warrants.”
    In Aliso’s office, Rider was already looking through the files. Bosch told her Edgar was working on a warrant and that they would have to draw up an inventory for Meachum. He also told her to take a break if she wanted but she declined.
    Bosch sat down behind the desk. It had the usual clutter. There was a phone with a speaker attachment, a Rolodex, a blotter, a magnetic block that held paper clips to it and a wood carving that said TNA Productions in script. There was also a tray stacked with paperwork.
    Bosch looked at the phone and noticed the redial button. He lifted the handset and pushed the button. He could tell by the quick procession of tones that the last call made on the phone had been long distance. After two rings it was answered by a female voice. There was loud music in the background.
    “Hello?” she said.
    “Yes, hello, who’s this?”
    She giggled.
    “I don’t know, who’s this?”
    “I might have the wrong number. Is this Tony’s?”
    “No, it’s Dolly’s.”
    “Oh, Dolly’s. Okay, uh, then where are you located?”
    She giggled again.
    “On Madison, where do you think? How do you think we got the name?”
    “Where’s Madison?”
    “We’re in North Las Vegas. Where are you coming from?”
    “The Mirage.”
    “Okay, just follow the boulevard out front to the north. You go all the way past downtown and past a bunch of cruddy areas and into North Las Vegas. Madison is your third light after you go under the overpass. Take a left and we’re a block down on the left. What’s your name again?”
    “It’s Harry.”
    “Well, Harry, I’m Rhonda. As in…”
    Bosch said nothing.
    “Come on, Harry, you’re supposed to say, ‘Help me, Rhonda, help, help me, Rhonda.’”
    She sang the line from the old Beach Boys song.
    “Actually, Rhonda, there is something you can help me with,”