Angle of Investigation: Three Harry Bosch Short Stories (2 page)

After checking with Edgar by phone and learning the techs were still working the body and scene, Bosch told his partner that the victim had been IDed as Kelman and that he and Braxton were headed to the address the parole agent had provided for Kelman. He said they were going to leave Nikolai Servan behind in an interview room at the division.

Monty Kelman’s address was an apartment on Los Feliz near Griffith Park. Bosch’s knock was answered by a young woman in shorts andresn short a long-sleeve turtleneck shirt. She was thin to the point of being gaunt. An obvious junkie. She abruptly collapsed into the fetal position on the couch when they gave her the bad news about Monty. While Braxton attempted to console her and gather information from her at the same time, Bosch took a quick look around the one-bedroom apartment. As he expected, there was no obvious sign that the premises belonged to a burglar. This apartment was the front—the place where the parole agent visited and Kelman kept the semblance of a law-abiding life. Bosch knew that any active burglar with a parole tail would keep a separate and secret place—a safe house—for his tools and swag.

In the bedroom was a small desk in which Kelman kept his checkbook and personal papers. Bosch flipped through the checkbook and saw nothing unusual. He looked through everything else in the drawer but found no lead to Kelman’s safe house. He wasn’t particularly anxious about it. It was just a loose end, something that would be of greater concern to Braxton, as a burglary detective, than to Bosch.

As he turned to leave the bedroom he saw a saxophone propped on a stand in the corner by the door. He recognized from its size that it was an alto. He stepped over and lifted it into his hands. It looked old but well cared for. It was polished brass and he saw the buffing cloth pushed down into the mouth of the instrument. Bosch had never played the saxophone, had never even tried, but the instrument’s sound was the only music that had ever been able to truly light him up inside.

He held the instrument with a sense of reverence he rarely exhibited for any person or thing. And for a moment he was tempted to raise the mouthpiece to his lips and try to sound a note. Instead, he gripped the instrument the way he had seen countless musicians—from Art Pepper to Wayne Shorter—hold theirs.

“Harry, you got anything?” Braxton said from the other room.

Bosch carried the saxophone and stand out to the living room. The woman was sitting up on the couch now, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Tears streaked her face. Bosch didn’t know if she was crying over her lost love or her lost junk ticket.

He held up the saxophone.

“Whose is this?”

She swallowed before answering.

“It’s Monty’s. Was.”

“He played?”

“He tried. He liked jazz. He always said he wanted to take lessons. He never did.”

A new rush of tears cascaded down her cheeks.

“It’s gotta be swag,” Braxton said, ignoring her and speaking to Bosch. “I can run it on the box when we get back. On those things the manufacturer and serial number are engraved inside the bell.”

He pointed to the mouth of the horn.

“In there. Wouldn’t surprise me if it came out of Servan’s shop on one of the earlier B and Es.”

Bosch pulled the felt buffing cloth out of the opening and looked inside. There was an inscription on the curved brass but he couldn’t read it. He walked over to the window and angled the instrument so sunlight flooded into the mouth. He bent close and turned the instrument so he could read it.

C
ALUMET
I
NSTRUMENTS

C
HICAGO
, I
LLINOIS

C
USTOM MADE FOR
Q
UENTIN
M
C
K
INZIE
, 1963

“T
HE
S
WEET
S
POT
”

Bosch read it again and then a third time. His temples suddenly felt as if someone had pressed hot quarters against them. A flash memory filled his thoughts. A musician under the canopy set up on the deck of the ship. The soldiers crowded close. Those in wheelchairs, the men missing limbs, at the front. The man playing the sax, bending up and down and in and out like Sugar Ray Robinson coming from the corner of the ring. The music beautiful and agile, lighting him up. The sound better than anything he had ever heard. The goddamn light at the end of all his tunnels.

“Jesus, Harry, what’s it say?”

Bosch looked over at Braxton, the memory retreating into the darkness.

“What?”

“You look like you saw a ghost hidin’ in there. What’s it say?”

“Chicago. It was made in Chicago.”

“Calumet?”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m a burglary detective. It’s my job to know. Calumet is one of the big ones. Been around a long time. We might be able to trace it.”

Bosch nodded.

“You finished here?” he asked. “Let’s go.”

On the way back to the station Bosch let Braxton drive so that he could hold and study the saxophone.

“What’s something like this worth?” he asked after they were halfway to their destination.

“Depends. New, you’re talking in the thousands. To a pawnbroker probably a fne.probablew hundred.”

“You ever heard of Quentin McKinzie?”

Braxton shook his head.

“I don’t think so.”

“They called him Sugar Ray McK. On account of when he played the sax he’d bob and weave like the fighter Sugar Ray Robinson. He was good. He was mostly a session guy but he put out a few records. ‘The Sweet Spot,’ you never heard that tune?”

“Sorry, man, not into jazz. Too much of a cliché, you know? Detectives and jazz. I listen to country myself.”

Bosch felt disappointed. He wanted to tell him about that day on the ship but if Braxton didn’t know jazz it couldn’t be explained.

“What’s the connection?” Braxton asked.

Bosch held up the saxophone.

“This was his. It says inside here, ‘Custom made for Quentin McKinzie.’ That’s Sugar Ray McK.”

“You ever see him play?”

Bosch nodded.

“One time. Nineteen sixty-nine.”

Braxton whistled.

“Long time ago. You think he’s still alive?”

“I don’t know. He’s not recording. Last disc he put out was
Man with an Ax.
That was at least ten years ago. Maybe longer. It was a compilation.”

Bosch looked at the saxophone.

“Can’t record without this anyway, I suppose.”

Bosch’s cell phone chirped. It was Edgar.

“Harry, whereyat?”

“On the way back to the station. We just checked out Kelman’s apartment.”

“Anything?”

“Not really. A junkie and a saxophone. What have you got?”

“First off, we’ve got lividity issues. This guy was moved.”

“And what’s the ME say about cause?”

“He’s going with your theory at the moment. Electrocution. The burns on the hand and foot—where the juice went in and out.”

“You find the source?Kelm sasource?

“I looked around. Can’t find it.”

Bosch thought about all of this. Postmortem lividity was the settling of the blood in a dead body. It was a purple gravity line. If a body is moved after the blood has settled, then a new gravity line will appear. It is an easy tip-off that most people outside of homicide investigation don’t know about.

“You looked around the case where the glove was?”

“Yeah, I looked. I can’t find any electrical source that can explain this. The case you’re talking about has internal lighting but there’s no malfunction.”

Braxton pulled into the parking lot behind the station and into a spot reserved for investigators’ cars.

“You do a property inventory on the guy yet?”

“Yeah, nothing. Pockets empty. No ID or anything else.”

“All right, we’re at the cop shop. Let me think about it and call you back.”

“Whatever, Harry. I just want to get out of here on time tonight and I don’t like the looks of this.”

“I know, I know.”

Bosch closed the phone and got out of the car with the saxophone.

“What has he got?” Braxton asked.

“Nothing much,” Bosch said over the top of the car. “It looks like an electrocution.”

“You called it.”

“When we get in, can you pull the reports on the three prior B and Es at Three Kings?”

“You got it. What about Servan?”

“I’ll check on him but I’m going to let him sit for a while.”

They went into the station and down to the detective bureau, where they split up, Braxton going to the burglary corral to get the reports, and Bosch to the rear hallway that led to the interview rooms. Servan was in interview room 3, pacing in the small space when Bosch opened the door.

“Mr. Servan, are you okay? It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Yeah, okay, okay. You find?”

He pointed to the saxophone. Bosch nodded.

“Did this come from your store?”

Servan studied the instrument and nodded vigorously.

“I think so, yes.”

“Okay, well, we’ll find out for sure. We’ve got a few things to do and then we’ll get back to you. You want some coffee or to use the bathroom?”

Servan declined both and Bosch left him there. When he got to the homicide table he started looking for Quentin McKinzie, running searches on the DMV, voter registration and crime index computers. He came up with a record of drug arrests in Los Angeles in the 1970s and 1980s but no address and nothing that gave a clue to his current whereabouts.

Braxton came over and dropped three thin files on his desk. Bosch told him to take the photo of Monty Kelman they had pulled off the computer and show it to Servan to see if he recognized Kelman as ever coming into the shop as a customer.

After Braxton was gone Bosch started looking through the burglary reports, beginning with the first break-in at Three Kings. He quickly flipped through the pages until he got to the stolen-property inventory. There was no saxophone on the list. He scanned the items listed and determined they were all small pieces taken from the lighted display cabinet.

He flipped back to the summary, which had been written by Braxton. It reported that the unknown suspect or suspects had broken through the rear door to enter the establishment, then had emptied the display case containing the highest-value items in the shop. Braxton noted that the display case had a key lock that had either been left unlocked or was expertly picked by the thief.

He went on to the next report and found a saxophone listed on the stolen-property inventory. It was described as an alto saxophone but there were no other identifiers and no listing of who the person was who had pawned the saxophone. He read the summary and found it mirrored the summary in the first burglary report; the burglar or burglars broke through the rear door, opened the display case and took all of the high-price valuables. The saxophone appeared to have been taken as an afterthought and Bosch knew now that that was because Monty Kelman had always wanted to learn to play the instrument.

The third report was the same, with the exception of the method of entry. This time, with the back door fortified, the burglar or burglars cut through the composite roof and dropped down. The lock on the display case was picked and the shelves emptied for the third time.

The losses from the three burglaries averaged out to $40,000 a hit. Servan had insurance—though Bosch assumed the premiums were ever increasing. Most of the items stolen were sale items, meaning their original owners had let the pawn period lapse and ownership now belonged to Servan.

Braxton walked out of the back hallway and came to the homicide table.

“Yeah, he recognizes him,” he said. “Said he came into the store a couple days ago. Looked at some of the coins in the case.”

“He ever see him before that?”

osseze=ze="3">He thinks so but can’t be sure.”

“Anybody else work in that shop besides him?”

“No, he’s a one-man show. Six days a week, nine to six. Your average hardworking immigrant story.”

Bosch leaned back in his chair and combed one side of his mustache with his thumb. He didn’t say anything. After a few moments Braxton got tired of waiting.

“Harry, what else you need from me?”

Bosch didn’t look up at him.

“Um, can you go back in there and ask him about the case?”

“The case? You mean the display cabinet?”

“Yeah, ask him if he’s sure he locked it every time. On all the burglaries.”

He could tell Braxton was still waiting by the table.

“What?”

“What am I? The errand boy here?”

“No, Brax, you’re the guy he trusts. Go ask him the question.”

Bosch waited, stroking his mustache and thinking. Braxton wasn’t long.

“He said he absolutely locks that case. Even when he’s open for business it’s locked. He only unlocks it to put something in or take something out. Then he relocks it, every time. He keeps the key with him, all the time. There are no copies.”

“So then our guy used picks.”

“Looks that way.”

Bosch nodded.

“Um, one more thing, Brax. The saxophone. He has to keep pawn records, right?”

“He has to keep them and we get copied as well. The pawn detail. They compare pawn inventories to stolen-property reports. You know, look for matches.”

Bosch reached over and lifted the saxophone off the desk.

“So then how can I find out who pawned this?”

Braxton seemed mildly taken aback.

“What’s it got to do with all of this?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. But I want to find out who pawned it.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. The guys in the detail keep everything separated by store.wited by s In shoeboxes. They could just look through the box for Three Kings. Depending on how far back they go, it might be in there.”

“What would work better, if you call them or I call them?”

“They’re not going to like it either way, but let me take a crack at it.”

“Thanks, man.”

Bosch looked at his watch. It was almost noon.