Angels Flight by Michael Connelly Page A

drive and stopped behind the Camaro.
    “Nice car,” Chastain said. “Tell you what, I wouldn’t leave a car like that out overnight. Even in a neighborhood like this. Too close to the jungle.”
    He turned the car off and reached to open his door.
    “Let’s wait a second here,” Bosch said.
    He opened his briefcase, got out the phone and called dispatch again. He asked for a double check on the address for Elias. They had the right place. He then asked the dispatcher to run the plate on the Camaro. It came back registered to a Martin Luther King Elias, age eighteen. Bosch thanked the dispatcher and clicked off.
    “We got the right place?” Chastain asked.
    “Looks like it. The Camaro must be his son’s. But it doesn’t look like anyone was expecting dad to come home tonight.”
    Bosch opened his door and got out, Chastain doing the same. As they approached the door Bosch saw the dull glow of a bell button. He pushed it and heard the sharp ringing of a chime inside the quiet house.
    They waited and pushed the bell button two more times before the portico light came on above them and a woman’s sleepy but alarmed voice came through the door.
    “What is it?”
    “Mrs. Elias?” Bosch said. “We’re police. We need to talk to you.”
    “Police? What for?”
    “It’s about your husband, ma’am. Can we come in?”
    “I need some identification before I open this door.”
    Bosch took out his badge wallet and held it up but then noticed there was no peephole.
    “Turn around,” the woman’s voice said. “On the column.”
    Bosch and Chastain turned and saw the camera mounted on one of the columns. Bosch walked up to it and held up his badge.
    “You see it?” he said loudly.
    He heard the door open and turned around. A woman in a white robe with a silk scarf wrapped around her head looked out at him.
    “You don’t have to yell,” she said.
    “Sorry.”
    She stood in the one-foot opening of the door but made no move to invite them in.
    “Howard is not here. What do you want?”
    “Uh, can we come in, Mrs. Elias? We want — ”
    “No, you can’t come in my house. My home. No policeman has ever been in here. Howard wouldn’t have it. Neither will I. What do you want? Has something happened to Howard?”
    “Uh, yes, ma’am, I’m afraid. It would really be better if we — ”
    “Oh my God!” she shrieked. “You killed him! You people finally killed him!”
    “Mrs. Elias,” Bosch started, wishing he had better prepared himself for the assumption he should have known the woman would make. “We need to sit down with you and — ”
    Again he was cut off, but this time it was by an unintelligible, animal-like sound from deep in the woman. Its anguish was resonant. The woman bowed her head and leaned into the doorjamb. Bosch thought she might fall and made a move to grab her shoulders. The woman recoiled as if he were a monster reaching out to her.
    “No! No! Don’t you touch me! You — you murderers! Killers! You killed my Howard. Howard!”
    The last word was a full-throated scream that seemed to echo through the neighborhood. Bosch looked behind him, half-expecting to see the street lined with onlookers. He knew he had to contain the woman, get her inside or at least quiet. She was moving into a full-fledged wail now. Meantime, Chastain just stood there, paralyzed by the scene unfolding before him.
    Bosch was about to make another attempt to touch the woman when he saw movement from behind her and a young man grabbed hold of her from behind.
    “Ma! What? What is it?”
    The woman turned and collapsed against the young man.
    “Martin! Martin, they killed him! Your father!”
    Martin Elias looked up over his mother’s head and his eyes burned right through Bosch. His mouth formed the horrible Oh of shock and pain that Bosch had seen too many times before. He suddenly realized his mistake. He should have made this call with either Edgar or Rider. Rider, probably. She would have been a calming