'You're not going to look through that whole thing, are you?' Shivone asked in exasperation.
'No, I'm just going to take it with me.'
'Oh, no you don't. You can't just come in here and -'
'I'm taking it. If you want to make a complaint about it, be my guest. Then I'll make a complaint about you.'
She went quiet after that. Bosch went on to the next drawer and found it contained about twelve files on old LAPD cases from the 1950s and early 1960s. Again, he didn't have the time to study them, but he checked all the
labels and none was marked Marjorie Lowe. By randomly pulling out a few of the files it became clear to him that Eno had made copies of files on some of his cases to take with him when he left the department. Of the random selections, all were murders, including two of prostitutes. Only one of the cases was closed.
'Go get me a box or a bag or something for these files,' Bosch said over his shoulder. When he sensed the woman in the room had not moved, he barked, 'Do it!'
She got up and left. Bosch stood gazing at the files and thinking. He had no idea if these were important or not. He had no idea what they meant. He only knew he should take them in case they turned out to be important. But what bothered him more than what the files that were in the drawer could mean was the feeling that something was certainly missing. This was based on his belief in McKit-trick. The retired detective was sure his former partner, Eno, had some kind of hold on Conklin, or at the very least, some kind of deal with him. But there was nothing here about that. And it seemed to Bosch that if Eno was holding something on Conklin, it would still be here. If he kept old LAPD files, then he kept whatever he had on Conklin. In fact, he would have kept it in a safe place. Where?
The woman came back and dropped a cardboard box on the floor. It was the kind a case of beer had come in. Bosch put a foot-thick stack of files in it along with the Rolodex.
'You want a receipt?' he asked.
'No, I don't want anything from you.'
'Well, there is still something I need from you.'
'This doesn't end, does it?'
'I hope it does.'
'What do you want?'
'When Eno died, did you help the old lady uh, your
sister, that is did you help her clear out his safe deposit box?'
'How'd -'
She stopped herself but not soon enough.
'How'd I know? Because it's obvious. What I'm looking for, he would have kept in a safe place. What did you do with it?'
'We threw everything away. It was meaningless. Just some old files and bank statements. He didn't know what he was doing. He was old himself'
Bosch looked at his watch. He was running out of time if he was going to make his plane. .
'Get me the key for this desk drawer.'
She didn't move.
'Hurry up, I don't have a lot of time. You open it or I'll open it. But if I do it, that drawer isn't going to be much use to you anymore.'
She reached into the pocket of her house dress and pulled out the house keys. She reached down and unlocked the desk drawer, pulled it open and then stepped away.
'We didn't know what any of it was, or what it meant.'
'That's fine.'
Bosch moved to the drawer and looked in. There were two thin manila files and two packs of envelopes with rubber bands holding them together. The first file he looked through contained Eno's birth certificate, passport, marriage license and other personal records. He put it back in the drawer. The next file contained LAPD forms and Bosch quickly recognized them as the pages and reports that had been removed from the Marjorie Lowe murder book. He knew he had no time to read them at the moment and put the file in the beer box with the other files.
The rubber band on the first package of envelopes
snapped when he tried to remove it and he was reminded of the band that had been around the blue binder that contained the case files. Everything about this case was old and ready to snap, he thought.
The envelopes were all from a Wells Fargo Bank branch in Sherman Oaks and each one contained a statement for a savings account in the name of McCage Inc. The address of the corporation was a post office box, also in Sherman Oaks. Bosch randomly took envelopes from different spots in the pack and studied three of them. Though separated by years in the late 1960s, each statement was basically the same. A deposit of one thousand dollars was made in the account on the tenth of each month and on the fifteenth a transfer of an equal amount was made to an account with a Nevada Savings and Loan branch in Las Vegas.
Without looking further, Bosch concluded that the bank statements might be the records of some kind of payoff account Eno kept. He quickly looked through the envelopes at the postmarks looking for the most recent one. He found none more recent than the late 1980s.
'What about these envelopes? When did he stop getting them?'
'What you see is what you get. I have no idea what they mean and Olive didn't know either back when they drilled his box.'
'Drilled his box?'
'Yeah, after he died. Olive wasn't on the safe deposit box. Only him. We couldn't find his key. So we had to have it drilled.'
'There was money, too, wasn't there?'
She waited a moment, probably wondering if he was going to demand that, too.
'Some. But you're too late, it's already spent.'
'I'm not worried about that. How much was there?'
She pinched her lips and acted like she was trying to remember. It was a bad act.
'C'mon. I'm not here for the money and I'm not from the IRS.'
'It was about eighteen thousand.'
Bosch heard a horn honk from outside. The cabdriver was getting resdess. Bosch looked at his watch. He had to go. He tossed the envelope packs into the beer box.
'What about his account at Nevada Savings and Loan? How much was in it?'
It was a scam question based on his guess that the account that the money from Sherman Oaks was transferred to was Eno's. Shivone hesitated again. A delay punctuated by another horn blast.
'It was about fifty. But most of that's gone, too. Taking care of Olive, you know?'
'Yeah, I bet. Between that and the pensions, it's gotta be rough,' Bosch said with all the sarcasm he could put into it. 'I bet your accounts aren't too thin, though.'
'Look, mister, I don't know who you think you are but I'm the only one in the world that she has and who cares about her. That's worth something.'
'Too bad she doesn't get to decide what it's worth instead of you. Answer one question for me and then I'm out of here and you can go back to taking whatever you can off her ... Who are you? You're not her sister. Who are you?'
'It's none of your business.'
'That's right. But I could make it my business.'
She put on a look that showed Bosch what an affront he was to her delicate sensibilities but then seemed to gain a measure of self-esteem. Whoever she was, she was proud of it.
'You want to know who I am? I was the best woman he ever had. I was with him for a long time. She had his
wedding band but I had his heart. Near the end, when they were both old and it didn't matter, we dropped the pretension and he brought me in here. To live with them. Take care of them. So don't you dare tell me I don't deserve something out of it.'
Bosch just nodded. Somehow, as sordid as the story seemed, he found a measure of respect for her for just having told the truth. And he felt sure it was.
'When did you meet?'
'You said one question.'
'When did you meet?'
'When he was at the Flamingo. We both were. I was a dealer. Like I said, he was a bird dog.'
'He ever talk about LA, about any cases, any people from back there?'
'No, never. He always said that was a closed chapter.'
Bosch pointed to the envelope stacks in the box.
'Does the name McCage mean anything?'
'Not to me.'
'What about these account statements?'