“Whose is this?”
She swallowed before answering.
“It’s Monty’s. Was.”
“He played?”
“He tried. He always said he wanted to take lessons. He never did.”
A new rush of tears cascaded down her cheeks.
“It’s gotta be hot,” Braxton said, ignoring her and speaking to Bosch. “I can run a check when we get back. On those things the manufacturer and serial number are engraved inside. Wouldn’t surprise me if it came out of Servan’s shop on one of the earlier B and Es. I think I remember a sax being on the property list.”
Bosch pulled out the bulling cloth 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 bell.
Calumet Instruments
Chicago, Illinois
Custom-made for Quentin McKinzie,
1963
The Sweet Spot
Bosch read it again. 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. The music beautiful and agile.
“Jesus, Harry, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s it say?”
Bosch looked over at Braxton, the memory retreating into the darkness.
“Let’s go.”
Bosch let Braxton drive so that he could hold and study the saxophone.
“You ever heard of Quentin McKinzie?” he asked after they were halfway back to the station.
“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 lighter 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. 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 so right inside: ‘Custom-made lor Quentin McKinzie.’ That’s Sugar Ray McK.”
“You ever see him play?”
“One time. Nineteen sixty-nine.”
Braxton whistled.
“Long time ago. You think he’s still alive?”
“I don’t know. He’s not recording. Not in a long time.”
Bosch looked at the saxophone.
“Can’t record without this anyway, I suppose.”
Bosch’s cell phone chirped. It was Edgar.
“We’ve got lividity issues,” he said. “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?”
“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, a new gravity line will appear. An easy tip-off.
“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.”
“You do a property inventory on the guy yet?”
“Yeah, nothing. Pockets empty. No ID or anything else.”
“I’ll call you back.”
When they got to the detective bureau, Braxton went to get the reports on the prior burglaries at Three Kings. Bosch went to interview room three. Servan was calmly sitting at the table.
“Mr. Servan, are you all right? It shouldn’t be loo much longer.”
“Yeah, OK, OK. 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.”
“OK, well, we’ll find out for sure. We’ve got a few things to do and then we’ll get back to you.”
Bosch left him there. When he got to the homicide table Braxton had the burglary reports. Bosch told him to take the photo of Kelman they had pulled off the computer and show it to Servan to see if he recognized Kelman 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. Braxton noted that the display case had a key lock that had either been left unlocked or 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 a tenor saxophone that had been pawned by someone named Donald Teed. Nikolai Servan had given him $200 for the instrument. Because the saxophone he pawned had been stolen, Teed was also a victim of the crime. He had been contacted by Braxton and informed. Teed’s work number was on the report.
Bosch picked up the telephone and punched in the number. It was answered immediately by a woman who said, “Splendid Age Retirement Home.”
“Yes, is Donald Teed a resident there?”
“A resident? No. We have a Donald Teed who works here.”
“Is he there?”
“He is here today, but I’m not sure where he is right now. He’s a custodian and moves around. Who is calling? Is this a solicitation?”
Bosch felt things falling into place. He decided to take a shot.
“Can you tell me if there is someone there named Quentin McKinzie?”
“Yes, Mr. McKinzie is one of our residents. What is this about?”
“I’ll call back.”
He hung up as Braxton came back 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.”
Bosch nodded but didn’t say anything. After a few moments Braxton got tired of waiting.
“Harry, what else you need from me?”
“Um, can you go back in there and ask him about the display case? 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. And before you do, turn the video back on and ad vise him of his rights.”
“You sure?”
Bosch looked up at him.
“Just go do it.”
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. He keeps the key with him all the time. There are no copies.”
“Then our guy used picks.”
“Looks that way.”