“Go back to the car. Wait a while.”
Back in the car, they talked about old cases and detective bureau pranks. Edgar revealed that it had been he who had cut ads for penile-enhancement surgery out of the sports pages and slipped them into an officious lieutenant’s jacket pocket while it had been hanging on a rack in his office. The lieutenant had subsequently mounted an investigation focused squarely on Bosch.
“Now you tell me,” Bosch said. “Pounds tried to bust me to burglary for that one.”
Edgar was a clapper. He backed his laughter with his own applause but cut the display short when Bosch pointed through the windshield.
“There she is.”
A late-model Range Rover pulled into the driveway.
Bosch and Edgar got out and crossed the front lawn to meet Gables as she took the stone path from the driveway to her front door. Bosch saw her recognize Edgar, even after five years, and saw her eyes immediately start scanning, going from the front door of her house to the street and the houses of her neighbors. Her head didn’t move, only her eyes, and Bosch recognized it as a tell. Fight or flight. It might have been a natural reaction for a woman with two strange men approaching her, but Bosch didn’t think that was the situation. He had seen the recognition in her eyes when she looked at Edgar. A pulse of electricity began moving in his blood.
“Ms. Gables,” Edgar said. “Jerry Edgar. You remember me?”
As planned, Edgar was taking the lead before passing it off to Bosch.
Gables paused on the path. She was carrying a stylish red leather briefcase. She acted as though she were trying to place Edgar’s face, and then she smiled.
“Of course, Detective. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You must have a very good memory.”
“Well, it’s not every day that you meet a real live detective. Is this coincidence or…”
“Not a coincidence. I’m with Detective Bosch here and we would like to ask you a few questions about the Randolph case, if you don’t mind.”
“It was so long ago.”
“Five years,” Bosch said, asserting himself now. “But it’s still an open case.”
She registered the information and then nodded.
“Well, it’s been a long day. I start at six in the morning, when the market opens. Could we-”
Bosch cut her off. “I start at six too, but not because of the stock market.”
He wasn’t backing down.
“Then fine, you’re welcome to come in,” she said. “But I don’t know what help I can be after so long. I didn’t really think I was much help five years ago. I didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. I just happened to be in the neighborhood after I was at the police station.”
“We’re investigating the case again,” Bosch said. “And we need to talk to everybody we talked to five years ago.”
“Well, like I said, come on in.”
She unlocked the front door and entered first, greeted by the beeping of an alarm warning. She quickly punched a four-digit combination into an alarm-control box on the wall. Bosch and Edgar stepped in behind her and she ushered them into the living room.
“Why don’t you gentlemen have a seat? I’m going to put my things down and be right back out. Would either of you like something to drink?”
“I’ll take a bottle of water if you got it,” Edgar said.
“I’m fine,” Bosch said.
“You know what?” Edgar said quickly. “I’m fine, too.”
Gables glanced at Bosch and seemed to register that he was the power in the room. She said she’d be right back.
After she was gone Bosch looked around the room. It was a basic living room setup with a couch and two chairs surrounding a glass-topped coffee table. One wall was made up entirely of built-in bookshelves, all filled with what looked by their titles to be crime novels. He noticed there were no personal displays. No framed photographs anywhere.
They remained standing until Gables came back and pointed them to the couch. She took a chair directly across the table from them.
“Now, what can I tell you? Frankly, I forgot the whole incident.”
“But you remembered Detective Edgar. I could tell.”
“Yes, but seeing him out of context, I knew I recognized him but I could not remember from where.”
According to the DMV, Gables was now forty-one years old. And Edgar had been right: she was a looker, attractive in a professional sort of way. A short, no-nonsense cut to her brown hair. Slim, athletic build. She sat straight and looked straight at one or the other of them, no longer scanning because she was inside her comfort zone. Still, there were tells: Bosch knew through his training in interview techniques that normal eye contact between individuals lasted an average of three seconds, yet each time Gables looked at Bosch, she held his eyes a good ten seconds. That was a sign of stress.
“I was rereading the reports,” Bosch said. “They included your explanation for being in the area-you were at the police station filling out a report.”
“That’s right.”
“It didn’t say, though, where your car was when it got damaged the night before.”
“I had been at a restaurant on Franklin. I told them that. And when I came out after, the back taillight was smashed and the paint scraped.”
“You didn’t call the police then?”
“No, I didn’t. No one was there. It was a hit-and-run; they didn’t even leave a note on the car. They just took off, and I thought I was out of luck.”
“What was the name of the restaurant?”
“I can’t remember-oh, it was Birds. I love the roasted chicken.”
Bosch nodded. He knew the place and the roasted chicken.
“So what made you come back to Hollywood the next day and file the report on the hit-and-run?”
“I called my insurance company first thing in the morning and they said I needed it if I wanted to file a claim to cover the damages.”
Bosch was covering ground that was already in the reports. He was looking for variations, changes. Stories told five years apart often had inconsistencies and contradictions. But Gables wasn’t changing the narrative at all.
“When you drove by Orange Grove, you heard no shots or anything like that?”
“No, nothing. I had my windows up.”
“And you were driving fast.”
“Yes, I was going to be late for work.”
“Now, when Detective Edgar came to see you, was that unsettling?”
“Unsettling? Well, yes, I guess so, until I realized what he was there for, and of course I knew I had nothing to do with it.”
“Was it the first time you’d ever encountered a detective or the police like that? You know, on a murder case.”
“Yes, it was very unusual. To say the least. Not a normal part of my life.”
She shook her shoulders as if to intimate a shiver, imply that police and murder investigations were foreign to her. Bosch stared at her for a long moment. She had either forgotten about seeing the armed man with a ski mask coming out of the garage where Roy Alan McIntyre was murdered or she was lying.
Bosch thought the latter. He thought that Diane Gables was a killer.
“How do you pick them?” he asked.
She turned directly toward him, her eyes locking on his.
“Pick what?”
Bosch paused, squeezing the most out of her stare and the moment.
“The stocks you recommend to people,” he said.
She broke her eyes away and looked at Edgar.
“Due diligence,” she said. “Careful analysis and prognostication. Then, I have to say, I throw in my hunches. You gentlemen use hunches, don’t you?”
“Every day,” Bosch said.
They were silent for a while as they drove away. Bosch thought about the carefully worded answers Gables had given. He was feeling stronger about his hunch every minute.
“What do you think?” Edgar finally asked.
“I think it’s her.”
“How can you say that? She didn’t make a single false move in there.”