Angels Flight by Michael Connelly Page B

When they had married a year ago, he had found a feeling of contentment and peace that he had never experienced before. For the first time in his life he felt there was someone to sacrifice for — everything if needed. But he had come to the point where he was acknowledging to himself that it was not the same for her. She was not content or complete. And it made him feel awful and guilty and a small bit relieved, all at the same time.
    Again he tried to concentrate on other things, on the case. He knew he needed to put Eleanor aside for the time being. He started thinking about the voice on the phone, the condoms hidden in the bathroom cabinet and the bed that had been neatly made. He thought about how Howard Elias could come to have the unlisted home telephone number of Carla Entrenkin in the drawer next to his bed.

Chapter 8
     
    R IDER was standing next to a tall black man with graying hair just outside the door to the Angels Flight station house. They were sharing a smile about something when Bosch walked up.
    “Mr. Peete, this is Harry Bosch,” Rider said. “He’s in charge of this investigation.”
    Peete shook his hand.
    “Worst thing I ever saw in m’life. Worst thing.”
    “I’m sorry you had to witness this, sir. But I’m glad you are willing to help us out. Why don’t you go in and have a seat inside. We’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
    When Peete was inside Bosch looked at Rider. He didn’t have to speak.
    “Same as Garwood said. He didn’t hear anything and he didn’t see a lot until the car came up and he went to lock it up for the night. He didn’t see anybody hanging around down there as if they were waiting for anyone, either.”
    “Any chance he’s just playing deaf and dumb?”
    “My gut says no. I think he’s legit. He didn’t see it or hear it go down.”
    “He touch the bodies?”
    “No. You mean the watch and wallet? I doubt it was him.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “Mind if I ask him a couple follow-ups?”
    “Be my guest.”
    Bosch walked into the little office and Rider followed. Eldrige Peete was sitting at the lunch table, holding the phone to his ear.
    “I gotta go, hon,” he said when he saw Bosch. “The policeman wants to talk to me.”
    He hung up.
    “My wife. She’s wondering when I’m coming home.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “Mr. Peete, did you go into the train after you saw the bodies in there?”
    “No, sir. Uh, they looked pretty dead to me. I saw a lot of blood. I thought I should leave it all alone for the authorities.”
    “Did you recognize either of those people?”
    “Well, the man I couldn’t rightly see, but I thought it might be Mr. Elias just on account of the nice suit and how he looked. Now, the woman, I recognized her, too. I mean, I didn’t know her name or nothin’ but she got on the train a few minutes before and went on down.”
    “You mean she went down first?”
    “Yes, sir, she went down. She also a regular like Mr. Elias. ’Cept she ride maybe only one time a week. On Fridays, like last night. Mr. Elias, he ride more.”
    “Why do you think she went down the hill but didn’t get off the train?”
    Peete stared at him blankly, as if surprised by such an easy question.
    “ ’Cause she got shot.”
    Bosch almost laughed but kept it to himself. He wasn’t being clear enough with the witness.
    “No, I mean before she was shot. It seems as though she never got up. As if she was on the bench and had been waiting to go back up when the shooter arrived behind the other passenger who was getting on.”
    “I surely don’t know what she was doing.”
    “When exactly did she go down?”
    “The ride right before. I sent Olivet down and that lady was on it. This was five, six minutes to ’leven. I sent Olivet down and I just let her sit down there till ’leven and then I brought her up. You know, last ride. When she came up, those people were dead on there.”
    Peete’s apparent ascribing of the female gender to the train was confusing to