Trunk Music by Michael Connelly

middle of the night.
    “I know, I know, Jerry. But it’s got to be done. Anything else going on?”
    “No. I called the Mirage, talked to a guy in security. The room Aliso used was rebooked over the weekend. It’s open now and he’s got a hold on it, but it’s spoiled.”
    “Probably…. Okay, man, next time you’ll eat the bear. Get on those warrants.”
    In Aliso’s office, Rider was already looking through the files. Bosch told her Edgar was working on a warrant and that they would have to draw up an inventory for Meachum. He also told her to take a break if she wanted but she declined.
    Bosch sat down behind the desk. It had the usual clutter. There was a phone with a speaker attachment, a Rolodex, a blotter, a magnetic block that held paper clips to it and a wood carving that said TNA Productions in script. There was also a tray stacked with paperwork.
    Bosch looked at the phone and noticed the redial button. He lifted the handset and pushed the button. He could tell by the quick procession of tones that the last call made on the phone had been long distance. After two rings it was answered by a female voice. There was loud music in the background.
    “Hello?” she said.
    “Yes, hello, who’s this?”
    She giggled.
    “I don’t know, who’s this?”
    “I might have the wrong number. Is this Tony’s?”
    “No, it’s Dolly’s.”
    “Oh, Dolly’s. Okay, uh, then where are you located?”
    She giggled again.
    “On Madison, where do you think? How do you think we got the name?”
    “Where’s Madison?”
    “We’re in North Las Vegas. Where are you coming from?”
    “The Mirage.”
    “Okay, just follow the boulevard out front to the north. You go all the way past downtown and past a bunch of cruddy areas and into North Las Vegas. Madison is your third light after you go under the overpass. Take a left and we’re a block down on the left. What’s your name again?”
    “It’s Harry.”
    “Well, Harry, I’m Rhonda. As in…”
    Bosch said nothing.
    “Come on, Harry, you’re supposed to say, ‘Help me, Rhonda, help, help me, Rhonda.’”
    She sang the line from the old Beach Boys song.
    “Actually, Rhonda, there is something you can help me with,” Bosch said. “I’m looking for a buddy of mine. Tony Aliso. He been in there lately?”
    “Haven’t seen him this week. Haven’t seen him since Thursday or Friday. I was wondering how you got the dressing room number.”
    “Yeah, from Tony.”
    “Well, Layla isn’t here tonight, so Tony wouldn’t be coming in anyway, I don’t think. But you can come on out. He don’t have to be here for you to have a good time.”
    “Okay, Rhonda, I’ll try to swing by.”
    Bosch hung up. He took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down the name of the business he had just called, the directions to it and the names Rhonda and Layla. He drew a line under the second name.
    “What was that?” Rider asked.
    “A lead in Vegas.”
    He recounted the call and the inference made about the person named Layla. Rider agreed that it was something to pursue, then went back to the files. Bosch went back to the desk. He studied the things on top of it before going to the things in it.
    “Hey, Chuckie?” he asked.
    Meachum, leaning against the door with his arms folded in front of him, raised his eyebrows by way of response.
    “He’s got no phone tape. What about when the receptionist isn’t out there? Do phone calls go to the operator or some kind of a phone service?”
    “Uh, no, the whole lot’s on voice mail now.”
    “So Aliso had voice mail? How do I get into it?”
    “Well, you’ve got to have his code. It’s a three-digit code. You call the voice mail computer, punch in the code and you pick up your messages.”
    “How do I get his code?”
    “You don’t. He programmed it himself.”
    “There’s no master code I can break in with?”
    “Nope. It’s not that sophisticated a system, Bosch. I mean, what do you want, it’s phone