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to market with them. Do you know who Michael St. John is?”
    The name sounded familiar but Bosch could not place it. He shook his head. Rider did the same.
    “He’s one of the screenwriters of the moment. He’ll be directing studio features within a year or so. He’s the flavor-of-the-month, so to speak.”
    “Okay.”
    “Well, eight years ago when he was in the USC film school and was hungry and was trying to find an agent and trying to catch the attention of the studios, my husband was one of the vultures who circled overhead. You see, my husband’s films were so low-budget that he’d get students to shoot them, direct them, write them. So he knew the schools and he knew talent. Michael St. John was one he knew had talent. Once when he was desperate, he sold Anthony the rights to three of his student screenplays for two thousand dollars. Now, anything with St. John’s name on it goes for at least six figures.”
    “What about these writers, how do they take this?”
    “Not well. St. John was trying to buy his scripts back.”
    “You think he could have harmed your husband?”
    “No. You asked me what he did and I told you. If you are asking who would kill him, I don’t know.”
    Bosch jotted a couple of notes down.
    “You mentioned that he said that he saw investors when he went to Las Vegas,” Rider said.
    “Yes.”
    “Can you tell us who they were?”
    “Schmucks from Iowa, I would assume. People he would meet and persuade to invest in a movie. You’d be surprised how many people jump at a chance to be part of a Hollywood movie. And Tony was a good salesman. He could make a two-million budget flick sound like the sequel to Gone With the Wind. He convinced me.”
    “How so?”
    “He talked me into being in one of his movies once. That’s how I met him. Made it sound like I was going to be the new Jane Fonda. You know, sexy but smart. It was a studio picture. Only the director was a coke addict and the writer couldn’t write and the movie was so bad it was never released. That was it for my career and Tony never made a studio picture again. He spent the rest of his life making video garbage.”
    Looking around the tall-ceilinged room at the paintings and furniture, Bosch said, “Doesn’t look like he did too badly at it.”
    “No, he didn’t,” she responded. “I guess we have those people from Iowa to thank for that.”
    Her bitterness was stifling. Bosch looked down at his notebook just so he could avert his eyes from her.
    “All this talk,” she said then. “I need some water. Do either of you want something?”
    “Water would be fine,” Bosch said. “We’re not going to be much longer.”
    “Detective Rider?”
    “I’m fine, thank you.”
    “I’ll be right back.”
    While she was gone Bosch stood up and looked around the living room in a manner that suggested he wasn’t really interested. He said nothing to Rider. He was standing near a side table looking at a carved glass figurine of a nude woman when Veronica Aliso came back in with two glasses of ice water.
    “I just want to ask you a few more questions about this past week,” Bosch said.
    “Fine.”
    He sipped from his glass and remained standing.
    “What would your husband have taken with him to Las Vegas as far as luggage went?”
    “Just his overnighter.”
    “What did it look like?”
    “It was a hanging bag that, you know, folded over. It was green with brown leather trim and straps. He had a name tag on it.”
    “Did he take a briefcase or any work with him?”
    “Yes, his briefcase. It was one of those aluminum shell kind. You know, they are lightweight but impossible to break into or something. Is the luggage missing?”
    “We’re not sure. Do you know where he kept the key to the briefcase?”
    “On his key chain. With the car keys.”
    There had been no car keys in the Rolls or on Aliso’s body. Bosch realized that the reason they might have been taken was to open the briefcase. He put the glass down