Angle of Investigation

he was seventy-two years old.
    Bosch entered and walked up to a welcome counter. The place smelled like most of the low-rent retirement homes he had ever been in. Urine and decay, the end of hopes and dreams. He asked for directions to Quentin McKinzie’s room. The woman behind the counter suspiciously eyed the saxophone under Bosch’s arm.
    “Do you have an appointment?” she asked. “Evening visiting is by appointment only.”
    “Is that to give you time to clean the place up before the kids come by to see dear old dad?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I don’t need an appointment. Where is Mr. McKinzie?”
    He held his badge up, a foot from her face. She looked at it for a long moment—longer than it took to read it—and then cleared her throat.
    “He’s in one-oh-seven. Down the hall on the left side. He’s probably sleeping.”
    Bosch nodded his thanks and headed down the hall.
    The door to 107 was ajar. The light was on in the room and Bosch could hear television sounds coming from inside. He knocked softly and didn’t get a response. He slowly pushed the door open and stuck his head in. He saw an old man sitting in a chair next to a bed. A television mounted high on the opposite wall was droning. The old man’s eyes were closed. He was gaunt and depleted, his body taking up only half of the chair. His black skin looked gray and powdery. Despite the thin face and loose skin gathering below his chin, Bosch recognized him. It was Sugar Ray McK.
    He stepped into the room and quietly came around the bed. The man didn’t stir. Bosch stood still for a moment, wondering what he should do. He decided not to wake the man. He put the instrument stand down on the floor in the corner. He then cradled the saxophone in it. He straightened up, took another look at the sleeping jazzman and nodded to him in some sort of unnoticed acknowledgment. As he headed out of the room he reached up and turned off the television.
    At the door he was stopped by a raspy voice.
    “Hey!”
    Bosch turned. Sugar Ray was awake and looking at him with rheumy eyes.
    “You turned off my box.”
    “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”
    He came back into the room and reached up to turn the television on again.
    “Who are you, boy? You don’t work here.”
    Bosch turned to face him.
    “My name is Harry. Harry Bosch. I came—”
    Sugar Ray noticed the saxophone sitting in the corner of the room.
    “That’s my ax.”
    Bosch picked up the saxophone and handed it to him.
    “I found it. I saw your name in it and I wanted to get it back to you.”
    The man held the instrument like it was as precious as a new baby. He slowly turned it in his hands, studying it for flaws or maybe just wanting to look at it the way he would look at a loved one long gone away. Bosch felt a constriction rising in his chest as the jazzman brought the instrument to his mouth, licked the mouthpiece and then held it between his teeth. His chest rose as he drew in a breath.
    But as his fingers went to work and he blew out the riff, the wind escaped from the weak seal his lips made around the mouthpiece. Sugar Ray closed his eyes and tried again. The same result sounded from his instrument. He was too old and weak. His lungs were gone. He could no longer play.
    “It’s all right,” Bosch said. “You don’t have to play. I just thought it should be back with you, that’s all.”
    Sugar Ray cradled the instrument in his lap as if he were protecting it. He looked up at Bosch.
    “Where did you get this, Harry Bosch?”
    “I took it from a guy who stole it from a pawnshop.”
    Sugar Ray nodded like he knew the story.
    “Was it stolen from you?” Bosch asked.
    “No. I had it pawned. A fellow here did it for me so I could get money for the box. I don’t like being in the dayroom with the others. They’re all suicides waitin’ to happen. So I needed my own box.”
    He shook his head. His eyes went up to the tefy"up to tlevision on the wall over Bosch’s shoulder.
    “Imagine, a man trading the love of his life for that.”
    Bosch looked up at the tube and saw a commercial where a Santa Claus was drinking a cold beer after a long night of delivering presents and cheer. He looked back at Sugar Ray. He didn’t know whether to feel good or bad about what he had done. He had returned an instrument to a musician who could no longer play it.
    But as this indecision gripped his heart he saw Sugar Ray pull the saxophone closer to his body. He held it there