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Suicide Run

Suicide Run

Titel: Suicide Run
Autoren: Michael Connelly
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they’re going to sleep at night. They want to go easy.”
    Edgar nodded his head.
    “All right, I’ll give you that. But it’s not enough. It’s an anomaly. You know what that is? Something that deviates from the norm. What we have here is a deviation within the norm. It’s not something we—”
    There was a sudden flash. Bosch turned to see Baron coming from the hallway into the living room. He had fired off a shot at Bosch and Edgar.
    “Sorry about that,” he said. “Misfire. You guys want me to shoot anything else? I’m done with Marilyn Monroe in there.”
    “No,” Edgar said. “You’re clear, Mark.”
    Baron, a short man with a widening middle, threw a mock salute and walked out the open front door of the apartment. Bosch looked at Edgar sharply. He didn’t like the junior member of the team making the call to break up the crime scene. Edgar read him correctly.
    “Look, Harry, it is what it is. We’re done here. Let’s sign off and wait on the toxicology.”
    “We’re not done. We’re just beginning. Go out there and bring Baron back. I want him to shoot everything in this place.”
    Edgar blew out his breath impatiently.
    “Look, partner, you may have convinced yourself of something but you haven’t convinced me or anybody else here that—”
    “There’s no pencil.”
    “What?”
    “On the bed table. There’s no pencil to go with the note. If she wrote the note and took the pills, then where’s the pencil?”
    “I don’t know, Harry. Maybe it’s in a drawer in the kitchen. What’s it matter?”
    “You’re saying she writes a suicide note and gets up naked to put the pencil away in a kitchen drawer? Listen to yourself, Jerry. This scene doesn’t work and you know it. So what do you want to do about it?”
    Edgar stared at Bosch for a moment and then nodded as if conceding something.
    “I’ll go get the photographer back,” he said.

    Bosch stared at Lizbeth Grayson on the television screen. She was tearful, beautiful and in character.
    “I’ve tried with him every way I know how,” she said. “There’s no use anymore. I give up.”
    “Stop it right there,” Bosch said.
    Gloria Palovich paused the video. Bosch looked at her. She had been Lizbeth Grayson’s acting coach.
    “When was this recorded?” he asked.
    “Last week. It was for yesterday’s reading. That’s why I was concerned. She worked for almost two weeks to prepare for that audition. She got fresh headshots. She was putting everything into it. When she didn’t show up… I just knew something was wrong.”
    “Did she take notes during your sessions?”
    “All the time. She was a wonderful student.”
    “What sort of notes?”
    “Mostly on accent and delivery. How to best use dialogue to convey the inner emotions.”
    Bosch nodded. He realized that Lizbeth Grayson’s suicide note was anything but a farewell. It was the opposite. It was part of a young woman’s efforts to thrive and succeed.
    He looked around the acting studio. He felt uneasy, like he had missed something in the conversation. Then he remembered. The headshots he had seen in the bureau drawer in Lizbeth Grayson’s apartment were not new. He had studied the dead woman on the bed and none of the photos in the drawer showed her with the same hairstyle. They were old.
    Bosch looked at the acting coach.
    “You said she got new photos. Are you sure?”
    Palovich nodded emphatically and pointed over Bosch’s head.
    “Absolutely. She felt so good about this job that she held nothing back. She was going after it on every level.”
    Bosch turned and looked at the bulletin board that ran the length of the wall behind him. It was covered with a blizzard of headshots. All of Palovich’s students, he assumed. He found the shot of Lizbeth Grayson and it was indeed a recent shot. Her blond hair curved under her chin and the easy smile.
    Bosch felt himself getting angry. Someone had picked this flower just as it had been about to bloom.
    He stepped over and pulled the tack holding the photo to the board. He studied the shot in his hand. There had been no copies of this photo in the apartment. He was sure of it.
    “When did she get this taken, do you know?” he asked.
    “Last week, I think,” Palovich replied. “She brought in the stack and gave me the first one off the top for the board.”
    “There was a stack?”
    “Yes, usually they come in hundred-copy stacks. You can never have too many photos. You have to have your headshots
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