Bosch shrugged and looked down at his mud-caked boots and pants.
“I might get a little dirty,” he said.
Marcia smiled as he popped the trunk and reached in for a Maglite.
“You want us to stick around?” he asked as he gave Bosch the heavy light. “You slip in there and break an ankle, it’ll be just you and the coyotes all night.”
“No, I’ll be fine. I’ve got my cell, anyway. And, besides, I like coyotes.”
“Be careful in there.”
Bosch stood by while they got into their car and drove off. He checked the sky again and headed down the path Waits had taken them on that morning. It took him five minutes to get to the drop-off where the shooting had occurred. He turned on the flashlight and for a few moments played the beam over the area. The place had been trampled by the coroner’s people, OIS investigators and Forensics techs. There was nothing left to see. Eventually, he slid down the incline using the same tree root he had used to climb up that morning. In another two minutes he came to the final clearing, now delineated by yellow police-line tape tied from tree to tree at the edges. In the center was a rectangular excavation hole no more than four feet deep.
Bosch ducked under the tape and entered the hallowed ground of the hidden dead.
Part Three
HALLOWED GROUND
19
IN THE MORNING Bosch was making coffee for Rachel and himself when he got the call. It was his boss, Abel Pratt.
“Harry, you’re not coming in. I just got the word.”
Bosch had half expected it.
“From who?”
“The sixth floor. OIS hasn’t wrapped it up and because the thing is so hot with the media, they want you to cool it on the sidelines for a few days until they see how it’s going to go.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. The sixth floor was where the department administration was located. The “they” Pratt had referred to was a collective of groupthink commanders who became frozen whenever a case hit big on TV or in politics, and this one had hit both. Bosch wasn’t surprised by the call, just disappointed. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
“Did you watch the news last night?” Pratt asked.
“No. I don’t watch the news.”
“Maybe you should start. We’ve now got Irvin Irving all over the box weighing in on this mess and he’s zeroed in on you specifically. Gave a speech last night on the south side, saying that hiring you back was an example of the chief’s ineptitude and the department’s moral corruption. I don’t know what you did to the guy but he’s got a real hard-on for you, man. ‘Moral corruption,’ that’s taking the gloves off.”
“Yeah, soon he’ll be blaming me for his hemorrhoids. Is the sixth floor sidelining me in reaction to him or to OIS?”
“Come on, Harry, you think I’d be privy to that conversation? I just got the call where I was told to make the call, know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“But look at it this way—with Irving punking you like that, the last thing the chief would do is cut you loose, because it would look like Irving was right. So the way I would read this thing is that they want to go by the numbers and nail it down tight before they close it down. So enjoy home duty and stay in touch.”
“Yeah, and what do you hear about Kiz?”
“Well, they don’t have to worry about home duty with her. She’s not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
“And?”
It was like peeling a label off a beer bottle. It never came all at once.
“And I think Kiz could be in some trouble. She was up on top with Olivas when Waits made his move. The question is, why didn’t she take his ass out when she had the chance? It looks like she froze, Harry, and that means she could get hurt in this thing.”
Bosch nodded. Pratt’s political take on the situation seemed on target. It made Bosch feel bad. Right now Rider had to fight to stay alive. Later she’d have to fight to keep her job. He knew that no matter what the fight was he would stand beside her the whole way.
“Okay,” he said. “Anything new on Waits?”
“Nothing, man. He’s in the wind. Probably down in Mexico by now. If that guy knows what’s best for him, he’ll never raise his head above sea level again.”
Bosch wasn’t so sure about that but didn’t express his disagreement. Something, some instinct, told him that Waits was lying low, yes, but that he had not gone very far. He thought about the Red Line subway Waits had apparently disappeared into and its many stops between Hollywood and downtown. He remembered the legend of Reynard the fox and the secret castle.
“Harry, I gotta go,” Pratt said. “You cool?”
“Yeah, right, cool. Thanks for running it down for me, Top.”
“All right, man. Technically, you are supposed to check in with me every day until we get the word you’re back on active.”
“You got it.”
Bosch hung the phone up. A few minutes later when Rachel came into the kitchen, he poured coffee into an insulated cup that came with the Lexus she had leased when she transferred to L.A. She had brought the cup in with her the night before.
She was dressed and ready for work.
“I don’t have anything here for breakfast,” he said. “We could go down the hill to Du-par’s if you have time.”
“No, that’s okay. I need to get going.”
She tore open a pink packet of sugar substitute and dumped it into the coffee. She opened the refrigerator and took out a quart of milk she had brought with her the night before as well. She whitened the coffee and put the top on the cup.
“What was the call you just got?” she asked.
“My boss. I just got sidelined while all of this is going on.”
“Oh, baby . . .”
She came over and hugged him.
“In a way it’s routine. The media and politics of the case make it a necessity. I’m on home duty until the OIS wraps things up and clears me of any wrongdoing.”
“You going to be okay?”
“I already am.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Home duty doesn’t mean I have to stay home. So I’m going to the hospital to see if they’ll let me hang with my partner for a while. Take it from there, I guess.”
“Want to have lunch?”
“Yeah, sure, that sounds good.”
They had quickly slipped into a domestic comfort that Bosch liked. It was almost as though they didn’t have to talk.
“Look, I’m fine,” he said. “You go to work and I’ll try to come down around lunchtime. I’ll call you.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you.”
She kissed him on the cheek before leaving through the kitchen door to the carport. He had told her to use the space in the carport on the days she came to stay with him.
Bosch drank a cup of coffee on the back deck while looking over the Cahuenga Pass. The skies were still clear from the rain two days earlier. It would be another beautiful day in paradise. He decided to go to Du-par’s on his own to eat breakfast before heading to the hospital to check on Kiz. He could pick up the papers, see what was reported about the events of the day before and then bring them to Kiz, maybe read them to her if she wanted.
He walked back inside and decided to leave on the suit and tie he had dressed in that morning before getting the call from Pratt. Home duty or not, he was going to act and look like a detective. He did, however, go into the closet in the bedroom and from the shelf above pull down the box containing the case file copies he had made four years earlier, when he had retired. He looked through the stacks until he found the copy of the Marie Gesto murder book. Jackson and Marcia would have the original, since they were running with the investigation now. He decided to take the copy with him in case he needed something to read while visiting with Rider or if Jackson or Marcia called with any questions.
>
He drove down the hill and up to Ventura Boulevard and followed it west into Studio City. At Du-par’s he bought copies of the Los Angeles Times and the Daily News out of racks in front of the restaurant, then went in and ordered French toast and coffee at the counter.
The Beachwood Canyon story was on the front page of both papers. Both displayed color booking photos of Raynard Waits, and the articles played up the hunt for the mad killer, the formation of an LAPD task force, and a toll-free telephone tip line just for finding Waits. The editors of the newspapers apparently considered that angle more important to the readers and a better selling point than the killing of two cops in the line of duty and the wounding of a third.
The stories contained information released during the numerous press conferences held the day before but very few details about what had actually happened in the woods at the top of Beachwood Canyon. According to the stories it was all under continuing investigation and information was being jealously guarded by those in charge. The short bios of the officers involved in the shooting and Deputy Doolan were sketchy at best. Both of the victims killed by Waits had been family men. The wounded detective, Kizmin Rider, had recently separated from a “life partner”—code for reporting that she was gay. Bosch didn’t recognize the names of the reporters on the stories and thought maybe they were new to the police beat and without sources close enough to the investigation to reveal the inside details.
On the jump pages of both papers he found sidebar stories that focused on the political response to the shooting and escape. Both papers quoted a variety of local pundits who for the most part said it was too early to tell whether the Beachwood incident would help or hinder Rick O’Shea’s candidacy for district attorney. While it was his case that went horribly awry, the reports of his selfless efforts to help save the wounded law officer while an armed killer was loose in the very same woods could be a balancing positive.
Said one pundit: “In this city, politics are like the movie business; nobody knows anything. This could be the best thing that happens to O’Shea. It could be the worst.”
Of course, O’Shea’s opponent, Gabriel Williams, was quoted liberally in both papers, calling the incident an unpardonable disgrace and laying all blame at O’Shea’s feet. Bosch thought about the missing videotape and wondered how much it would be worth to the Williams camp. Perhaps, he thought, Corvin the videographer had already found out.
In both papers Irvin Irving got his licks in and in doing so took a specific swipe at Bosch for being the epitome of what was wrong in the police department, something Irving as a city councilman would right. He said Bosch should never have been hired back into the department the year before and that Irving, as a deputy chief at the time, had lobbied hard against it. The papers said Bosch was under investigation by the department’s OIS squad and could not be reached for comment. Neither noted that the OIS routinely conducted an investigation of every shooting that involved a police officer, so what was presented to the public seemed unusual and therefore suspicious.
Bosch noticed that the sidebar in the Times had been written by Keisha Russell, who had worked the cop beat for a number of years before finally reaching a level of burnout that led her to ask for a new beat. She had landed in politics—a beat with its own high burnout rate. She had called and left a message for Bosch the night before but he had been in no mood to talk to a reporter, even one he trusted.
He still had her numbers programmed in his cell. When she worked cops he had been her source on a number of occasions, and she had provided him with help several times in return. He put the papers aside and took his first bites of French toast. His breakfast had both powdered sugar and maple syrup on it and he knew the sugar high would help charge him into the day.
After getting through about half of the meal he pulled out his cell and called the reporter’s number. She answered right away.
“Keisha,” he said. “It’s Harry Bosch.”
“Harry Bosch,” she said. “Well, long time no see.”
“Well, with you being a big shot on the political scene now . . .”
“Ah, but now it is politics and police coming together in a violent collision, isn’t it? How come you didn’t call me back yesterday?”
“Because you know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, especially an investigation involving myself. Besides that, you called after my phone died. I didn’t get your message until I got home, and it was probably after your deadline.”
“How is your partner?” she said, putting the banter aside for a serious tone.
“Hanging in.”
“And you came away unscathed as reported?”
“In the physical sense.”
“But not the political.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, the story is already in the paper. Calling to comment and defend yourself now doesn’t exactly work.”
“I’m not calling to comment or defend myself. I don’t like my name in the paper.”
“Oh, then I get it. You want to go off the record and be my Deep Throat on this.”
“Not quite.”
He heard her blowing out her breath in frustration.
“Then why are you calling, Harry?”
“First of all, I always like hearing your voice, Keisha. You know that. And second, on the political beat, you probably have direct lines to all of the candidates. You know, so you can get them to give a quick comment on any issue that comes up in the course of a day. Right? Just like yesterday?”
She hesitated before answering, trying to get a read on where this was going.
“Yes, we’re known to be able to get hold of people when we have to. Except cantankerous police detectives. Sometimes they can be a problem.”
Bosch smiled.
“There you go,” he said.
“Which brings us to the reason you are calling.”
“Right. I want the number that will get me directly to Irvin Irving.”
This time the pause was longer.
“Harry, I can’t give you that number. It was entrusted to me and if he knows I gave—”
“Come on. Entrusted to you and every other reporter covering the campaign and you know it. He wouldn’t know who gave it to me unless I told him, and I’m not going to tell him. You know you can trust me when I say that.”
“Still, I just don’t feel comfortable giving it out without his permission. If you want me to call him and ask if I can—”
“He won’t want to talk to me, Keisha. That’s the point. If he wanted to talk to me I could leave a message at campaign headquarters—which is where, by the way?”
“On Broxton in Westwood. I still don’t feel comfortable just giving you the number.”
Bosch quickly grabbed the Daily News, which was folded to the page with the political fallout story. He read the byline.
“Okay, well maybe Sarah Weinman or Duane Swierczynski will feel comfortable giving it to me. They might want to have an IOU from somebody who’s in the middle of this thing.”
“All right, Bosch, all right, you don’t have to go to them, okay? I can’t believe you.”
“I want to talk to Irving.”
“All right, but you don’t say where you got the number.”
“Obviously.”
She gave him the number and he committed it to memory. He promised to call her back when there was something relating to the Beachwood Canyon incident that he could give her.
“Look, it doesn’t have to be political,” she urged. “Anything to do with the case, okay? I can still write a cop story if I’m the one who gets the story.”
“Got it, Keisha. Thanks.”
He closed his phone and left money for the bill and tip on the counter. As he stepped out of the restaurant he reopened the phone and punched in the number the reporter had just given him. Irving answered after six rings without identifying himself.
“Irvin Irving?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“I just wanted to thank you for confirming everything I always thought about you. You are nothing but a political opportunist and hack. That’s what you were in the department and that’s what you are out of it.”
“Is this Bosch? Is this Harry Bosch? Who gave you this number?”
“One of your own people. I guess somebody in your own camp doesn’t like the message you’re putting out.”
“Don’t worry about it, Bosch. Don’t worry about a thing. When I get in, you can start counting the days until you—”
Message delivered, Bosch closed his phone. It felt good to have said what he said, and to not worry that Irving was a superior officer who could say and do whatever he wanted without retribution from those he slighted.
Happy with his response to the newspaper stories, Bosch got in his car and drove to the hospital.
20
ON THE WAY DOWN the hallway in ICU Bosch passed a woman who had just left Kiz Rider’s room. He recognized her as Rider’s former lover. They had met briefly a few years earlier when Bosch happened to see Rider at the Playboy Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl.
He nodded to the woman as she passed but she didn’t stop to talk. He knocked once on Rider’s door and went in. His partner looked much better than she had the day before but still not even close to a hundred percent. She was conscious and alert when Bosch entered her room and her eyes tracked him to the side of her bed. There was no longer a tube in her mouth but the right side of her face drooped and Bosch immediately feared that she had suffered a stroke during the night.
“Don’t worry,” she said in slow, slurred words. “They’ve made my neck numb and it’s working on half of my face, too.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Okay,” he said. “Other than that how do you feel?”
“Not so good. It hurts, Harry. It really hurts.”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
“I have surgery on my hand in the afternoon. That’s going to hurt, too.”
“But then you’ll be on the road to recovery. Rehab and all of that good stuff.”
Echo Park Page 17
