A Darkness More Than Night

by Michael Connelly

  “Did you examine this case?”

  Fowkkes was up with an objection and this time asked for a sidebar conference. The judge allowed it and the attorneys gathered at the side of the bench. Bosch could not hear the whispered conversation but knew that Fowkkes was most likely trying to stop the direction of the testimony. Langwiser and Kretzler had anticipated he would move once more to block any mention of Alicia Lopez in front of the jurors. It would likely be the pivotal decision in the trial — for both sides.

  After five minutes of whispered argument, the judge sent the lawyers back to their places and told the jurors that the issue before the court would take longer than anticipated. He adjourned for another fifteen-minute break. Bosch returned to the prosecution table.

  “Something new?” Bosch asked Langwiser.

  “No, the same old argument. For some reason the judge wants to hear it again. Wish us luck.”

  The lawyers and the judge retreated to chambers to argue the point. Bosch was left at the table. He used his cell phone to check messages at his home and office. There was one message at work. It was from Terry McCaleb. He thanked Bosch for the tip from the night before. He said he got some good information at Nat’s and that he’d be in touch. Bosch erased it and closed the phone, wondering what it was that McCaleb had picked up.

  When the lawyers returned through the rear door of the courtroom, Bosch read the judge’s decision in their faces. Fowkkes looked dour, with his eyes downcast. Kretzler and Langwiser came back smiling.

  After the jurors were brought back and the trial resumed, Langwiser went directly in for the hit. She asked the court reporter to read back the last question before the objection.

  “‘Did you examine this case?’” the reporter read.

  “Let’s strike that,” Langwiser said. “Let’s not confuse the issue. Detective, the one female case of the sixteen you found in the medical examiner’s records, what was the name of the deceased in that case?”

  “Alicia Lopez.”

  “Can you tell us a little bit about her?”

  “She was twenty-four and lived in Culver City. She worked as an administrative assistant to the vice president of production at Sony Pictures, also in Culver City. She was found dead in her bed on the twentieth of May, nineteen ninety-eight.”

  “She lived alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were the circumstances of her death?”

  “She was found in her bed by a coworker who became concerned when she had missed two days of work following the weekend without calling in. The coroner estimated she had been dead three to four days by the time she was found. Decomposition of the body was extensive.”

  “Ms. Langwiser?” Judge Houghton interrupted. “It was agreed that you would lay foundation connecting the cases quickly.”

  “I’m right there, Your Honor. Thank you. Detective, did anything about this case alert you or draw your attention in any way?”

  “Several things. I looked at photos taken at the death scene and though decomposition was extensive I was able to note that the victim in this case was in a posture closely paralleling that of the victim in the present case. I also noted that the ligature in the Lopez case was also used without a buffering, which was the same with the present case. I also knew from our backgrounding investigation of Mr. Storey that at the time of Ms. Lopez’s death he was making a film for a company called Cold House Films, a company which was being financed in part by Sony Pictures.”

  In the moment following his answer Bosch noticed that the courtroom had become unusually still and silent. No one was whispering in the gallery or clearing their throat. It was as if everyone — jurors, lawyers, spectators and media — all decided to hold their breath at once. Bosch glanced at the jurors and saw that almost all of them were looking at the defense table. Bosch looked there as well and saw Storey, his face still aimed downward, silently seething. Langwiser finally broke the silence.

  “Detective, did you make further inquiries about the Lopez case?”

  “Yes, I spoke to the detective who handled it for the Culver City Police Department. I also made inquiries about Ms. Lopez’s job at Sony.”

  “And what did you learn about her that would have bearing on the present case?”

  “I learned that at the time of her death she was acting as a liaison between the studio and the field production of the film David Storey was directing.”

  “Do you recall the name of that film?”

  “The Fifth Horizon.”

  “Where was it being filmed?”

  “In Los Angeles. Mostly in Venice.”

  “And as a liaison would Ms. Lopez have had any direct contact with Mr. Storey?”

  “Yes. She spoke with him by phone or in person every day of the shoot.”

  Again the silence seemed to be roaring. Langwiser milked it for as long as she could and then started driving home the nails.

  “Let me see if I have all of this straight, Detective. Your testimony is that in the past five years there has been only one death of a female in Los Angeles County attributed to autoerotic asphyxia and that the present case involving the death of Jody Krementz was staged to appear as an autoerotic asphyxia?”

  “Objection,” Fowkkes interjected. “Asked and answered.”

  “Overruled,” Houghton said without argument from Langwiser. “The witness may answer.”

  “Yes,” Bosch said. “Correct.”

  “And that both of these women knew the defendant, David Storey?”

  “Correct.”

  “And that both of these deaths show similarities to a photograph of an autoerotic death contained in a book known at one time to be in the defendant’s collection at home?”

  “Correct.”

  Bosch looked over at Storey as he said it, hoping he would look up so that they could lock eyes one more time.

  “What did the Culver City Police Department have to say about this, Detective Bosch?”

  “Based upon my inquiries they have reopened the case. But they are hampered.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The case is old. Because it was originally ruled an accidental death, not all the records were kept in archives. Because decomposition was advanced at the time of the body’s discovery it is hard to make definitive observations and conclusions. And the body cannot be exhumed because it was cremated.”

  “It was? By whom?”

  Fowkkes stood and objected but the judge said the argument had already been heard and overruled. Langwiser prompted Bosch before Fowkkes had even sat back down.

  “By whom, Detective Bosch?”

  “By her family. But it was paid for . . . the cremation, the service, everything was paid for by David Storey as a gift in Alicia Lopez’s memory.”

  Langwiser loudly flipped up a page on her legal tablet. She was on a roll and everybody knew it. It was what cops and prosecutors called being in the tube. It was a surfing reference. It meant they had ridden the case into the water tunnel where everything was going smoothly and perfectly and was surrounding them in glorious balance.

  “Detective, subsequent to this part of the investigation, did there come a time when a woman named Annabelle Crowe came to see you?”

  “Yes. A story had broken in the Los Angeles Times about the investigation and how David Storey was the focus. She read the story and came forward.”

  “And who is she?”

  “She’s an actress. She lives in West Hollywood.”

  “And what bearing did she have on this case?”

  “She told me that she had dated David Storey at one time last year and he choked her while they were having sex.”

  Fowkkes made another objection, this one without the force of his other protestations. But again he was overruled, as the testimony had been cleared by the judge in earlier motions.

  “Where did Ms. Crowe say this incident took place?”

  “In Mr. Storey’s home on Mulholland Drive

  . I asked her to d
escribe the place and she was able to do so accurately. She had been there.”

  “Couldn’t she have seen the issue of Architectural Digest that showed photos of the defendant’s home?”

  “She was able to describe in accurate detail areas of the master bedroom and bath that were not shown in the magazine.”

  “What happened to her when the defendant choked her?”

  “She told me she passed out. When she awoke Mr. Storey was not in the room. He was taking a shower. She grabbed her clothing and fled from the home.”

  Langwiser underlined that with a long silence. She then flipped the pages of her pad down, glanced over at the defense table and then looked up at Judge Houghton.

  “Your Honor, that is all I have for Detective Bosch at this time.”

  26

  McCaleb got to El Cochinito at quarter to twelve. He hadn’t been inside the storefront restaurant in Silver Lake in five years but he remembered the place had only a dozen or so tables and they were usually taken quickly at lunchtime. And often those tables were taken by cops. Not because the name of the restaurant was a draw — the Little Pig — but because the food was of high quality and low cost. It had been McCaleb’s experience that cops were highly skilled in finding such establishments among the many restaurants in any city. When he had traveled on assignment for the bureau, he would always ask the local street cops for recommendations on food. He had rarely been disappointed.

  While he waited for Winston he carefully studied the menu and planned his meal. In the past year his palate had finally returned with a vengeance. For the first eighteen months of his life after surgery, his sense of taste had deserted him. He had not cared what he ate because it all tasted the same — bland. Even a heavy dousing of habañera sauce on everything from sandwiches to pasta only registered a minor blip on his tongue. But then, slowly, his taste started coming back and it became a second rebirth for him following the transplant itself. He now loved everything Graciela made. He even loved everything he made — and this despite his general ineptitude with anything other than the barbecue grill. He ate everything with a gusto he’d never had before, even before the transplant. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the middle of the night was something he privately savored as much as a trip overtown with Graciela to dine in style at Jozu on Melrose. Consequently, he had started filling out, gaining back the twenty-five pounds he’d lost while his own heart had withered and he’d waited for a new one. He was now back to his pre-illness weight of 180 and food intake, for the first time in four years, was something he had to watch. On his last cardio checkup, his doctor had taken notice and raised a warning. She told him that he had to slow down the intake of calories and fat.

  But not at this lunch. He had been waiting a long time for a chance to come to this place. Years earlier he had spent a good bit of time in Florida on a serial case and the only good that had come out of it was his love of Cuban food. When he later transferred to the Los Angeles field office it was hard to find a Cuban restaurant that compared with the places where he had eaten in Ybor City outside of Tampa. Once on an L.A. case he’d come across a patrol cop who he learned was of Cuban descent. McCaleb asked him where he went to eat when he wanted real home cooking. The cop’s answer was El Cochinito. And McCaleb quickly became a regular.

  McCaleb decided that studying the menu was a waste of time because he had known all along what he wanted. Lechon asada with black beans and rice, fried bananas and yucca on the side and don’t bother telling the doctor. He just wished Winston would hurry up and get there so he could place his order.

  He put the menu aside and thought about Harry Bosch. McCaleb had spent most of the morning on the boat, watching the trial on television. He thought Bosch’s performance on the witness stand had been outstanding. The revelation that Storey had been linked to another death was shocking to McCaleb and apparently to the media horde as well. During the breaks the talking heads in the studio were beside themselves with excitement over the prospect of this new fodder. They cut at one point to the hallway outside the courtroom where J. Reason Fowkkes was being peppered with questions about these new developments. Fowkkes, for probably the only time in his life, was not commenting. The talking heads were left to speculate about this new information and to comment on the methodical yet thoroughly gripping procession of the prosecution’s case.

  Still, watching the trial only caused uneasiness within McCaleb. He had a difficult time coming to terms with the idea that the man he had watched so capably describing the aspects and moves of a difficult investigation was also the man he was investigating, the man his gut instincts told him had committed the same kind of crime he was now involved in prosecuting.

  At noon, their agreed-upon meeting time, McCaleb looked up from his thoughts to see Jaye Winston come through the restaurant’s front door. She was followed by two men. One was black and one was white and that was the best way to differentiate between them because they wore almost identical gray suits and maroon ties. Before they even got to his table McCaleb knew they were bureau men.

  Winston had a look of washed-out resignation on her face.

  “Terry,” she said before sitting down, “I want you to meet a couple guys.”

  She indicated the black agent first.

  “This is Don Twilley and this is Marcus Friedman. They’re with the bureau.”

  All three of them pulled out chairs and sat down. Friedman sat next to McCaleb, Twilley directly across from him. Nobody shook hands.

  “I’ve never had Cuban food before,” Twilley said as he pulled a menu from the napkin stand. “Is it good here?”

  McCaleb looked at him.

  “No. That’s why I like to eat here.”

  Twilley’s eyes came up from the menu and he smiled.

  “I know, stupid question.” He looked down at the menu and then back up at McCaleb. “You know I know about you, Terry. You’re a fucking legend in the FO. Not ’cause of the heart, ’cause of the cases. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

  McCaleb looked over at Winston with a look that said what the hell is going on.

  “Terry, Marc and Don are from the civil rights section.”

  “Yeah? That’s great. Did you guys come all the way from the field office to meet the legend and try Cuban food, or is there something else?”

  “Uh . . . ,” Twilley began.

  “Terry, the shit’s hit the fan,” Winston said. “A reporter called my captain this morning to ask if we were investigating Harry Bosch as a suspect in the Gunn case.”

  McCaleb leaned back in his seat, shocked by the news. He was about to respond when the waiter came to the table.

  “Give us a couple minutes,” Twilley said gruffly to the man, waving him off with a dismissive gesture, which annoyed McCaleb.

  Winston continued.

  “Terry, before we go further with this, I have to know something. Did you leak this?”

  McCaleb shook his head in disgust.

  “Are you kidding me? You’re asking me that?”

  “Look, all I know is that it didn’t come from me. And I didn’t tell anyone, not Captain Hitchens and not even my own partner, let alone a reporter.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. Thanks for asking.”

  He glanced at Twilley and then back at Winston. He hated having this dispute with Jaye in front of them.

  “What are these guys doing here?” he asked. Then looking at Twilley again, he added, “What do you want?”

  “They’re taking over the case, Terry,” Winston answered. “And you’re out.”

  McCaleb looked back at Winston. His mouth opened a little before he realized how he looked and closed it.

  “What are you talking about? I’m out? I’m the only one in. I’ve been working this as —”

  “I know, Terry. But things are different now. After the reporter called Hitchens I had to tell him what was happening, what we’d been doing. He threw a fit and after he was done throwing a fit he decided the best way to
handle this was to go to the bureau with it.”

  “The civil rights section, Terry,” Twilley said. “Investigating cops is our bread and butter. We’ll be able to —”

  “Fuck you, Twilley. Don’t try that bureau rap with me. I used to be in the club, remember? I know how it goes. You guys will come in, piggyback my trail and then waltz Bosch past the cameras on the way to the lockup.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Friedman said. “Getting the credit?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Terry,” Twilley said. “We can put you in front of the cameras if that’s what you want.”