Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2

by Michael Connelly

  10

  The Bradbury was the dusty jewel of downtown. Built more than a century before, its beauty was old but still brighter and more enduring than any of the glass-and-marble towers that now dwarfed it like a phalanx of brutish guards surrounding a beautiful child. Its ornate lines and glazed tile surfaces had withstood the betrayal of both man and nature. It had survived earthquakes and riots, periods of abandonment and decay, and a city that often didn’t bother to safeguard what little culture and roots it had. Bosch believed there wasn’t a more beautiful structure in the city—despite the reasons he had been inside it over the years.

  In addition to holding the offices for the legal practice of Howard Elias and several other attorneys, the Bradbury housed several state and city offices on its five floors. Three large offices on the third floor were leased to the LAPD’s Internal Affairs Division and used for holding Board of Rights hearings—the disciplinary tribunals police officers charged with misconduct must face. The IAD had leased the space because the rising tide of complaints against officers in the 1990s had resulted in more disciplinary actions and more BORs. Hearings were now happening every day, sometimes two or three running at a time. There was not enough space for this flow of misconduct cases in Parker Center. So the IAD had taken the space in the nearby Bradbury.

  To Bosch, the IAD was the only blemish on the building’s beauty. Twice he had faced Board of Rights hearings in the Bradbury. Each time he gave his testimony, listened to witnesses and an IAD investigator—once it had been Chastain—report the facts and findings of the case, and then paced the floor beneath the atrium’s huge glass skylight while the three captains privately decided his fate. He had come out okay after both hearings and in the process had come to love the Bradbury with its Mexican tile floors, wrought-iron filigree and suspended mail chutes. He had once taken the time to look up its history at the Los Angeles Conservancy offices, and found one of the more intriguing mysteries of Los Angeles: the Bradbury, for all its lasting glory, had been designed by a $5-a-week draftsman. George Wyman had no degree in architecture and no prior credits as a designer when he drew the plans for the building in 1892, yet his design would see fruition in a structure that would last more than a century and cause generations of architects to marvel. To add to the mystery, Wyman never again designed a building of any significance, in Los Angeles or anywhere else.

  It was the kind of mystery Bosch liked. The idea of a man leaving his mark with the one shot he’s given appealed to him. Across a whole century, Bosch identified with George Wyman. He believed in the one shot. He didn’t know if he’d had his yet—it wasn’t the kind of thing you knew and understood until you looked back over your life as an old man. But he had the feeling that it was still out there waiting for him. He had yet to take his one shot.

  Because of the one-way streets and traffic lights Dellacroce and Rider faced, Bosch and Chastain got to the Bradbury on foot before them. As they approached the heavy glass doors of the entrance, Janis Langwiser got out of a small red sports car that was parked illegally at the curb out front. She was carrying a leather bag on a shoulder strap and a Styrofoam cup with the tag of a tea bag hanging over the lip.

  “Hey, I thought we said an hour,” she said good-naturedly.

  Bosch looked at his watch. It was an hour and ten minutes since they had talked.

  “So you’re a lawyer, sue me,” he said, smiling.

  He introduced Chastain and gave Langwiser a more detailed rundown on the investigation. By the time he was finished, Rider and Dellacroce had parked their cars in front of Langwiser’s car. Bosch tried the doors to the building but they were locked. He got out the key ring and hit the right key on the second try. They entered the atrium of the building and each of them involuntarily looked up, such was the beauty of the place. Above them the atrium skylight was filled with the purples and grays of dawn. Classical music played from hidden speakers. Something haunting and sad but Bosch couldn’t place it.

  “Barber’s ‘Adagio,’” Langwiser said.

  “What?” Bosch said, still looking up.

  “The music.”

  “Oh.”

  A police helicopter streaked across the skylight, heading home to Piper Tech for change of shift. It broke the spell and Bosch brought his eyes down. A uniformed security guard was walking toward them. He was a young black man with close-cropped hair and startling green eyes.

  “Can I help you people? The building’s closed right now.”

  “Police,” Bosch said, pulling out his ID wallet and flipping it open. “We’ve got a search warrant here for suite five-oh-five.”

  He nodded to Dellacroce, who removed the search warrant from his coat pocket once again and handed it to the guard.

  “That’s Mr. Elias’s office,” the guard said.

  “We know,” Dellacroce said.

  “What’s going on?” the guard asked. “Why do you have to search his place?”

  “We can’t tell you that right now,” Bosch said. “We need you to answer a couple questions, though. When’s your shift start? Were you here when Mr. Elias left last night?”

  “Yeah, I was here. I work a six-to-six shift. I watched them leave about eleven last night.”

  “Them?”

  “Yeah, him and a couple other guys. I locked the door right after they went through. The place was empty after that—’cept for me.”

  “Do you know who the other guys were?”

  “One was Mr. Elias’s assistant or a whatchamacallit.”

  “Secretary? Clerk?”

  “Yeah, clerk. That’s it. Like a young student who helped him with the cases.”

  “You know his name?”

  “Nah, I never asked.”

  “Okay, what about the other guy? Who was he?”

  “Don’t know that one.”

  “Had you seen him around here before?”

  “Yeah, the last couple nights they left together. And a few times before that I think I saw him going or coming by hisself.”

  “Did he have an office here?”

  “No, not that I know of.”

  “Was he Elias’s client?”

  “How would I know?”

  “A black guy, white guy?”

  “Black.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Well, I didn’t get a real good look at him.”

  “You said you’ve seen him around here before. What did he look like?”

  “He was just a normal-looking guy. He . . .”

  Bosch was growing impatient but wasn’t sure why. The guard seemed to be doing the best he could. It was routine in police work to find witnesses unable to describe people they had gotten a good look at. Bosch took the search warrant out of the guard’s hand and handed it back to Dellacroce. Langwiser asked to see it and began reading it while Bosch continued with the guard.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Robert Courtland. I’m on the waiting list for the academy.”

  Bosch nodded. Most security guards in this town were waiting for a police job somewhere. The fact that Courtland, a black man, was not already in the academy told Bosch that there was a problem somewhere in his application. The department was going out of its way to attract minorities to the ranks. For Courtland to be wait-listed there had to be something. Bosch guessed he had probably admitted smoking marijuana or didn’t meet the minimum educational requirements, maybe even had a juvenile record.

  “Close your eyes, Robert.”

  “What?”

  “Just close your eyes and relax. Think of the man you saw. Tell me what he looks like.”

  Courtland did as he was told and after a moment came up with an improved but still sketchy description.

  “He’s about the same height as Mr. Elias. But he had his head shaved. It was slick. He got one of them soul chips, too.”

  “Soul chip?”

  “You know, like a little beard under his lip.”

  He opened his eyes.

&n
bsp; “That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” Bosch said in a friendly, cajoling tone. “Robert, how’re you going to make it into the cops? We need more than that. How old was this guy?”

  “I don’t know. Thirty or forty.”

  “That’s a help. Only ten years’ difference. Was he thin? Fat?”

  “Thin but with muscles. You know, the guy was built.”

  “I think he’s describing Michael Harris,” Rider said.

  Bosch looked at her. Harris was the plaintiff in the Black Warrior case.

  “It fits,” Rider said. “The case starts Monday. They were probably working late, getting ready for court.”

  Bosch nodded and was about to dismiss Courtland when Langwiser suddenly spoke while still reading the last page of the search warrant.

  “I think we have a problem with the warrant.”

  Now everyone looked at her.

  “Okay, Robert,” Bosch said to Courtland. “We’ll be all right from here. Thanks for your help.”

  “You sure? You want me to go up with you, unlock the door or something?”

  “No, we have a key. We’ll be all right.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll be in the security office around behind the stairs if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  Courtland started walking back the way he had come but then stopped and turned around.

  “Oh, you know, all five of you better not take the elevator up at once. That’s probably too much weight on that old thing.”

  “Thanks, Robert,” Bosch said.

  He waited until the guard had gone around the staircase and was out of sight before turning back to Langwiser.

  “Miss Langwiser, you probably haven’t gone out on too many crime scenes before,” he said. “But here’s a tip, never announce that there is a problem with a search warrant in front of somebody who isn’t a cop.”

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t —”

  “What’s wrong with the warrant?” Dellacroce said, his voice showing he was upset by the apparent challenge to his work. “The judge didn’t see anything wrong with it. The judge said it was fine.”

  Langwiser looked down at the three-page warrant in her hand and waved it, its pages fluttering like a falling pigeon.

  “I just think that with a case like this we better be damn sure of what we’re doing before we go in there and start opening up files.”

  “We have to go into the files,” Bosch said. “That’s where most of the suspects will be.”

  “I understand that. But these are confidential files relating to lawsuits against the police department. They contain privileged information that only an attorney and his client should have. Don’t you see? It could be argued that by opening a single file you’ve violated the rights of Elias’s clients.”

  “All we want is to find the man’s killer. We don’t care about his pending cases. I hope to Christ that the killer’s name isn’t in those files and that it isn’t a cop. But what if it is and what if in those files Elias kept copies or notes on threats? What if through his own investigations he learned something about somebody that could be a motive for his killing? You see, we need to look at the files.”

  “All of that is understandable. But if a judge later rules the search was inappropriate you won’t be able to use anything you find up there. You want to run that risk?”

  She turned away from them and looked toward the door.

  “I have to find a phone and make a call about this,” she said. “I can’t let you open that office yet. Not in good conscience.”

  Bosch blew out his breath in exasperation. He silently chastised himself for calling in a lawyer too soon. He should have just done what he knew he had to do and dealt with the consequences later.

  “Here.”

  He opened his briefcase and handed her his cell phone. He listened as she called the DA’s office switchboard and asked to be connected to a prosecutor named David Sheiman, who Bosch knew was the supervisor of the major crimes unit. After she had Sheiman on the line she began summarizing the situation and Bosch continued to listen to make sure she had the details right.

  “We’re wasting a lot of time standing around, Harry,” Rider whispered to him. “You want me to go pick up Harris and have a talk with him about last night?”

  Bosch almost nodded his approval but then hesitated as he considered the possible consequences.

  Michael Harris was suing fifteen members of the Robbery-Homicide Division in a highly publicized case set to begin trial on Monday. Harris, a car-wash employee with a record of burglary and assault convictions, was seeking $10 million in damages for his claims that members of the RHD had planted evidence against him in the kidnapping and murder of a twelve-year-old girl who was a member of a well-known and wealthy family. Harris claimed the detectives had abducted, held and tortured him over a three-day period in hopes of drawing a confession from him as well as learning the location of the missing girl. The lawsuit alleged that the detectives, frustrated by Harris’s unwillingness to admit his part in the crime or lead them to the missing girl, pulled plastic bags over Harris’s head and threatened to suffocate him. He further claimed that one detective pushed a sharp instrument—a Black Warrior No. 2 pencil—into his ear, puncturing the eardrum. But Harris never confessed and on the fourth day of the interrogation the girl’s body was found decomposing in a vacant lot just one block from his apartment. She had been sexually assaulted and strangled.

  The murder became one more in a long line of crimes that gripped public attention in Los Angeles. The victim was a beautiful blond, blue-eyed girl named Stacey Kincaid. She had been spirited from her bed while she slept in her family’s large and seemingly safe Brentwood home. It was the kind of crime that sent a chilling message across the city: Nobody is safe.

  As horrible as it was in itself, the murder of the little girl was exponentially magnified by the media. Initially, this was because of who the victim was and where she came from. She was the stepdaughter of Sam Kincaid, scion of a family that owned more automobile dealerships in Los Angeles County than it was possible to count on two hands. Sam was the son of Jackson Kincaid, the original “car czar,” who had built the family business from a single Ford dealership his father had passed on to him after World War II. Like Howard Elias after him, Jack Kincaid had seen the merit in local television marketing and in the 1960s became a fixture of late-night TV advertising. On camera, he showed a folksy charm, exuding honesty and friendship. He seemed as reliable and trustworthy as Johnny Carson and he was in the living rooms and bedrooms of Los Angeles just as often. If Los Angeles was seen as an “autotopia” then Jack Kincaid was certainly seen as its unofficial mayor.

  Off camera, the car czar was a calculating businessman who always played both sides of politics and mercilessly drove competitors out of business or at least away from his dealerships. His dynasty grew rapidly, his car lots spreading across the southern California landscape. By the 1980s Jack Kincaid’s reign was done and the moniker of car czar was turned over to his son. But the old man remained a force, though a mostly unseen one. And this was never more clear than when Stacey Kincaid disappeared and old Jack returned to TV, this time to appear on newscasts and put up a million-dollar reward for her safe return. It was another surrealistic episode in Los Angeles murder lore. The old man everyone had grown up with on TV was back on once again and tearfully begging for his granddaughter’s life.

  It was all for naught. The reward and the old man’s tears became moot when the girl was found dead by passersby in the vacant lot close to Michael Harris’s apartment.

  The case went to trial based solely on evidence consisting of Harris’s fingerprints being found in the bedroom from which the girl had been abducted and the proximity of the body’s disposal to his apartment. The case held the city rapt, playing live every day on Court TV and local news programs. Harris’s attorney, John Penny, a lawyer as skilled as Elias when it came to manipulating juries, mounted a defense
that attacked the body’s disposal location as coincidental and the fingerprints—found on one of the girl’s schoolbooks—as simply being planted by the LAPD.

  All the power and money the Kincaids had amassed over generations was no match against the tide of anti-police sentiment and the racial underpinnings of the case. Harris was black, the Kincaids and the police and prosecutors on the case were white. The case against Harris was tainted beyond repair when Penny elicited what many perceived as a racist comment from Jack Kincaid during testimony about his many dealerships. After Kincaid detailed his many holdings, Penny asked why not one of the dealerships was in South Central Los Angeles. Without hesitation and before the prosecutor could object to the irrelevant question, Kincaid said he would never place a business in an area where the inhabitants had a propensity to riot. He said he made the decision after the Watts riots of 1965 and it was confirmed after the more recent riots of 1992.

  The question and answer had little if anything to do with the murder of a twelve-year-old girl but proved to be the pivotal point in the trial. In later interviews jurors said Kincaid’s answer was emblematic of the city’s deep racial gulf. With that one answer sympathy swayed from the Kincaid family to Harris. The prosecution was doomed.

  The jury acquitted Harris in four hours. Penny then turned the case over to his colleague, Howard Elias, for civil proceedings and Harris took his place next to Rodney King in the pantheon of civil rights victims and heroes in South L.A. Most of them deserved such honored status, but some were the creations of lawyers and the media. Whichever Harris was, he was now seeking his payday—a civil rights trial in which $10 million would be just the opening bid.

  Despite the verdict and all the attached rhetoric, Bosch didn’t believe Harris’s claims of innocence or police brutality. One of the detectives Harris specifically accused of brutality was Bosch’s former partner, Frankie Sheehan, and Bosch knew Sheehan to be a total professional when dealing with suspects and prisoners. So Bosch simply thought of Harris as a liar and murderer who had walked away from his crime. He would have no qualms about rousting him and taking him downtown for questioning about Howard Elias’s murder. But Bosch also knew as he stood there with Rider that if he now brought Harris in, he would run the risk of compounding the alleged wrongs already done to him—at least in the eyes of much of the public and the media. It was a political decision as much as a police decision that he had to make.