“Office of Operations, Lieutenant Bollenbach speaking.”
Bosch clicked the phone off. He felt his face grow hot. He wondered if Bollenbach had caller ID on his phone. He knew that delaying the call was ridiculous because what was done was done whether he called in to get the news or not.
He put the phone and the message aside and tried to concentrate on the case, particularly the latest information Antoine Jesper had provided about the skateboard found in Nicholas Trent’s house. Bosch realized that after ten days the case was wholly out of his grasp. A man he had fought with others in the department to clear was now the only suspect—with apparent physical evidence tying him to the victim. The thought that immediately poked through all of this was that maybe Irving was right. It was time for Bosch to go.
His phone chirped and he immediately thought it was Bollenbach. He was not going to answer but then decided his fate was unavoidable. He flipped open the phone. It was Edgar.
“Harry, what are you doing?”
“I told you. I had to go to SID.”
He didn’t want to tell him about Jesper’s latest discovery until he had seen it for himself.
“I could’ve gone with you.”
“Would’ve been a waste of your time.”
“Yeah, well, listen, Harry, Bullets is looking for you and, uh, there’s a rumor floatin’ around up here that you caught a transfer.”
“Don’t know anything about it.”
“Well, you’re going to let me know if something’s happening, aren’t you? We’ve been together a long time.”
“You’ll be the first, Jerry.”
When Bosch got to Parker Center he had one of the patrolmen stationed in the lobby help him lug the dummy up to SID, where he returned it to Jesper, who took it and carried it easily to its storage closet.
Jesper led Bosch into a lab where the skateboard was on an examination table. He turned on a light that was mounted on a stand next to the board, then turned off the overhead light. He swung a mounted magnifying glass over the skateboard and invited Bosch to look. The angled light created small shadows in the etchings of the wood, allowing the letters to be clearly seen.
1980 A.D.
Bosch could definitely see why Jesper had jumped to the conclusion he did about the letters, especially since he did not have the case victim’s name.
“It looks like somebody sanded it down,” Jesper said while Bosch continued to look. “I bet what happened was that the whole board was rehabbed at one point. New trucks and new lacquer.”
Bosch nodded.
“All right,” he said after straightening up from the magnifying glass. “I’m going to need to take this with me, maybe show it to some people.”
“I’m done with it,” Jesper said. “It’s all yours.”
He turned the overhead light back on.
“Did you check under these other wheels?”
“’Course. Nothing there, though. So I put the truck back on.”
“You got a box or something?”
“Oh, I thought you were going to ride it out of here, Harry.”
Bosch didn’t smile.
“That’s a joke.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Jesper left the room and came back with an empty cardboard file box that was long enough to contain the skateboard. He put the skateboard in it along with the detached set of wheels and the screws, which were in a small plastic bag. Bosch thanked him.
“Did I do good, Harry?”
Bosch hesitated and then said, “Yeah, I think so, Antoine.”
Jesper pointed to Bosch’s cheek.
“Shaving?”
“Something like that.”
The drive back to Hollywood was even slower on the freeway. Bosch finally bailed at the Alvarado exit and worked his way over to Sunset. He took it the rest of the way in, not making any better time and knowing it.
As he drove he kept thinking about the skateboard and Nicholas Trent, trying to fit explanations into the framework of time and evidence that they had. He couldn’t do it. There was a piece missing from the equation. He knew that at some level and at some place it all made sense. He was confident he would get there, if he had enough time.
At four-thirty Bosch banged through the back door into the station house carrying the file box containing the skateboard. He was heading quickly down the hallway to the squad room, when Mankiewicz ducked his head into the hallway from the watch office.
“Hey, Harry?”
Bosch looked back at him but kept walking.
“What’s up?”
“I heard the news. We’re gonna miss you around here.”
The word traveled fast. Bosch held the box with his right arm and raised his left hand palm down and made a sweeping gesture across the flat surface of an imaginary ocean. It was a gesture usually reserved for drivers of patrol cars passing on the street. It said, Smooth sailing to you, brother. Bosch kept going.
Edgar had a large white board lying flat across his desk and covering most of Bosch’s as well. He had drawn what looked like a thermometer on it. It was Wonderland Avenue, the turnaround circle at the end being the bulb at the bottom of the thermometer. From the street there were lines drawn signifying the various homes. Extending from these lines were names printed in green, blue and black marker. There was a red X that marked the spot where the bones had been found.
Bosch stood and stared at the street diagram without asking a question.
“We should’ve done this from the start,” Edgar said.
“How’s it work?”
“The green names are residents in nineteen eighty who moved sometime after. The blue names are anybody who came after ’eighty but has already left. The black names are current residents. Anywhere you see just a black name—like Guyot right here—that means they’ve been there the whole time.”
Bosch nodded. There were only two names in black. Dr. Guyot and someone named Al Hutter, who was at the end of the street farthest from the crime scene.
“Good,” Bosch said, though he didn’t know what use the chart would be now.
“What’s in the box?” Edgar asked.
“The skateboard. Jesper found something.”
Bosch put the box down on his desk and took off the top. He told and showed Edgar the scratched date and initials.
“We’ve got to start looking at Trent again. Maybe look at that theory you had about him moving into the neighborhood because he had buried the kid up there.”
“Jesus, Harry, I was almost joking about that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s no joke now. We have to go back, put together a whole profile on Trent going all the way back to nineteen eighty, at least.”
“And meantime we catch the next case here. That’s real sweet.”
“I heard on the radio it’s supposed to rain this weekend. If we’re lucky it will keep everybody inside and quiet.”
“Harry, inside is where most of the killing is done.”
Bosch looked across the squad room and saw Lt. Billets standing in her office. She was waving him in. He had forgotten that Edgar said she was looking for him. He pointed a finger at Edgar and then back at himself, asking if she wanted to see them both. Billets shook her head and pointed back only at Bosch. He knew what it was about.
“I gotta go see Bullets.”
Edgar looked up at him. He knew what it was about, too.
“Good luck, partner.”
“Yeah, partner. If that’s still the case.”
He crossed the squad room to the lieutenant’s office. She was now seated behind her desk. She didn’t look at him when she spoke.
“Harry, you’ve got a forthwith from the Oh-Three. Call Lieutenant Bollenbach before you do anything else. That’s an order.”
Bosch nodded.
“Did you ask him where I’m going?”
“No, Harry, I’m too pissed off about it. I was afraid if I asked I’d get into it with him and it’s got nothing to do with him. Bollenba
ch’s just the messenger.”
Bosch smiled.
“You’re pissed off?”
“That’s right. I don’t want to lose you. Especially because of some bullshit grudge somebody up top has against you.”
He nodded and shrugged.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Why don’t you call him on speakerphone? We’ll get this over with.”
Now she looked up at him.
“You sure? I could go get a coffee so you can have the office to yourself if you want.”
“It’s all right. Go ahead and make the call.”
She put the phone on speaker and called Bollenbach’s office. He answered right away.
“Lieutenant, this is Lieutenant Billets. I have Detective Bosch in my office.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. Just let me find the order here.”
There was the sound of papers rustling, then Bollenbach cleared his throat.
“Detective High . . . Heronyim . . . is that—”
“Hieronymus,” Bosch said. “Rhymes with anonymous.”
“Hieronymus then. Detective Hieronymus Bosch, you are ordered to report for duty at Robbery-Homicide Division at oh-eight-hundred January fifteen. That is all. Are these orders clear to you?”
Bosch was stunned. RHD was a promotion. He had been demoted from RHD to Hollywood more than ten years earlier. He looked at Billets, who also had a look of suspicious surprise on her face.
“Did you say RHD?”
“Yes, Detective, Robbery-Homicide Division. Are these orders clear?”
“What’s my assignment?”
“I just told you. You report at—”
“No, I mean what do I do at RHD? What’s my assignment there?”
“You’ll have to get that from your new commanding officer on the morning of the fifteenth. That’s all I have for you, Detective Bosch. You have your orders. Have a nice weekend.”
He clicked off and a dial tone came from the speaker.
Bosch looked at Billets.
“What do you think? Is this some kind of a joke?”
“If it is, it’s a good one. Congratulations.”
“But three days ago Irving told me to quit. Then he turns around and sends me downtown?”
“Well, maybe it’s because he wants to watch you more closely. They don’t call Parker Center the glass house for nothing, Harry. You better be careful.”
Bosch nodded.
“On the other hand,” she said, “we both know you should be down there. You should’ve never been taken out of there in the first place. Maybe it’s just the circle closing. Whatever it is, we’re going to miss you. I’ll miss you, Harry. You do good work.”
Bosch nodded his thanks. He made a move toward leaving but then looked back up at her and smiled.
“You’re not going to believe this, especially in light of what just happened, but we’re looking at Trent again. The skateboard. SID found a link to the boy on it.”
Billets threw her head back and laughed loudly, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the squad room.
“Well,” she said, “when Irving hears that, he’s definitely going to change RHD to Southeast Division, for sure.”
Her reference was to the gang-infested district at the far end of the city. A posting that would be the pure-form example of freeway therapy.
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Bosch said.
Billets dropped the smile and got serious. She asked Bosch about the latest turn in the case and listened intently while he outlined the plan to put together what would basically be a full-life profile on the dead set decorator.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said when he was finished. “I’ll take you guys off rotation. No sense in you pulling a new case if you’re splitting for RHD. I’m also authorizing weekend OT. So work on Trent and hit it hard and let me know. You’ve got four days, Harry. Don’t leave this one on the table when you go.”
Bosch nodded and left the office. On his way back to his space he knew all eyes in the squad room were on him. He gave nothing away. He sat down at his space and kept his eyes down.
“So?” Edgar eventually whispered. “What did you get?”
“RHD.”
“RHD?”
He had practically yelled it. It would now be known to all in the squad room. Bosch felt his face getting red. He knew everybody else would be looking at him.
“Jesus Christ,” Edgar said. “First Kiz and now you. What am I, fucking chopped liver?”
48
KIND of Blue played on the stereo. Bosch held a bottle of beer and leaned back in the recliner with his eyes closed. It had been a confusing day at the end of a confusing week. He now just wanted to let the music move through him and clear out his insides. He felt sure that what he was looking for he already had in his possession. It was a matter of ordering things and getting rid of the unimportant things that cluttered the view.
He and Edgar had worked until seven before deciding on an early night. Edgar couldn’t concentrate. The news of Bosch’s transfer had affected him more deeply than it did Bosch. Edgar perceived it as a slight against him because he wasn’t chosen to go to RHD. Bosch tried to calm him by assuring him that it was a pit of snakes that Bosch would be entering, but it was no use. Bosch pulled the plug and told his partner to go home, have a drink and get a good night’s sleep. They would work through the weekend gathering information on Trent.
Now it was Bosch who was having the drink and falling asleep in his chair. He sensed he was at a threshold of some sort. He was about to begin a new and clearly defined time in his life. A time of higher danger, higher stakes and higher rewards. It made him smile, now that he knew no one was watching him.
The phone rang and Bosch bolted upright. He clicked off the stereo and went into the kitchen. When he answered, a woman’s voice told him to hold for Deputy Chief Irving. After a long moment Irving’s voice came on the line.
“Detective Bosch?”
“Yes?”
“You received your transfer orders today?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Good. I wanted to let you know that I made the decision to bring you back to Robbery-Homicide Division.”
“Why is that, Chief?”
“Because I decided after our last conversation to hold out one last chance to you. This assignment is that chance. You will be in a position where I can watch your moves very closely.”
“What position is that?”
“You were not told?”
“I was just told to report to RHD next pay period. That was it.”
There was silence on the phone and Bosch thought now he would find the sand in the engine oil. He was going back to RHD, but as what? He tried to think, What was the worst assignment within the best assignment?
Irving finally spoke.
“You are getting your old job back. Homicide Special. An opening came up today when Detective Thornton turned in his badge.”
“Thornton.”
“That is correct.”
“I’ll be working with Kiz Rider?”
“That will be up to Lieutenant Henriques. But Detective Rider is currently without a partner and you have an established working relationship with her.”
Bosch nodded. The kitchen was dark. He was elated but did not want to transmit his feelings over the phone to Irving.
As if knowing these thoughts, Irving said, “Detective, you may feel as though you fell into the sewer but came out smelling like a rose. Do not think that. Do not make any assumptions. Do not make any mistakes. If you do, I will be there. Am I clear?”
“Crystal clear.”
Irving hung up without another word. Bosch stood there in the dark holding the phone to his ear until it started making a loud, annoying tone. He hung up and went back into the living room. He thought about calling Kiz and seeing what she knew but decided he would wait. When he sat back down on the recliner he felt something hard jab into his hip. He knew it wasn’t his gun because he had already uncli
pped it. He reached into his pocket and came up with his mini-cassette recorder.
He turned it on and listened to his verbal exchange with Surtain, the TV reporter outside Trent’s house on the night he killed himself. Filtering it through the history of what would happen, Bosch felt guilty and thought that maybe he should have done or said more in an effort to stop the reporter.
After he heard the car door slam on the tape he stopped it and hit the rewind button. He realized that he had not yet heard the whole interview with Trent because he had been out of earshot while searching some parts of the house. He decided he would listen to the interview now. It would be a starting point for the weekend’s investigation.
As he listened, Bosch tried to analyze the words and sentences for new meanings, things that would reveal a killer. All the while he was warring with his own instincts. As he listened to Trent speak in almost desperate tones he still felt convinced the man was not the killer, that his protests of innocence had been true. And this of course contradicted what he now knew. The skateboard—found in Trent’s house—had the dead boy’s initials on it and the year he both got the skateboard and was killed. The skateboard now served as a tombstone of sorts. A marker for Bosch.
He finished the Trent interview, but nothing in it, including the parts he had not previously heard, sparked any ideas in him. He rewound the tape and decided to play it again. And it was early in the second go-through that he picked up on something that made his face suddenly grow hot, almost with a feeling of being feverish. He quickly reversed the tape and replayed the exchange between Edgar and Trent that had drawn his attention. He remembered standing in the hallway in Trent’s house and listening to this part of the interview. But he had missed its significance until this moment.
“Did you like watching the kids play up there in the woods, Mr. Trent?”
“No, I couldn’t see them if they were up in the woods. On occasion I would be driving up or walking my dog—when he was alive—and I would see the kids climbing up there. The girl across the street. The Fosters next door. All the kids around here. It’s a city-owned right-of-way—the only undeveloped land in the neighborhood. So they went up there to play. Some of the neighbors thought the older ones went up there to smoke cigarettes, and the concern was they would set the whole hillside on fire.”
Michael Connelly Page 30
