The Drop hb-17

by Michael Connelly

  Bosch guessed that the story was going to cause a stir at the PAB as well as City Hall. He would steer clear of the place until he had to go in to work the next morning.

  As he drove away from the mall, Bosch pulled his phone to make sure it was on. He was surprised he had not heard from Chu, if only to deny that he was the source who had steered GoGo toward the story. He was also surprised not to have received a call from Kiz Rider. The fact that it was closing in on noon and she had not called him about the story told him one thing. That she was the story’s source and was lying low herself.

  Either on her own or more likely in concert with the chief’s tacit direction, the play had been to out Irvin Irving rather than coerce his cooperation through silence. It was hard not to agree with the choice. Dangling him out there in the media, tainting him with the brush of corruption, could serve to eliminate him as a threat to the department. A lot could happen in the final month of an election campaign. Maybe the chief had decided to take his best shot now and see if the story might gather steam and affect the outcome of the election. Maybe he wanted to take the chance that Irving’s opponent would be a friend to the department rather than a compromised and coerced enemy.

  It didn’t really matter to Bosch either way. It was all high jingo. But what did matter to him was that Kiz Rider, his friend and former partner, was now fully ensconced on the tenth floor as a political operative. He knew he had to keep that in mind as he had further dealings with her and that realization hit him like a deep loss.

  He knew his best move at this point was to keep his own head down. He was sure now that he was marking his last days in the department. The thirty-nine months he had been so happy to receive a week ago now seemed almost like a sentence to be served. He’d take the afternoon off and steer clear of the PAB and everything else about the job.

  While he had the phone out he took a flier and called Hannah Stone’s cell. She answered right away.

  “Hannah, are you at home or work?”

  “Home. No therapy on Sundays. What’s up? Did you find Chilton Hardy?”

  There was an excited tone of anticipation in her voice.

  “Uh, no, not yet. But he’ll be the priority starting tomorrow. Actually, I was calling because I sort of have the afternoon free. Until I pick my daughter up around five at the mall. I thought if you were off and had the day free, we could have lunch or something. I want to talk about things. You know, see if we can’t find a way to try this.”

  The truth was, Bosch couldn’t quite dismiss her. He had always been drawn to women hiding tragedy behind their eyes. He had been thinking about Hannah and believed that if they just set certain boundaries in regard to her son, then they might be able to carve out a chance for themselves.

  “That would be great, Harry. I want to talk, too. Do you want to come here?”

  Bosch checked the dash clock.

  “I’m in Century City. I think I can be there by about twelve to pick you up. Maybe you can think of a place to go on Ventura Boulevard. Hell, I’m even willing to try sushi.”

  She laughed and Bosch liked the sound of it.

  “No, I meant come here,” she said. “For lunch and to talk. We can just stay here and be private and I can just make something. Nothing fancy.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “And then we’ll just see what happens.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course.”

  Bosch nodded to himself.

  “Okay, then I’m on my way.”

  34

  David Chu was already in the cubicle when Bosch arrived for work Monday morning. When he saw Harry he swiveled in his chair and raised his hands in a hands-off manner as Bosch entered.

  “Harry, all I can say is that it wasn’t me.”

  Bosch put his briefcase down and checked his desk for messages and delivered reports. There was nothing.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Times story. Did you see it?”

  “Don’t worry. I know it wasn’t you.”

  “Then who was it?”

  Bosch pointed toward the ceiling as he sat down, meaning the story had come from the tenth floor.

  “High jingo,” he said. “Somebody up there decided this is the play.”

  “To control Irving?”

  “To move him out. Change the election. Anyway, it’s not our business anymore. We turned in the report and that one’s done. Today it’s Chilton Hardy. I want to find him. He’s been running free for twenty-two years. I want him in a cell by the end of the day.”

  “Yeah, you know, I called you Saturday. I came in to do some stuff and I was wondering if you wanted to take a ride down to see the father. But I guess you had daughter stuff. You didn’t answer.”

  “Yeah, I had ‘daughter stuff’ and you didn’t leave a message. What did you come in to do?”

  Chu turned back to his desk and pointed to his computer screen.

  “Just backgrounding Hardy as much as I can,” he said. “Not a lot there on him. More on his father buying and selling properties. Chilton Aaron Hardy Senior. He’s lived down there in Los Alamitos for fifteen years. It’s a condo and he owns it outright.”

  Bosch nodded. It was good intel.

  “I also tried to find a Mrs. Hardy. You know, in case there was a divorce and she’s living somewhere and could be a lead to Junior.”

  “And?”

  “And no go. Came up with an obituary from ’ninety-seven for Hilda Ames Hardy, wife of Chilton Senior and mother of Chilton Junior. Breast cancer. It listed no other children.”

  “So it looks like we go down to Los Alamitos.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s get out of here before the shit hits the fan on that story. Bring the file with the DMV photo of Pell.”

  “Why Pell?”

  “Because Senior may be predisposed not to give up Junior. I think we run a play on him and that’s where Pell comes in.”

  Bosch stood up.

  “I’ll go move the magnets.”

  It was a forty-minute drive south. Los Alamitos was at the northern tip of Orange County and one of a dozen or so small, contiguous bedroom communities between Anaheim on the east and Seal Beach to the west.

  On the way down Bosch and Chu worked out how they would handle the interview with Chilton Hardy Sr. They then cruised through his neighborhood off Katella Avenue and near the Los Alamitos Medical Center before stopping at the curb in front of a complex of town houses. They were built in sets of six with deep front lawns and double garages off rear alleys.

  “Bring the file,” Bosch said. “Let’s go.”

  There was a main sidewalk that led past a bank of mailboxes to a network of individual walkways to the front doors of the residences. Hardy Sr.’s home was the second one in. There was a screen door in front of a closed front door. Without hesitation Bosch pushed a doorbell button and then rapped his knuckles on the aluminum frame of the screen.

  They waited fifteen seconds and there was no response.

  Bosch hit the button again and raised his fist to hit the frame when he heard a muffled voice call out from inside.

  “Someone’s in there,” he said.

  Another fifteen seconds went by and then the voice came again, this time clearly from right on the other side of the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Hardy?”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “It’s the police. Open your door.”

  “What happened?”

  “We need to ask you some questions. Open the door, please.”

  There was no reply.

  “Mr. Hardy?”

  They heard the sound of the deadbolt lock turning. Slowly the door opened and a man with Coke-bottle-thick glasses peered out at them through a six-inch opening. He was disheveled, his gray hair unkempt and matted, with two weeks of white whiskers sprouted on his face. A clear plastic tube was looped over both ears and then under his nose, delivering oxygen to his nostrils. He
wore what looked like a pale blue hospital smock over striped pajama pants and black plastic sandals.

  Bosch tried to open the screen door but it was locked.

  “Mr. Hardy. We need to talk with you, sir. Can we come in?”

  “What is it?”

  “We’re down from the LAPD and we are looking for someone. We think you might be able to help us. Can we come in, sir?”

  “Who?”

  “Sir, we can’t do this out on the street. Can we come in to discuss this?”

  The man’s eyes lowered a moment as he considered things. They were cold and distant. Bosch saw where his son’s eyes had come from.

  Slowly, the old man reached through the opening and unlocked the screen door. Bosch opened it and then waited for Hardy to back away from the front door before pushing through.

  Hardy moved slowly, leaning on a cane as he walked into the living room. Over one bony shoulder he had a strap that supported a small oxygen canister attached to the network of tubes that led to his nose.

  “The place isn’t clean,” he said as he moved toward a chair. “I don’t have visitors.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Hardy,” Bosch said.

  Hardy slowly lowered himself into a well-used cushioned chair. On the table next to it was an overloaded ashtray. The house smelled of cigarettes and old age and was as unkempt as Hardy’s person. Bosch started to breathe through his mouth. Hardy saw him looking at the ashtray.

  “You’re not going to tell the hospital on me, are you?”

  “No, Mr. Hardy, that’s not why we’re here. My name is Bosch and this is Detective Chu. We are trying to locate your son, Chilton Hardy Junior.”

  Hardy nodded, as if expecting this.

  “I don’t know where he’s at these days. What do you want with him?”

  Bosch sat down on a couch with frayed cushion covers so he would be at Hardy’s eye level.

  “All right if I sit here, Mr. Hardy?”

  “Suit yourself. What’s my boy gone and done that brings you here?”

  Bosch shook his head.

  “As far as we know, nothing. We want to talk to him about somebody else. We are doing a background investigation on a man we believe lived with your son a number of years ago.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Clayton Pell. Did you ever meet him?”

  “Clayton Powell?”

  “No, sir. Pell. Clayton Pell. Do you know that name?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Hardy leaned forward and started coughing into his hand. His body jerked with spasms.

  “Goddamn cigarettes. What’s this Pell character done, then?”

  “We can’t really reveal the details of our investigation. Suffice it to say we think he’s done some bad things and it would help us in dealing with him if we knew his background. We have a photo we’d like to show you.”

  Chu produced the mug shot of Pell. Hardy studied it for a long time before shaking his head.

  “Don’t recognize him.”

  “Well, that’s him now. He lived with your son about twenty years ago.”

  Hardy now seemed surprised.

  “Twenty years ago? He’d be just a—oh, I know, you’re talking about that boy who lived with Chilton with his mother up there in Hollywood.”

  “Close to Hollywood. Yes, he would’ve been about eight years old back then. You remember him now?”

  Hardy nodded and that made him start to cough again.

  “Do you need some water, Mr. Hardy?”

  Hardy waved the offer away but continued a wheezing cough that left spittle on his lips.

  “Chill came around here with him a couple times. That’s all.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about the boy?”

  “He just said he was a handful. His mother would go off and leave him with Chill and he wasn’t the fatherly type.”

  Bosch nodded as though it was important information.

  “Where’s Chilton now?”

  “I told you. I don’t know. He doesn’t visit me anymore.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Hardy scratched the stubble on his chin and then coughed into his hand once more. Bosch looked up at Chu, who was still standing.

  “Partner, can you go get him some water?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Hardy protested.

  But Chu had gotten the partner message and went down the hallway next to the staircase to a kitchen or bathroom. Bosch knew it would give him the chance to take a quick look around the first floor of the town house.

  “Do you remember when you last saw your son?” Bosch asked again.

  “I . . . no, actually. The years . . . I don’t know.”

  Bosch nodded as though he knew how families and parents and children could drift apart over time.

  Chu came back with a glass of water from a sink. The glass didn’t look very clean. There were smears of fingerprints on it. As he handed it to Hardy, he gave Bosch a furtive shake of his head. He had not seen anything useful in his quick foray into the house.

  Hardy drank from the glass, and Bosch tried once again to get a line on his son.

  “Do you have a phone number or an address for your son, Mr. Hardy? We would really like to talk to him.”

  Hardy put the glass down next to the ashtray. He reached a hand up to where the breast pocket of a shirt would have been but he had no pocket on the smock he was wearing. It was a subconscious move to a pack of cigarettes that weren’t there. Bosch remembered doing that himself back when he was addicted.

  “I don’t have a phone number,” he said.

  “What about an address?” Bosch asked.

  “Nope.”

  Hardy cast his eyes down as it seemed to register that his answers were a testament to his failings as a father, or his namesake’s failings as a son. As Bosch often did in interviews, he jumped nonsequentially in his questions. He also dropped the ruse of the visit. He no longer cared whether the old man thought they were investigating Clayton Pell or his son.

  “Did your son live with you while he was growing up?”

  Hardy’s thick glasses magnified his eye movements. The question got a reaction. Rapid- eye movement as an answer was formulated was a tell.

  “His mother and I got divorced. That was early on. I didn’t see much of Chilton. We lived far apart. His mother—she’s dead now—she raised him. I sent her money . . .”

  Said as if the money were his only duty. Bosch nodded, continuing the pose of understanding and sympathy.

  “Did she ever tell you about him being in trouble or anything like that?”

  “I thought . . . you told me you were looking for that boy. Powell. Why are you asking about my son growing up?”

  “Pell, Mr. Hardy. Clayton Pell.”

  “You’re not here about him, are you?”

  That was it. The play was over. Bosch started to stand.

  “Your son isn’t here, is he?”

  “I told you. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if we took a look around for him, right?”

  Hardy wiped his mouth and shook his head.

  “You need a warrant for that,” he said.

  “Not if there is a safety issue involved,” Bosch said. “Why don’t you just sit right there, Mr. Hardy, and I’ll take a quick look around. Detective Chu will stay with you.”

  “No, I don’t need—”

  “I’m just going to make sure you’re safe here, that’s all.”

  Bosch left them there, with Chu attempting to calm Hardy’s agitation. He moved down the hallway. The town house followed a typical plan with the dining room and kitchen stacked behind the living room. There was a closet beneath the staircase and a powder room as well. Bosch glanced quickly into these rooms, assuming that Chu had already searched them when he went to get water, and opened the door at the end of the hall. There was no car in the garage. The space was crowded with stacks of boxes and old mattresse
s leaning against one wall.

  He turned and headed back to the living room.

  “You don’t have a car, Mr. Hardy?” he said as he approached the staircase.

  “I get the taxi when I need to. Don’t go up there.”

  Bosch stopped four steps up and looked at him.

  “Why not?”

  “You got no warrant and you got no right.”

  “Is your son upstairs?”

  “No, nobody’s up there. But you’re not allowed.”

  “Mr. Hardy, I need to make sure we’re all going to be safe in here and that you’re going to be safe after we leave.”

  Bosch continued up. Hardy’s demand that he not go up gave him caution. As soon as he reached the second level, he drew his gun.

  Again the town house followed a familiar design. Two bedrooms and a full bath between them. The front bedroom was apparently where Hardy slept. There was an unmade bed and laundry on the floor. A side table had a dirty ashtray and a bureau had extra oxygen canisters. The walls were yellowed with nicotine and there was a patina of dust and cigarette ash on everything.

  Bosch picked up one of the canisters. There was a label that said it contained liquid oxygen and was to be used by prescription only. There was a phone number for pickup and delivery from a company called ReadyAire. Bosch hefted the canister. It felt empty but he wasn’t sure. He put it back down and turned to the closet door.

  It was a walk-in closet with both sides lined with musty clothes on hangers. The shelves above were stacked with boxes that said U-Haul on the sides. The floor was littered with shoes and what looked like previously worn clothes in a laundry pile. He backed out and left the bedroom, proceeding down the hall.

  The second bedroom was the cleanest room in the home because it appeared to be unused. There was a bureau and a side table but no mattress on the bed frame. Bosch recalled the mattress and box spring he had seen earlier in the garage and realized that the set had probably been moved down from here. He checked the closet and found it crowded but more orderly. The clothes were hung neatly in plastic bags for long-term storage.