by Otto Penzler
"You said there was an emergency. So which client is in the shit?"
Bosch decided to roll with things.
"David Blitzstein," he said.
Turnbull was about to pour the water into the coffeemaker, but paused with the glass pot held above it. He shook his head. "Don't know that name. Not my client."
"Really? You were working for him last night," Bosch said.
Turnbull smiled.
"You've got your facts wrong, Detective."
Turnbull poured the water into the brewer and set the pot underneath it.
"You own a weapon, Mr. Turnbull? You know I can find out with one phone call."
"You probably already have. Yes, I own a weapon, but I almost never carry it. It's ancient. From my days with the cops. A thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson. A wheel gun. No cop would use one today."
A revolver. No ejection of shells. It was the wrong caliber and wrong kind of gun for the Blitzstein killing.
"We'll check to make sure. You want to show it to me?"
Turnbull leaned back against a counter in the kitchen and folded his arms in a gesture of frustration.
"Sure, I'll show it to you, just as soon as the bank down the street opens up at nine because it's in a safe-deposit box. Like I told you, I rarely use the thing. Now you guys are either seriously running down the wrong alley, or I am missing something right in front of my face. I don't know any David Blitzstein. I don't know what you're talking about."
Bosch instinctively believed him. He also believed that something was wrong. They were indeed down the wrong alley. He decided to try the direct approach.
"All right, let's stop dancing. You were at the casino in Commerce last night. Why?"
Turnbull raised his eyebrows. It was the first thing that made sense to him.
"I was working. But not for or against David Blitzstein."
"Then let's start with who hired you."
"A lawyer named Robert Suggs. I do a lot of work for him. He's a divorce lawyer."
"All right, then what were you doing?"
"I was watching an individual for another individual, a client of Bob Suggs."
Bosch nodded that he understood.
"Mr. Turnbull. I think we have made a mistake here, but we need to be sure. The individual you were watching, what was his name?"
"I would have to call Suggs before I could reveal that."
"Was it Douglas Pennington of Brentwood?"
Bosch saw the tell in Turnbull's eyes. The name was familiar to him.
"I can't say," Turnbull said.
"You just did," Bosch said. "Look, I understand your position. I spent two years working a private ticket myself, and I know how that is. But we're working a homicide here. So let's find a middle ground where you can help us and help yourself by being done with us. Let's forget names. We'll go with individuals. Tell us what you can about the case you were working last night."
Coffee started dripping into the pot and its smell began to pervade the apartment. It kicked off a craving in Bosch. The charge from his first cup of the day was dead and gone.
"An individual hired my employer to begin the marital-dissolution process. Only this individual's husband doesn't know about it yet. We're in what we call the hunting-and-gathering stage. She tells us that she thinks her husband's got a girlfriend on the side. Once or twice a week he stays out almost all night, telling her he's playing poker. She's noticed that the bank account has been dropping eight to ten grand a month with withdrawals he has made."
"So you were tailing him last night," Bosch said.
Turnbull nodded. "That's correct."
"And it turned out he actually was playing poker."
"Correct again."
"How much did he lose?"
"About two grand. He played at a high-stakes table and a woman cleaned him out. In a way, the wife turned out to be right. He gave his money to another woman."
Turnbull smiled and then snapped his fingers and pointed at Bosch.
"Blitz. I heard the woman who was cleaning up at that table was called Blitz. Is she the homicide?"
He turned toward a cabinet but kept his eyes on Bosch. He opened it and pulled out three cups. He set them on the counter next to the coffeemaker.
"Yeah, she's the one," Bosch said.
"She left at the same time as my guy, and so the cameras in the parking lot gave you the idea that I was tailing her, not him."
"Something like that."
Turnbull hit a switch on the brewer and pulled out the glass pot. He poured three cups and asked if anybody wanted sugar or powdered cream. There were no takers.
"Of course," he said. "You're cops."
Bosch drank from the cup he was given and the coffee was strong and hot, just like he wanted it. He relaxed a bit. Turnbull was a dead end as far as being a suspect, but he could still be useful as a witness.
"You went out to the parking lot about an hour ahead of your subject," he said. "How come?"
"Because I was tired of acting like I belonged in there. I had to start playing or I had to get out of there. I don't play poker. No interest. So I went out and sat on his car."
"See anything unusual out there?"
"No, just people coming and going."
"What about the woman when she came out? Did you see her?"
"I saw her. My guy had already come out and he was sitting in his car smoking and trying to cool down after dropping all that money. So then she came out with a security guy. I thought that was a good move. She was probably carrying a lot of dough after the way she was playing. She was cleaning everybody out. Not just my guy."
Bosch nodded. "Then what?"
"Then nothing. I was watching because my guy was in his car and thought maybe if there was something going on, I was going to see it right there. But she got in her car and left. Then my guy left and I followed him."
"Nothing else with her in the parking lot?"
"Not in the parking lot, no."
"Meaning...?"
"Well, I don't know if it means anything at all. But I was on the job once, a long, long time ago, and I know you guys want everything about everything. So I'll give you everything. On the freeway she almost lost control of her car."
"How so?"
"I'm not really sure, but I think she was doing something. Maybe she dropped something or she was reaching for something, and it made her swerve out of her lane and then back into it. She looked like she was driving drunk, but she wasn't drunk. When I was watching her in the card room, she was drinking bottled water only."
"Was it a cell phone? Was she looking down while driving?"
"I don't think so. Not a cell phone. I probably would have seen the light. Anyway, when she swerved I was right behind her, so I lit her up with my brights to see if she was all right. I didn't see any phone. She was sort of bent over like she had dropped something down by the bottom of the door. She sat up when I hit her with the brights. She looked back at me in the rearview and I turned them off."
Bosch thought about this for a few minutes, wondering what Tracey Blitzstein had been doing. He then realized that maybe she had made the same mistake he had just made, mistaking Turnbull for a follower, and was hiding the money she had won under the seat as a precaution against robbery.
"Do you think she saw you leaving the casino lot?" he asked.
"I don't know. She could have."
"Is there a chance she could have thought you were following her? Or a chance that she thought the guy you were following was following her?"
Turnbull drank some coffee and thought over his answer before voicing it.
"If she thought anybody was following her, it would have been me. We were all going the same way, but my guy got ahead of her. So if she was checking the mirrors, she would have seen me. If I had won that kind of money, I would've been checking my mirrors."
Bosch nodded and thought about everything for a few moments.
"When exactly did she make that swerve b
etween the lanes?" he then asked.
"Almost as soon as we got up on the freeway. Like I said, my guy got ahead of the both of us. So I dropped behind her and was kind of using her car to shield myself from my guy—in case he was watching the mirrors. So she might've easily thought I was on her instead of him."
Turnbull poured more coffee into his cup and then offered the glass pot to Bosch and Gunn, but both passed on the refill.
"I just remembered something," Turnbull said. "Something that goes with her thinking I was following her."
"What was it?" Bosch asked.
"About ten minutes after she swerved, she kind of made an evasive maneuver. At the time I thought maybe she'd fallen asleep and almost missed her exit, but now I see it. She was trying to see if she had a tail."
"What exactly did she do?"
"We were on the ten going west, right? Well, we were coming up on La Cienega, and at the last moment she all of a sudden cut across two lanes to go down the exit."
"You mean like she was trying to see if somebody would follow her down the ramp?"
"Yeah, like if we would make the same cut across the freeway as her. It was a good move. It would reveal a tail or lose a tail, either way."
Bosch nodded and looked at Gunn to see if she had anything to add or ask but she remained silent.
"Did you see her again after that?" Bosch asked.
"No, not after that," Turnbull said. "She was gone in the night."
In more ways than one, Bosch thought. He ended the interview. He needed to get away from Turnbull to make a call.
"Mr. Turnbull, we're sorry to have gotten you up after you worked all night," he said. "But you've helped us and we appreciate it."
Turnbull raised his hands as if his efforts were minimal.
"I'm just glad I'm no longer a suspect," Turnbull said. "Good luck catching the bad guy."
Bosch put his empty cup on the counter.
"Thanks for the coffee, too."
Bosch pulled his phone as soon as they were out of the building and heading back to the car. He called his partner.
"It's me," he said. "Are you at the scene yet?"
"Just got here. I've got the search warrant for the house."
"Good. But before you go in, I want you to get with Dussein, the forensics guy."
"Okay."
"Tell him to pull the interior of the Mustang apart if he has to, but I think the missing money is still in it somewhere."
"You mean it wasn't a follow-home?"
"I don't know what it was yet, but when she was driving home, I think she thought she was being followed. I think she hid the money in the car somewhere, somewhere within reach while driving. Maybe just under the seat, but I would assume Dussein already looked there."
"Okay, I'm on it."
"Call me back if you get something."
Bosch closed the phone. He didn't speak until they were back in her car.
"I think we're back to the husband," he said. "What Turnbull told us reinforces the theory. If she was scared or thought she might've been followed, she wouldn't have swung the door open until she was ready to make a quick move to the house. She thought it was safe."
Gunn nodded.
"I forgot to tell you something about the purse," she said.
"The victim's purse? What about it?"
"She had a small can of pepper spray in it. She never took it out."
Bosch thought about this for a moment and saw how it fit with the current theory.
"Again, if she thought she had been followed, and even if she believed she had lost the follower with her maneuver on the freeway, she wouldn't have opened that door and left the pepper spray in her purse unless she felt safe."
"Unless someone was there to make her feel safe."
"Her husband. Maybe he was holding the gun in plain sight and she thought it was for her protection. She opened the door and he turned it on her."
Gunn nodded as if she believed the scenario, but then she played devil's advocate.
"But we can't prove any of that. We don't have anything. No gun, no motive. Even if we find the money in the car, it's not going to matter. It doesn't preclude a follow-home, and we won't be able to charge him."
"Then it's an eight-by-eight case."
"What's that mean?"
"It means it's going to come down to what happens in that eight-by-eight room at Parker Center. We go talk to him and wait for him to make a mistake."
"He's a professional poker player, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember."
It took them half an hour to get from Hollywood to Parker Center downtown because of the morning rush hour. In the third-floor Robbery-Homicide Division office, Bosch watched David Blitzstein through one-way glass for five minutes as he readied himself for the interview. Blitzstein didn't look like a man mourning the murder of his wife. He reminded Bosch more of a caged tiger. He was pacing. There was little space for this with the table and two chairs taking up most of the interview room, but Blitzstein was moving from one wall to the opposite wall, going back and forth repeatedly. Each time his pattern brought him within inches of the one-way glass—mirrored on his side—and each time that he stared into his own eyes, he was also unknowingly staring into Bosch's eyes on the other side.
"Okay," Bosch finally said. "I'm ready."
He handed his cell phone to Gunn.
"Keep this. If my partner calls with news, come in and say the captain's on the phone."
"Got it."
They went into the detective bureau and Bosch filled two foam cups with coffee. He put four packs of sugar into one and took them both to the interview room. He entered and put the over-sugared coffee down on one side of the table in the center while he sat on the other side with the other.
"Why don't you sit down, Mr. Blitzstein?" he said. "Have some coffee. It's going to be a long day for you."
Blitzstein came over and sat down.
"Thank you," he said. "Who are you? What's going on with my wife?"
"My name's Harry Bosch. I've been assigned as lead detective on your wife's case. I am very sorry for your loss. I am sorry to keep you waiting, but hope to get you out of here as soon as possible so that you can be with your family and begin to make arrangements for your wife."
Blitzstein nodded his thanks. He picked up his coffee cup and sipped from it. His face soured at the taste, but he didn't complain. This was good. Bosch wanted him to keep drinking. He was hoping to push him into a sugar rush. People often mistook a sugar high for clarity of thought. Bosch knew the truth was that the rush made them take chances and they made mistakes.
Blitzstein put the cup down and Bosch noticed he had used his left hand. There was the first mistake.
"I just need to go over things once more before we get you out of here," Bosch said.
"I told everything I know to that black girl."
"You mean Detective Gunn? Well, that was sort of preliminary. Before I was assigned. I need to hear some things for myself. Plus we now have the advantage of having studied the crime scene and talked to the witnesses."
Blitzstein's eyebrows shot up momentarily and he tried to cover by bringing the cup up and gulping down more coffee. But Bosch now had one of his tells, and he registered it accordingly.
"Wow, that's hot!" he exclaimed. "You mean there are witnesses?"
"We'll get to the witnesses in a few minutes," Bosch said. "First I want to hear your version of events again. This way I have it directly from you instead of secondhand through Detective Gunn. This way it's not colored by anything anybody else has said or claimed to have seen."
"What do you mean, 'claimed to have seen'?"
"Just a turn of phrase, Mr. Blitzstein," Bosch said.
Blitzstein blew out his breath in exasperation and started re-counting the same story he had told Gunn two hours earlier. He threw in no new details and left nothing out from his first accounting. This was unusual. True stories evolve as details are remembered and others are
forgotten. A false story—one that has been rehearsed in the mind—usually remains constant. Bosch knew all of this and felt his suspicion of Blitzstein was moving onto more solid ground.
"So how soon were you to the car after the shot?"
"I don't know because I didn't hear it. But I don't think it was too long. I had heard her pull in. I waited, and when she didn't come into the house, I went out to see what was wrong."
"So if somebody said they thought you were already at the car when the shot was fired, would they be wrong?"
"What? Right at the—no way, I wasn't right there when the shot was fired. I didn't even see who did it. What are you trying to say?"
Bosch shook his head. "I'm not trying to say anything. I'm trying to get as clear a picture of what happened as I can. As you can imagine, we get conflicting views. People say different things. I had a partner once who said if you put twenty people in a room and a naked man ran through it, you'd get twelve people who would say he was white, seven who would say he was black, and at least one who would claim it was a woman."
Blitzstein didn't even smile.
"Tell you what," Bosch said. "Why don't you tell me your theory on what happened out there?"
Blitzsteen didn't even have to think about it.
"Simple. She was followed home. She won a lot of money, and somebody from that casino followed her home and killed her for it"
Bosch nodded as if it all fit.
"How do you know that she won a lot of money?"
"Because she told me when she called me from the cage to tell me she was coming home."
"What cage?"
"The cash cage. She was cashing in her chips, and they let her use the phone because she's a regular. She forgot her cell phone last night. She called me and said she was driving home."
"Was she scared carrying all of that cash?"
"Not really. She won more often than she lost and knew to take precautions."
"Did she carry a weapon?"
"No. Actually—I think she had, like, a little can of Mace in her purse."
Bosch nodded. "We found that. But that's it, just the pepper spray?"
"Far as I know."
"Okay, then what about you? Did you play down there? Did you ever go with her?"
