“No, but I could get that. I could wear a wire. You send me in and I tell him Broussard’s dead and we have an exposure problem. I’ll get him on tape, camera, you name it. He’s home right now in Hancock Park—I just talked to him. We can get this done before it all hits the news. What do you say? He’s the one you want, not me.”
Bosch nodded to Rodriguez and he stepped in to remove the handcuffs from Spivak’s wrists. Things were going the way he’d hoped and expected them to go. The arrest had been a bluff. Spivak had certainly committed moral crimes, but prosecuting him as an accessory to murder was a huge legal stretch. Instead, Bosch’s goal had been to gain his cooperation.
Once Spivak was uncuffed, Bosch put his hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down into his desk chair. Bosch casually sat on the edge of the desk and looked down at him.
“We are going to give you one chance at this,” he said.
“I won’t fuck up,” Spivak said. “I promise.”
“You do and we’re back to hanging it all on you. You understand?”
“I promise. I can deliver him.”
“What we’re going to do is walk on out of here like we had a good visit and everything’s cool. Nobody out there needs to be suspicious about anything. We’re going to walk over to the parking lot in front of Union Station and wait for you there. You’ve got fifteen minutes to tell your minions out there that you’re taking off to go see the candidate and then you come meet us. If you don’t show up, you better have a Learjet standing by with the fuel tanks topped off. Because we’ll come looking for you.”
“I know. I’ll be there, I’ll be there. I promise.”
“Good. We’re going to take you over to the D.A.’s office, where we’ve got a guy standing by to structure the deal and give you the parameters of what we expect and what you’ll get for delivering.” “You mean you knew? You knew I’d make a deal?”
“Let’s just say we had a plan. You start with the little fish if you want the big fish. You still in, Spivak?”
“I’m in. Let’s do this.”
“Fifteen minutes, then. Don’t be late.”
Bosch stood up from the desk and looked over Spivak’s head. He stepped around him and yanked the poster down off the wall. He left it torn on the floor.
39
Bosch waited until noon on the Friday two weeks after the Broussard shooting to approach Lucy Soto at her new desk. On Fridays the squad room was half empty because of the four-tens workweek option. The rest of the detectives were at lunch. Soto was “riding the pine”—on desk duty—pending the outcome of the officer-involved shooting investigation and psych evaluation. She was assigned the desk outside the captain’s office until she got Return to Duty orders. Her job was to answer the tip line. Holcomb was back working with her partner.
“So,” he said. “What do you hear?”
“Dr. Hinojos gave me the RTD stamp on the psych eval yesterday,” she said. “Nothing yet from OIS but the captain said I can move back to my desk Monday. I don’t think he likes me sitting so close to his office and hearing stuff.”
Bosch nodded. He liked that she had referred to the Officer Involved Shooting team instead of what the unit was called now—FID, as in Force Investigation Division. It showed her old-school allegiance.
“Good,” he said. “You shouldn’t have any trouble with the OIS. They just take forever because of the paperwork.”
“I don’t know,” Soto said. “Two incidents in less than a year . . . they might think there’s some kind of pattern.”
Bosch frowned.
“Twenty-five years ago they would have given you a medal and a raise for a pattern like that,” he said.
“Different times, Harry,” she said.
He nodded and decided it was time to move off the subject, even if the next part of the conversation was going to be uncomfortable.
“So . . . I have some news on Sister Esther,” he said.
“What is it?” Soto said, not hiding her excitement. “Is she back at the convent?”
Bosch shook his head.
“Uh, no. And she’s not coming back. I talked to Sister Geraldine yesterday. She said they killed her down there.”
“What? Oh my god!”
“She said the narcos came into the village where she was and dragged her out, said she was an informant for the Judicial Policia. They did things to her and then they killed her, left her on the side of a road to be found.”
Soto rolled back in her chair and stared into oblivion as she considered the fate of Ana Acevedo aka Sister Esther Gonzalez.
“I can’t believe it,” she finally said.
“Well, I’m not sure I do either,” Bosch said. “Not yet, at least. That’s why I’m going down there. To Calexico. The body is supposedly coming across the border today for burial in a cemetery behind the convent. I’m going to check things to make sure, and Sister Geraldine said she’d let me look through Sister Esther’s room and her belongings. I wanted to see if you’re interested in going down with me.”
“Harry, I’m riding this desk. That captain’s not going to let me—”
“That’s why I’m going tomorrow. I figure Saturdays you’re on your own time. The captain can’t tell you what to do. They’re putting her in the ground Sunday. So it’s tomorrow or never.”
Soto was nodding before he was finished.
“I’m in,” she said.
“Good,” Bosch said. “I want to get an early start.”
“I’m okay with early.”
Bosch smiled and nodded.
“I know. Let’s meet here at seven.”
Soto got that faraway look in her eyes again.
“What?” Bosch asked.
“I was just thinking,” she said. “Do you think Sister Geraldine told her that we had been at the convent asking about her?”
“Yes,” Bosch said. “I asked her that and she said she did tell Sister Esther we were there and we wanted to talk to her. She finally heard from her a few days later and that’s when Sister Geraldine told her.”
“Okay,” Soto said. “So do you think she . . .”
Soto didn’t finish but Bosch knew what she was thinking and what she was about to ask. Could Sister Esther have informed on someone because she knew the word would get back to the narcos and there would be swift and sure consequences, no matter that she was a nun on a mission in the region?
“Yes,” Bosch said. “That’s exactly what I think.”
They got to the Sisters of the Sacred Promise convent at noon Saturday. They came directly from the funeral home in downtown Calexico, where they had first stopped to view Sister Esther’s body and confirm both her death and identification. Bosch had borrowed a mobile fingerprint reader from Flowers in the tech unit. He used it to take the right thumbprint off the body and then sent it to the state Department of Motor Vehicles database, where it was matched to the print taken from Ana Maria Acevedo when she had applied for a driver’s license in 1992—the last license she had before disappearing.
Young Sister Theresa greeted them at the convent door and invited them in. She had been told by Sister Geraldine to expect the detectives from Los Angeles and to allow them access to Sister Esther’s room. She led the way up a flight of stairs and then down a long hallway that looked like a college dormitory except for all the religious iconography and Bible quotes on the bulletin boards between doors.
“Will you be staying for the funeral mass tomorrow?” Sister Theresa asked.
“No, we’re just here today,” Bosch said.
“Oh, that’s too bad. It’s going to be very special. Sister Esi is going home to the Lord.”
Bosch just nodded. He didn’t know what to say to that.
Sister Theresa stopped at the last door on the right side of the hall. There were a variety of holy cards stuck into the edge of the door and she removed them before opening the door. It had not been locked.
“It’s small,” she said. “So I am sure you don’t need me in the
re taking up space.”
“I think we’ll be fine,” Bosch said. “This shouldn’t take long.”
She glanced down the hall as if to confirm that they were alone and Sister Geraldine wasn’t watching.
“Can I ask you something?” she said. “What are you looking for? What is it you think Sister Esi did? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as kind as she was.”
Bosch thought a moment. He didn’t think there was any need to taint anyone’s vision and feelings about another human being—especially if that human being was dead. Besides, she would probably find out soon enough when the story hit the media.
“We’re just trying to confirm if she happened to be a woman who disappeared a long time ago in L.A.,” he said.
“Oh, okay,” Sister Theresa said. “I thought it was something really bad and we would be unable to celebrate her union with Jesus tomorrow. Did you see what we’re putting on the stone?”
“No, what’s that?”
“Well, she’s actually putting it on the stone. She wrote it in her funeral instructions. It’s going to say, ‘Sister Esther Gonzalez, She Found Redemption for the Children with the Children.’ Isn’t that beautiful?”
Bosch nodded.
“ ‘Redemption for the Children with the Children,’ ” he repeated.
“Yes,” Sister Theresa said. “She wrote it a long time ago. Her final instructions were found in that old box on her bed.”
She pointed through the open doorway into the room.
“Okay, well, thank you, Sister,” Bosch said. “Like I said, we won’t be too long.”
“My room is last on the left at the other end of the hall,” she said. “That’s because I’m the newest.”
She proudly bounced on her heels.
“Okay, we’ll find you.”
Bosch turned and entered the room, followed by Soto. As expected, it was sparely furnished. There was a single bed with a crucifix on the wall over the wooden headboard. It was accompanied by a side table, bureau, and a desk with a shelf of books mounted on the wall above it. There was a closet with no door that was no bigger than one of the old phone booths at Union Station. But that was all the room that was needed for the few things hanging in it.
Bosch and Soto separated and started opening drawers. Most were empty or contained the meager clothing and belongings of a person who had held true to the vow of poverty. Bosch checked the box that Sister Theresa had pointed at. It contained mostly loose pages of notes. There were handwritten sermons and prayers and Bible verses, many of them with the word redemption underlined. Ephesians, Galatians, Romans . . . the quotes were written on half pages, envelopes, and other scraps.
Bosch chose two of the inscribed envelopes and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom He has redeemed from trouble.
—Psalm 107:2
Who gave Himself for us to redeem us from all lawlessness and to purify for Himself a people for His own possession who are zealous for good works.
—Titus 2:14
Bosch dug further into the box of papers and brought out a folded document that was revealed to be a birth certificate for Esther Maria Gonzalez. It was issued in 1972 in Hyde County, North Carolina. It was printed on heavy-stock paper and appeared legitimate but Bosch had no doubt that it was phony. He knew that the easiest way to build a new and false identity was to start with what appeared to be a birth certificate from a small rural county in a state far from the state where the fraud would be perpetrated. A birth certificate was the only requirement to apply for a California driver’s license. The problem was, there was no national template for birth certificates. Thousands of counties across the country issued them, each with its own design. A DMV clerk in California would be hard-pressed to declare as false a certificate from Hyde County, North Carolina, if the document presented appeared official and legitimate.
A driver’s license would be only one stop on the way to a full identity package, with Social Security number and passport to follow. The document Bosch held in his hand explained a lot.
Harry sat down on the bed as he slipped the birth certificate into his jacket pocket with the other papers. He put the top back on the box and looked at Soto, who was still going through the closet.
“Does this bother you?” he asked.
She turned around and looked at him.
“Does what bother me?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess that she chose her own penance. She came here and went on missions and took care of children and all of that. Vow of poverty, paid off the mortgage, whatever. But she didn’t turn herself in and say, ‘I’m responsible.’ She didn’t tell all those parents how come their kids died.”
He gestured to the box.
“She talks about redemption. But she chose all of this. Nothing was taken from her. You know what I mean?”
Soto nodded.
“I understand,” she said. “It’s going to take a while for me to process everything about this. I’ll tell you how I feel when I know. Okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Soto went back to work in the closet, and Bosch moved on to the desk. The top surface was devoid of anything of a personal nature and the single drawer contained more of the same—pencil writings with themes of redemption and multiple references to children.
Bosch closed the drawer and looked up at the shelf. There were four different versions of the Bible as well as a Spanish dictionary and books on the sacraments, catechism, and teaching methods.
He grabbed the first Bible off the shelf and fanned the pages, hoping a nicely folded, handwritten confession would drop out of the book into his lap.
Instead, he found a holy card that depicted Christ ascending to heaven. The card marked a page in Acts where words had been underlined intermittently and formed a sentence if read consecutively. Repent . . . and . . . your sins may be blotted out.
“Harry.”
Bosch turned to Soto. She was crouched on the floor, a photo album open in front of her. From its pages she had raised what looked like a photo cut from a newspaper.
“This was loose in this photo album,” she said. “It’s them, isn’t it?”
Bosch took the clip and studied it. It was faded newsprint depicting side-by-side photos of two men. Bosch had no trouble recognizing the two North Hollywood bank robbers. There wasn’t a cop in L.A. who wouldn’t recognize them.
He nodded.
“It’s them.”
“So Gus Braley was right?”
Bosch kept staring at the photo. Remembering that day.
“I guess so,” he finally said. “But he couldn’t connect the dots back then.”
Soto came over and sat on the bed next to his chair so she could see the clip as well.
“It’s not a picture of her with them,” she said. “It doesn’t prove anything.”
“Maybe not in court,” Bosch said. “But it pretty much closes things for me.”
“But where did they all cross paths?”
“Good question. I remember something about the two guys meeting in a gym somewhere. I think Venice.”
“Ana was about as far from Venice as you could get. They must’ve crisscrossed someplace else.”
“Well, we may need to find that place if we ever want the D.A. to sign off on our closing it.”
“What if we put it out to the media? Maybe somebody comes forward with the connection.”
Bosch thought about that. Twenty-one years had gone by. It was a long shot but he didn’t want to be pessimistic with Soto.
She seemed to read him anyway.
“All those families who lost kids,” she said. “They should know. The family of Esi Gonzalez, too. The real one.”
She took the clip out of Bosch’s hand and studied it.
Bosch remembered something and snapped his fingers. It was the thing that had bothered him before, after he had spoken to Gus Braley.
“What?” Soto said.
“I just remembered something. That day of the shoot-out . . . I got there at the end and I was put on the evidence team. I had their car, actually.”
He pointed at the men in the clip she held.
“I basically had to babysit it until an evidence team could get to it. And that took a couple hours because they were needed all over the place that day for, like, a five-block stretch. Anyway, while I’m waiting, I put the gloves on and poke around the car, and there is this army blanket in the backseat covering up something. So I pull it, and there are a few more guns laid across the seat and there’s a Molotov cocktail held under the seatbelt so it wouldn’t move.”
“Was it made with Varsol?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if it was ever even analyzed that way but we could find out. Either way, the use of Molotov cocktails is another link between these guys and the Bonnie Brae.”
Soto nodded.
“So what do you think? Was Ana a planner or just a gofer?”
Bosch thought a moment and then shook his head.
“Hard to say. It looks like she played Burrows and Boiko like a pro. Got close to them and knew they would open up at the shop when she was threatened. But she could have been directed by one of those guys. I don’t think we’ll ever know.”
They sat in silence for a little bit. Bosch knew Soto had something she wanted to say. Finally, she spoke.
“I sure thought it would be different,” she said.
“What would?” Bosch asked.
“Ever since I wanted to be a cop I thought about solving the case. It was my motivation. It burned inside of me, you know?”
“Yes.”
He thought about what he had said before about opening the door on a burning room.
“And now, here I am,” she said.
“You solved it,” he said.
“But there’s no . . . it’s just not what I thought when I had all those fantasies.”
Bosch nodded. There was nothing he could say. After a few moments, Soto seemed to put her angst aside for the time being and spoke in a positive tone.
“So,” she said, “I think we’re done here. I want to go home, Harry.”
The Burning Room Page 34
