Michael Connelly (25 page)

“Hieronymus Bosch,” she said as she studied the nightmarish landscape of the painting. “When I saw that was your full name
I wondered if —”

“No relation,” he said. “My mother, she just liked his stuff. I guess ’cause of the last name. She sent that print to me once.
Said in the note that it reminded her of L.A. All the crazy people. My foster parents … they didn’t like it, but I kept it
for a lot of years. Had it hanging there as long as I’ve had this place.”

“But you like to be called Harry.”

“Yeah, I like Harry.”

“Good night, Harry. Thanks for the beer.”

“Good night, Eleanor…. Thanks for the company.”

WEDNESDAY, MAY 23

By 10
A.M.
they were on the Ventura Freeway, which cuts across the bottom of the San Fernando Valley and out of the city. Bosch was
driving and they were going against the grain of traffic, heading northwest, toward Ventura County, and leaving behind the
blanket of smog that filled the Valley like dirty cream in a bowl.

They were heading to Charlie Company. The FBI had only done a cursory check on Meadows and the prison outreach program the
year before. Wish said she had thought its importance was minimal because Meadows’s stay had ended nearly a year before the
tunnel caper. She said the bureau had requested a copy of Meadows’s file but had not checked the names of other convicts who
were part of the program at the same time as Meadows. Bosch thought this was a mistake. Meadows’s work record indicated the
bank caper was part of a long-range plan, he told Wish. The bank burglary might have been hatched at Charlie Company.

Before leaving, Bosch had called Meadows’s parole officer, Daryl Slater, and was given a rundown on Charlie Company. Slater
said the place was a vegetable farm owned and operated by an army colonel who was retired and born again. He contracted with
the state and federal prisons to take early release cases, the only requirement being that they be Vietnam combat veterans.
That wasn’t too difficult a bill to fill, Slater said. As in every other state in the country, the prisons in California had
high populations of Vietnam vets. Gordon Scales, the former colonel, didn’t care what crimes the vets had been convicted of,
Slater said. He just wanted to set them right again. The place had a staff of three, including Scales, and held no more than
twenty-four men at a time. The average stay was nine months. They worked the vegetable fields from six to three, stopping
only for lunch at noon. After the work day there was an hour-long session called soul talk, then dinner and TV. Another hour
of religion before lights-out. Slater said Scales used his connections in the community to place the vets in jobs when they
were ready for the outside world. In six years, Charlie Company had a recidivist record of only 11 percent. A figure so enviable
that Scales got a favorable mention in a speech by the president during his last campaign swing through the state.

“The man’s a hero,” Slater said. “And not ’cause of the war. For what he did after. When you get a place like that, moving
maybe thirty, forty cons through it a year, and only one in ten gets his ass in a jam again, then you are talking about a
major success. Scales, he has the ear of the federal and state parole boards and half the wardens in this state.”

“Does that mean he gets to pick who goes to Charlie Company?” Bosch asked.

“Maybe not pick, but give final approval to, yes,” the PO said. “But the word on this guy is out. His name is known in every
and any cellblock where you got a vet doing time. These guys come to him. They send letters, send Bibles, make phone calls,
have lawyers get in contact. All to get Scales to sponsor them.”

“Is that how Meadows got there?”

“Far as I know. He was already heading there when he was assigned to me. You’d have to call Terminal Island and have them
check their files. Or talk to Scales.”

Bosch filled Wish in on the conversation while they were on the road. Otherwise, it was a long ride and there were long periods
of silence. Bosch spent much of the time wondering about the night before. Her visit. Why had she come? After they crossed
into Ventura County his mind came back to the case, and he asked her some of the questions he had come up with the night before
while reviewing the files.

“Why didn’t they hit the main vault? At WestLand there were two vaults. Safe-deposit and then the bank’s main vault, for the
cash and the tellers’ boxes. The crime scene reports said the design of both vaults was the same. The safe-deposit vault was
bigger but the armoring in the floor was the same. So it would seem that Meadows and his partners could just as easily have
tunneled to the main vault, gotten in and taken whatever was there and gotten out. No need to risk spending a whole weekend
inside. No need to pry open safe-deposit boxes either.”

“Maybe they didn’t know they were the same. Maybe they assumed the main vault would be tougher.”

“But we are assuming they had some knowledge of the safe-deposit vault’s structure before they started on this. Why didn’t
they have the same knowledge of the other vault?”

“They couldn’t recon the main vault. It’s not open to the public. But we think one of them rented a box in the safe-deposit
vault and went in to check it out. Used a phony name, of course. But, see, they could check out one vault and not the other.
Maybe that’s why.”

Bosch nodded and said, “How much was in the main vault?”

“Don’t know offhand. It should have been in the reports I gave you. If not, it’s in the other files back at the bureau.”

“More, though. Right? There was more cash in the main vault than what, the two or three million in property they got from
the boxes.”

“I think that is probably right.”

“See what I’m saying? If they had hit the main vault the stuff would have been laying around in stacks and bags. Right there
for the taking. It would have been easier. There probably would have been more money for less trouble.”

“But, Harry, we know that from hindsight. Who knows what they knew going in? Maybe they thought there was more in the boxes.
They gambled and lost.”

“Or maybe they won.”

She looked over at him.

“Maybe there was something there in the boxes that we don’t even know about. That nobody reported missing. Something that
made the safe-deposit vault the better target. Made it worth more than the main vault.”

“If you’re thinking drugs, the answer is no. We thought of that. We had the DEA bring around one of their dogs and he went
through the broken boxes. Nothing. No trace of drugs. He then sniffed around the boxes the thieves hadn’t gotten to and he
got one hit. On one of the small ones.”

She laughed for a moment and said, “So then we drilled this box the dog went nuts over and found five grams of coke in a bag.
This poor guy who kept his coke stash at the bank got busted just because somebody happened to tunnel into the same vault.”

Wish laughed again, but it seemed to be a little forced to Bosch. The story wasn’t that funny. “Anyway,” she said, “the case
against the guy was kicked by an assistant U.S. attorney because he said it was a bad search. We violated the guy when we
drilled his box without a warrant.”

Bosch exited the freeway into the town of Ventura and headed north. “I still like the drug angle, despite the dog,” he said
after a quarter hour of silence. “They aren’t infallible, those dogs. If the stuff was packed in there right and the thieves
got it, there may not have been a trace. A couple of those boxes with coke in them and the caper starts being worth their
while.”

“Your next question will be about the customer lists, right?” she said.

“Right.”

“Well, we did a lot of work on that. We checked everybody, right down to tracing purchases of things they said were in the
boxes. We didn’t find who did the job, but we probably saved the bank’s insurance companies a couple million in paying for
things that were reported stolen but never really existed.”

He pulled into a gas station so he could take out a map book from under the seat and figure out the way to Charlie Company.
She continued to defend the FBI investigation.

“The DEA looked at every name on the boxholder list and drew a blank. We ran the names through NCIC. We got a few hits but
nothing serious, mostly old stuff.” She gave another one of those short fake laughs. “One of the holders of one of the bigger
boxes had a kiddy porn conviction from the seventies. Served a deuce at Soledad. Anyway, after the bank job he was contacted
and he reported nothing was taken, said he had recently emptied his box. But they say these pedophiles can never part with
their stuff, their photos and films, even letters written about kids. And there was no record at the bank of him going into
the box in the two months before the burglary. So we figured that the box was for his collection. But, anyway, that had nothing
to do with the job. Nothing we turned up did.”

Bosch found the way on the map and pulled out of the service station. Charlie Company was in grove country. He thought about
her story about the pedophile. Something about it bothered him. He rolled it around in his head but couldn’t get to it. He
let it drift and went on to another question.

“Why was nothing ever recovered? All that jewelry and bonds and stocks, and nothing ever turns up except for a single bracelet.
Not even any of the other worthless things that were taken.”

“They are sitting on it until they think they are clear,” Wish said. “That’s why Meadows was smoked. He went out of line and
pawned the bracelet before he should have, maybe before everyone agreed they were clear. They found out he’d sold it. He wouldn’t
say where, so they buzzed him until he told them. Then they killed him.”

“And by coincidence, I get the call.”

“It happens.”

“There is something in that story that doesn’t work,” Bosch said. “We start out with Meadows getting juiced, tortured, right?
He tells them what they want, they put the hot load in his arm and they go get the bracelet from the pawnshop, okay?”

“Okay.”

“But, see, it doesn’t work. I’ve got the pawn slip. It was hidden. So he didn’t give it to them, and they had to go break
in the shop and take the bracelet, covering the scam by also taking a lot of other junk. So if he didn’t give them the pawn
slip, how’d they know where the bracelet was?”

“He told them, I guess,” Wish said.

“I don’t think so. I don’t see him giving up one and not the other. He had nothing to gain from holding back the slip. If
they got the name of the shop out of him, they would’ve gotten the slip.”

“So, you’re saying he died before he told them anything. And they already knew where the bracelet was pawned.”

“Right. They worked him to get the ticket, but he wouldn’t give it up, wouldn’t break. They killed him. Then they dump the
body and roll his place. But they still don’t find the pawn stub. So they hit the pawnshop like third-rate burglars. The question
is, if Meadows didn’t tell them where he had sold the bracelet and they didn’t find the stub, how did they know where it was?”

“Harry, this is speculation on top of speculation.”

“That’s what cops do.”

“Well, I don’t know. Could have been a lot of things. They could have had a tail on Meadows ’cause they didn’t trust him and
could have seen him go into the pawnshop. Could’ve been a lot of things.”

“Could’ve been they had somebody, say a cop, who saw the bracelet on the monthly pawn sheets and told them. The sheets go
to every police department in the county.”

“I think that kind of speculation is reckless.”

They were there. Bosch braked the car at a gravel entranceway below a wooden sign with a green eagle painted on it and the
words Charlie Company. The gate was open and they drove down a gravel road with muddy irrigation ditches running along both
sides. The road split the farmland, with tomatoes on the right and what smelled like peppers on the left. Up ahead there was
a large aluminum-sided barn and a sprawling ranch-style house. Behind these Bosch could see a grove of avocado trees. They
drove into a circular parking area in front of the ranch house and Bosch cut the engine.

• • •

A man wearing a white apron that was as clean as his shaven head came to the screen at the front door.

“Mr. Scales here?” Bosch asked.

“Colonel Scales, you mean? No, he is not. It’s almost time for chow, though. He’ll be coming in from the fields then.”

The man did not invite them to come in out of the sun, and so Bosch and Wish went back and sat in the car. A few minutes later
a dusty white pickup truck drove up. It had an eagle inside a large letter C painted on the driver’s door. Three men got out
of the cab and six more piled out of the back. They moved quickly toward the ranch house. They ranged in age from late thirties
to late forties. They wore military green pants and white T-shirts soaked with sweat. No one wore a bandanna or sunglasses
or had his sleeves rolled up. No one’s hair was longer than a quarter inch. The white men were burned brown like stained wood.
The driver, wearing the same uniform but at least ten years older than the rest, slowed to a stop and let the others go inside.
As he approached, Bosch put him on the early side of his sixties, but a guy who was almost as solid as he had been in his
twenties. His hair, what could be seen of it against his gleaming skull, was white and his skin was like walnut. He was wearing
work gloves.