The Crossing (17 page)

“The reports you gave me said the Sheriff’s impounded and searched Foster’s nineteen ninety-three white Ford Econoline, turning up no evidence in the case. That on the screen is a white Ford Econoline. I can tell by the lights. I don’t know the year at this point but it’s no spring chicken. It turns into Haven House at nine forty-five p.m. February ninth.”

“Okay, this is good.”

“Oscar, jump it.”

Gascon put the playback on fast-forward and they watched traffic on Santa Monica speed by and the minutes on the time counter move like seconds until Gascon slowed things down at the 11:40 mark.

“Now watch,” Bosch said.

At 11:43 the van came back into the picture, waiting to turn left out of the motel lot. Eventually traffic opened up and the van exited the motel lot and proceeded east on Santa Monica, back the way it had come.

“If your client was coming up from his studio, he would take the one-ten to the one-oh-one and then exit on Santa Monica,” Bosch said. “He’d drive west to the motel, then he’d drive east on his way back.”

“Does the Sheriff’s Department have this?” Haller asked.

“Not yet,” Bosch said.

“We need to confirm that it’s Foster’s van,” Haller said.

“Oscar, can you make a copy of this? Mickey, you will need to have someone enhance it and work on that.”

“I’ve got a person.”

“What about me?” Oscar asked without taking his eyes off the screen.

“What about you, Oscar?” Haller said. “Mr. Bosch spoke too quickly. I don’t want to buy a headstone. Don’t have much use for one. But I’ve got a thumb drive on my keychain and if you can put the video on it, I will pay for your time. And I will pay well.”

Bosch nodded. That was the best way to do it.

“Sure, I think that should work,” Gascon said.

Haller looked at Bosch as he pulled his keys.

“I’ll wait outside while you two talk business,” Bosch said.

B
osch was standing at the edge of one of the cemetery lawns, looking at the grave of Mel Blanc, the voice artist behind a thousand or more cartoons. On the stone it said, “That’s all, Folks!”

He turned as Haller approached after leaving the office.

“Good stuff,” Haller said.

“How much did you pay?” Bosch asked.

“A couple hundred bucks. A bargain if only I had a paying client.”

“Maybe you should have offered him a painting.”

“Gascon didn’t look like a patron of the arts to me.”

They started walking through the cemetery with no clear direction other than trying to stay between the graves if possible.

“The coroner’s report puts time of death at between ten and midnight,” Haller said. “They’ll argue it’s an inexact window and there was still time for Foster to get in under the wire.”

“And a jury will know they’re stretching it,” Bosch said. “Besides, if he was shacked up with the prostitute for two hours, where’s the motivation for jumping in a van and hurrying over to West Hollywood to rape and kill Lexi Parks? On top of that, he heads the wrong way—away from West Hollywood—when he pulls out.”

“I know, I know. I’m just looking at all the arguments the prosecution has. A lot of cars go in and out of that place on the video. They’ll say he could have jumped in another car and gone out to do the deed.”

Bosch didn’t argue back. He thought he had made a significant find with the video. Now the excitement was dissipating.

“I’m just saying we need to be ready for anything,” Haller said. “I’d still rather have this video than not have it.”

Bosch nodded.

“How long will your video person take to analyze it?”

“I don’t know but I’ll get her right on it.”

“Good.”

They walked silently for a bit. Bosch was reading the names on tombstones but not really comprehending.

“So, what are you thinking?” Haller asked.

“I’m doing a lot of thinking,” Bosch said. “A lot of possibilities, a lot of scenarios. I need to see the James Allen file.”

Haller nodded.

“They vacuumed the room,” he said. “Hair and fiber, fingerprints. They might have evidence that puts Da’Quan in that room.”

“Right. And with the van on the video, you can pin it to that day—February ninth.”

“Very good. This is why I came to you, Harry.”

“I think you came to me because you knew I would work for free.”

“Bullshit. You’ll get paid. You’re a patron of the arts.”

“Yeah, bullshit’s bullshit. Your investigator would have gotten to the same point eventually.”

“Maybe.”

“So, how do you want to do this? If you go into court and ask for access to the forensics on the Allen case, you’ll be showing your hand to the prosecution. You cool with that?”

“I’m never cool with showing anything to the prosecution. Let’s see what my video gal comes up with on the van before we take that next step and advertise what we’re doing.”

Bosch nodded.

“Your call. I’m thinking it’s probably a long shot anyway—especially on prints. If Allen was killed in that room, then the killer might have wiped it down. In fact, he probably did. If there were prints in that room that matched Foster, they would have gone to see him in county to ask what he knew about Allen.”

“Or they checked with the Sheriff’s first and decided not to step in it. No way it could have been DQ, since he was in jail.”

“Spoken like a true defense attorney. Always looking for the conspiracy.”

“Might serve you to start thinking that way.”

“Maybe.”

That seemed to end the conversation but they kept walking. They passed a monument with a kneeling angel on top of it. Its wings were broken and jagged from previously being toppled over—by vandals or earthquakes.

Bosch finally spoke. “For now, I can try to back-channel it and get a look at the murder book on Allen. Try to keep it quiet.”

“Okay. Step carefully.”

“There’s something else you should do, I think.”

“What?”

“The company doing your DNA analysis. See if they can check the sample for CTE.”

“What is CTE?”

“Condom trace evidence.”

“I’m not following you.”

“If the science is solid and your lab confirms the state’s match, then you need to explain how Foster’s DNA got to the crime scene, right? You need to explain the setup. If your client is innocent, how was his DNA taken from him and how was it transported?”

Haller stopped walking as he considered this.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I like it. I might be able to do great things with that in court, Bosch. I really like it.”

“Well, don’t start loving it just yet,” Bosch said. “It’s missing parts. A lot of parts. But I’m working on it.”

“Wouldn’t the Sheriff’s crime lab check for this CTE?”

“No, they don’t. The LAPD and the Sheriff’s labs are in the same building. I know for a fact that it’s not part of the DNA protocol for either one. It costs too much money. So it’s done only on request and even then it’s farmed out. The only time I ever had a case where we needed to check for CTE, the sample was sent down to a lab in San Diego to the expert in the field. A guy named Blackledge. But last I heard he was retired.”

“A lot of guys who retire from the public sector end up working in the private sector.”

“Maybe that’s what he’s doing.”

Haller nodded. He had the scent in his nose and would follow it.

“Where do you go from here?” he asked. “You going to check out the alley where Allen was left?”

Bosch shook his head. He noticed that a peacock was following them through the graveyard.

“Not without seeing the crime scene photos,” he said. “No use going there until I know the layout of the scene. But you don’t have to worry, I’m keeping busy. There is still a lot on Parks for me to be doing.”

He momentarily thought about the empty watch box. The explanation from Harrick bothered him. If the watch was broken and being fixed, why was the empty box still at the house?

“I’m not worried,” Haller said.

Haller looked down at a memorial plaque in the grass where he had stopped.

“Look at that,” he said. “Carl Switzer. Alfalfa from
Our Gang
. I used to watch the reruns when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, me too,” Bosch said.

Haller pointed at the dates with the toe of his polished shoe.

“He died young. Thirty-one years old.”

“He got shot during a fight over a dog up in the Valley.”

Haller looked from the gravestone to Bosch.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, that’s what happened. And nobody was ever charged—ruled justifiable.”

“No, I mean, how the hell do you know that?”

“It’s in the murder journals they keep at the PAB. I used to read them—when I was waiting for cases.”

“You’re saying you just read the murder journals and remembered the details of a killing from nineteen fifty-nine?”

“I don’t remember all of them but some I do. You gotta remember it when it’s Alfalfa.”

“Man, Bosch, I’m not sure this retirement thing is going to work out for you.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

They turned and headed back to their cars.

E
llis and Long watched the cemetery from a parking spot on the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard. Long was texting someone on his cell phone but Ellis kept the watch. He had the binoculars in his lap and every now and then he brought them up for a close look at Bosch and Haller.

Ellis was fascinated by Bosch and what he was doing. They had researched the man and learned he had been a near legend in the department. Now look at him. Working cases for a douche-bag defense attorney. There was no loyalty anymore. Nobody with a moral compass.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Long asked without looking up from his cell’s screen.

“Talking about whatever they found in the office,” Ellis said.

“Which is?”

“My guess is video. There’s a camera up there on the Paramount water tower.”

That got Long’s attention and he looked up from his phone.

“Fuck. You think—”

“I don’t know. There’s no way to know unless we go in there and ask the same questions they did. But we can’t do that. So we’re watching.”

“Fuck, I’m totally not into this.”

“No kidding.”

“They’re leaving.”

“I got eyes.”

“We staying with the painter?”

Long had taken to referring to Bosch as the painter because of his name. This annoyed Ellis.

“We’re staying with Bosch,” he said.

“I bet I know where he’s going,” Long said.

“Where?”

“The alley. It’s the logical next step.”

“Maybe. This guy’s different.”

“When are we going to talk about taking him out?”

“We’re not. We took out the first guy. We take out two investigators on the same case and it doesn’t look like coincidence. We need to figure out something else.”

Long was wrong. Bosch pulled out of the cemetery and turned east on Santa Monica. Ellis had their undercover car pointing the opposite way and had to maneuver to turn around and follow.

They tailed Bosch east on Santa Monica until he turned onto Normandie and headed south. Traffic was terrible as usual and they didn’t speak for twenty minutes—until Bosch turned right on Wilshire and almost immediately into the parking garage of a nondescript office building in Koreatown.

“What the fuck?” Long said.

“He’s going up to Behavioral,” Ellis said.

“Yeah, but he’s retired.”

“Probably some kind of retirement aftercare. He killed a lot of people. Over the years.”

“The reigning champ till he hung it up.”

“Officially, at least.”

They both smiled at the same time. Ellis drove past Bosch’s car and then pulled to a stop at a red curb about half a block farther down the street. He started positioning the mirrors so he could keep an eye on Bosch’s car.

“You want me to go in?” Long asked.

“No, sit tight,” Ellis said. “This will be fast.”

“How do you know?”

“He didn’t put money in the meter. He’s a citizen now and has to pony up. So he must be going in to pick up a prescription or something.”

“Viagra.”

Ellis felt his work phone vibrating. He checked the screen. It was Lieutenant Gonzalez.

“It’s Gonzo,” he said, signaling Long to be quiet.

He shut the car down and then answered.

“Hey L-T.”

“Where you at, Ellis?”

“Watching the suspect location. As instructed.”

“Anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Are they even home? Don’t they work days up in the Valley?”

“Haven’t determined that, L-T. The complaint uses the phrase ‘night and day.’ I was thinking if we don’t see some sign of life soon, we’ll think of something and door-knock ’em.”

“Look, I don’t want you guys fucking around. If it’s not there, we need to move on to the next one. I’m thinking one more day on it and then you throw a scare at ’em, move ’em to West Hollywood, and let the Sheriff’s deal with it.”

“Yes, sir. Sounds like a plan.”

“And check in from time to time, Ellis. I shouldn’t have to hunt you guys down.”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“And tell your partner to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face.”

Gonzalez disconnected. Ellis lowered the phone and looked at Long and saw that he was indeed smiling.

“Gonzo’s got you pegged, partner. You better be careful about that.”

“Absolutely.”

Long laughed as Ellis shook his head. Ellis then saw Bosch come out through the glass doors of the elevator alcove.

“He’s back,” he said.

He watched in the rearview mirror as Bosch got back in his car.

“He was carrying a file,” he said. “Not a prescription.”

“What color?” Long asked.

“Plain.”

“What’s plain?”

“Manila.”

“Not a psych file then. They put those in blue.”

As Ellis watched, Bosch’s car pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn on Hill, and headed back toward the freeway. Ellis started the engine.