The Crossing (21 page)

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

“Poquito,”
she said.

“The murder in the alley? Two months ago? El asasinato?”

“Sí.”

Bosch pointed to his ear and then his eye.

“Did you hear anything? Did you see anything?”

“Oh, no. They very quiet. I hear nothing.”

“They?”

“Los matadores.”

Bosch now held up two fingers.

“
Matadores?
Two?”

The old lady shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you say ‘they?’”

She pointed to the door that Bosch had just knocked on.

“She say.”

Bosch looked at the unanswered door and then back at the old woman.

“Where is she?”

“She work now.”

“Do you know where?”

The woman brought her arms together in a rocking motion.

“Babysitting?” Bosch asked. “Child care?”

“Sí, sí, sí.”

“Do you know when she comes home?”

The woman looked at him and he could tell she didn’t understand.

“Uh,
finito?
”

He walked two fingers across the palm of his hand and pointed at the door to unit 203. The woman shook her head. She either didn’t know or she still didn’t understand. Bosch nodded. It was the best he could do for now.

“Gracias.”

He headed back to the stairs and went down. Before he got to the gate, he heard a voice from behind.

“Hey,
policía
.”

Bosch turned. There was a man standing in the alcove by the door to apartment 103. He was smoking a cigarette under the light above the door. Bosch walked back to him.

“Are you police?” the man asked.

Up close Bosch could see the Latino man was about thirty with a strong build. He wore a white T-shirt that had been bleached so many times it glowed under the light. He had no visible tattoos, which made Bosch think he wasn’t a gang member.

“A detective,” Bosch said. “I’m working on the murder that happened in the alley in March. Do you know anything about it?”

“Just that some faggot whore got his throat cut or some shit,” the man said.

“Were you home that night?”

“Sure.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Nah, man, I didn’t see nothing. I was in bed.”

“Hear anything?”

“Well, yeah, I heard ’em but I didn’t think it was anything so I didn’t get up to look.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard them dump the guy out.”

“What’s that sound like?”

“Well, I heard a trunk. You know, like a trunk closing. It came from the alley.”

“A trunk.”

“Yeah, a trunk. You know how you can tell the difference between the sound of a car door and a trunk? It was a trunk.”

“Did you also hear a car door?”

“Yeah, I heard that. I heard the trunk, then I heard the doors close.”

“Doors?”

“Yeah, two doors.”

“You heard two car doors close? You sure?”

The man shrugged.

“I hear all kinds of stuff from that alley. All night some nights.”

“Okay. Did you tell what you just told me to the police?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, they left a card one day in my door, asking me to call. I never got around to calling. I stay busy, you know what I mean?”

“You mean a business card? Do you still have it?”

“Yeah, on the fridge. I guess I could still call but I’m talkin’ to you, right?”

“Right. Can I see it? I want to get the name.”

“Yeah, sure. Hold on.”

The man opened his door and went in. He left the door open and Bosch saw a living room that was sparsely furnished. There was a crucifix on the wall and a couch with Mexican blankets draped over it. No expense had been spared on the large flat-screen television on the wall. It was showing a soccer game somewhere.

The man came from the kitchen and closed the door as he stepped back out. He handed Bosch a standard-issue LAPD business card with the name Edward Montez on it. On the flip side a handwritten note in two languages. The English said, “Please call.”

Bosch knew the name Montez but not the man. He and his partner must have been charged by Stotter and Karim with handling the neighborhood canvas. Montez had done a poor job if he left cards in doors and never followed up. It was not surprising, however. So few people in minority neighborhoods wished to get involved as witnesses in cases that most efforts of investigators were focused on looking for nonhuman witnesses—cameras.

“So you’ve never talked to the police about that night,” Bosch said.

“No, man. Nobody came that night and I work during the day. That’s when they left the card.”

“Do you know, did anybody in this building talk to the police?”

“Mrs. Jiminez did. She lives upstairs. But she didn’t see shit and she can’t hear too good.”

“What else did you hear besides the sound of the trunk and then the doors?”

“Nothing, man, that was it.”

“You didn’t look through a window to see what it was about?”

“No, man, I was tired. I didn’t want to get up. Besides …”

“Besides what?”

“You stick your nose into stuff like that, you might get a problem.”

“You mean a gang problem?”

“Yeah, like that.”

Bosch nodded. The 18th Street gang was not known for its peaceful coexistence in the neighborhoods it claimed as its turf. He could not second-guess someone for not rushing to his window to check out the activity in an alley.

“You remember what time it was when you heard the trunk and the doors?”

“Not really, not anymore. But it was definitely the night of the murder because the next morning all the police were in the alley. I saw them when I left for work.”

“Where do you work?”

“LAX.”

“TSA?”

He laughed like Bosch had made a joke.

“No, man, baggage. I work for Delta.”

Bosch nodded.

“Okay. What’s your name?”

“Ricardo.”

“Last name?”

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“I used to be.”

“Used to be? What’s that mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Just Ricardo, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Ricardo.”

Ricardo dropped his cigarette to the concrete, crushed it with his foot, and then kicked it into a nearby flower bed.

“Good night, Mr. I-Used-To-Be-A-Cop.”

“Yeah, good night.”

Bosch left through the gate and stopped to look at the directory. He confirmed the name Jiminez on unit 203 and saw the name R. Benitez on the line next to 103. He headed back into the alley where his car was waiting.

Once he was behind the wheel, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it. He sat for a moment looking through the windshield at the spot where James Allen’s body was left and thinking about what Ricardo Benitez had just told him. He heard a car trunk being closed followed by two car doors. Bosch envisioned a car coming into the alley with its lights off. Two people get out, leave their doors open, and go to the trunk. They remove the body, prop it against the wall, then go back to the car. One closes the trunk as he goes around the back of the car. They get in, close their doors, and the car takes off. In and out in—what?—thirty seconds tops?

Bosch nodded.

Two people, he thought.

He turned the key and started the engine.

T
here was a line of light under the door of his daughter’s room when Bosch got home. He hesitated in the hallway for a moment and then lightly knocked. He expected there would be no reply because she usually had her earbuds in and was listening to music. But he was surprised.

“You can come in,” she called.

Bosch opened the door and stepped in. Maddie was under the bedcovers with her laptop open in front of her. She had her earbuds in.

“Hey, I’m home,” he said.

She pulled out the buds.

“I know.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Just music.”

Bosch came over and sat on the edge of her bed, trying not to show any frustration with her one- and two-word answers.

“What music?”

“Death Cab.”

“That the song or the band?”

“The band is Death Cab for Cutie. The song I like is ‘Black Sun.’”

“Sounds uplifting.”

“It’s a great song, Dad. It reminds me of you.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. It just does.”

“Did you look at those profiles?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Well, first of all, they were amazingly repetitive. Like you could apply the same stuff to every case even though they were different cases and different kinds of murders.”

“Well, they say it’s an inexact science.”

She folded her arms across her chest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know, that they try to cover all the bases,” he said. “So that when someone gets caught, they’re covered by the generics.”

“Let me ask you something, Dad. Did a profile of a killer or a crime scene ever help you solve a case? Tell the truth.”

Bosch had to think for a moment because there wasn’t a ready answer.

“I guess that answers my question,” Maddie said.

“No, wait,” Bosch said. “I was just thinking. I haven’t had a case where I got a profile and it was so dead-on that it pointed me right to the killer. But they’ve been helpful to me a lot of times. Your mother …”

She waited but he didn’t go on.

“My mother what?”

“No, I was just going to say that she wasn’t really a profiler but she was still the best profiler I ever knew. She could read people. I think her life experiences helped make her empathic. She always had a good feel for a crime scene and for the killer’s motivations. I’d show her pictures from my cases and she’d tell me what she thought.”

“She never told me that.”

“Well, you know, you were young. She didn’t want to talk about murder with you, I think.”

Bosch was silent for a moment as he realized he had not thought about Eleanor Wish in a long time. It made him feel bad.

“You know, she had this theory,” he said quietly. “She always said that the motivation for all murders could be dialed back to shame.”

“Just shame, that’s it?” Maddie asked.

“Yeah, just shame. People covering up shame and finding any kind of way to do it. I don’t know, I think it was pretty smart.”

Maddie nodded.

“I miss her,” she said.

Bosch nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I get that. It will probably always be that way.”

“I wonder what it would be like, you know, if she were still around,” she said. “Like when I have to decide things, I wish she was here.”

“You can always talk to me,” Bosch said. “You know that, right?”

“I’m talking about girl things.”

“Right.”

Bosch wasn’t sure what to say. He was happy that Maddie was opening up for the first time in a long time but he felt ill equipped to seize the moment. It underlined his failings as a father.

“Is it school?” he asked. “Are you worried about anything?”

“No, school is school. It’s like all the girls talk about how their mothers are dumb or about how they want to control them and everything about graduation and college and all of that. I kind of wish I had that sometimes, you know. A mother to tell me stuff.”

Bosch nodded.

“I should talk,” she said. “You didn’t have a mother
or
a father.”

“It was a little different, I think,” Bosch said. “I think a girl really needs a mother.”

“Oh, well. I lost my chance.”

Bosch leaned over and kissed the top of her head. For the first time in a long time he picked up no vibe of resistance from her. He stood up from the bed and saw her big gray duffel bag on the floor, all packed and ready to go. He realized that she was leaving from school for the camping trip the very next day.

“Shit,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“I forgot tomorrow’s the day you leave. I shouldn’t have gone out.”

“It’s okay. I had to finish packing. I’ll only be gone three nights.”

Bosch sat back down on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” she said.

“I hope you have some fun up there.”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, try. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And text me.”

“They told us the service is really bad.”

“Okay, well, if you get a signal, let me know everything’s all right.”

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head again, mindful this time not to breathe out and reveal he had beer on his breath.

He stood up and headed toward the door.

“I love you, kid,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning before you go.”

“Love you, Dad,” she said.

He believed she meant it.

T
he next morning Maddie grudgingly allowed him to lug her duffel bag to her car. She then went off to school and her required camping trip, telling Bosch that a bus would pick the campers up from the school and take them to the mountains.

He watched her drive down the street and felt sad that she would not be in the house for the next three nights. He went back inside, brewed a pot of coffee, and settled down with a cup at the dining-room-table-turned-worktable. He did what he always did when he had worked with a badge. He went back to the book.

To Bosch the murder book was an evolving tool. It was true that in this case he had only a copy of the book and would not be adding to it with his own investigation. No matter how many times he looked at it, the page count would not change and every word would stay the same. But that didn’t matter. The meaning of things changed as investigations progressed. The simple fact was that Bosch knew more about the case now than he had when he last looked through the Lexi Parks murder book. That meant that the significance of things could change as he filtered them through the net of his growing knowledge of the case.

He started rereading the documents from page one and eventually got to the phone logs. The investigators on the case had begun examining the call logs from the victim’s personal and business phones for the three months prior to her murder. They were in the process of identifying and questioning the parties involved in those calls with Lexi Parks when the results of the DNA analysis came back from the lab matching Da’Quan Foster to the murder scene. That turned everything in a new direction and it appeared to Bosch that the study of the call lists was then dropped as Foster became the intensive and sole focus of the investigation. Still, much of the work was already done on the lists, with most numbers on a spreadsheet explained in a sentence or two or dismissed as “NS”—short for not suspicious.