The Harry Bosch Novels

“You realize, of course, I may not come up with anything, especially on short notice?”

  “Of course,” Eleanor said.

  “Give me the name.”

  Ernst slid a piece of paper across his blotter. Eleanor wrote Binh’s name on it and slid it back. Ernst looked at it a moment and got up without ever touching the paper.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said and left the room.

  Bosch looked at Eleanor.

  “‘Ellie’?”

  “Please, I don’t allow anybody to call me that. That’s why I don’t take his calls and don’t return them.”

  “You mean until now. You’ll owe him now.”

  “If he finds something. And so will you.”

  “I guess I’ll have to let him call me Ellie.”

  She didn’t smile.

  “How’d you meet this guy, anyway?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Bosch said, “He’s probably listening to us right now.”

  He looked around the room, though obviously any listening devices would be hidden. He took out his cigarettes when he saw a black ashtray on the desk.

  “Please, don’t smoke,” Eleanor said.

  “Just a half.”

  “I met him once when we were both in Washington. I don’t even remember what for now. He was assistant something-or-other with State back then, too. We had a couple of drinks. That’s all. Sometime after that, he transferred out here. When he saw me in the elevator here and found out I was transferred, he started calling.”

  “CIA all the way, right? Or something close.”

  “More or less. I think. It doesn’t matter if he gets what we need.”

  “More or less. I knew shitheads like him in the war. No matter how much he tells us today, there will be something more. Guys like that, information is their currency. They never give up everything. Like he said, they compartmentalize everything. They’ll get you killed before they tell it all.”

  “Can we stop talking now?”

  “Sure … Ellie.”

  Bosch passed the time smoking and looking at the empty walls. The guy didn’t make much of an effort to make it look like a real office. No flag in the corner. Not even a picture of the president. Ernst was back in twenty minutes, and by then Bosch was on his second half-cigarette. As the assistant deputy for trade and development strode to his desk empty-handed, he said, “Detective, would you mind not smoking? I find it very bothersome in a closed room like this.”

  Bosch stubbed the butt out in the small black bowl on the corner of his desk.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I saw the ashtray. I thought —”

  “It’s not an ashtray, Detective,” Ernst said in a somber tone. “That is a rice bowl, three centuries old. I brought it home with me after my stationing in Vietnam.”

  “You were working on trade and development then, too?”

  “Excuse me, Bob, did you find anything?” Eleanor interjected. “On the name?”

  It took Ernst a long moment to break his stare away from Bosch.

  “I found very little, but what I did find may be useful. This man, Binh, is a former Saigon police officer. A captain…. Bosch, are you a veteran of the altercation?”

  “You mean the war? Yes.”

  “Of course you are,” Ernst said. “Then tell me, does this information mean anything to you?”

  “Not a lot. I was in-country most of my time. Didn’t see much of Saigon except the Yankee bars and tattoo parlors. The guy was a police captain, should it mean something to me?”

  “I suppose not. So let me tell you. As a captain, Binh ran the police department’s vice unit.”

  Bosch thought about that and said, “Okay, he was probably as corrupt as everything else that went with that war.”

  “I don’t suppose, coming from in-country, you know much about the system, the way things worked in Saigon?” Ernst asked.

  “Why don’t you tell us about it? Sounds like that was your department. Mine was just trying to keep alive.”

  Ernst ignored the shot. He chose to ignore Bosch as well. He looked only at Eleanor as he spoke.

  “It operated quite simply, really,” he said. “If you dealt in substances, in flesh, gambling, anything on the black market, you were required to pay a local tariff, a tithe to the house, so to speak. That payment kept the local police away. It practically guaranteed your business would not be interrupted — within certain bounds. Your only worry then was the U.S. military police. Of course, they could be paid off as well, I suppose. There was always that rumor. Anyway, this system went on for years, from the very beginning until after the American withdrawal, until, I imagine, April 30, 1975, the day Saigon fell.”

  Eleanor nodded and waited for him to go on. “The major American military involvement lasted longer than a decade, before that there was the French. We are talking many, many years of foreign intervention.”

  “Millions,” Bosch said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You are talking about millions of dollars in payoffs.”

  “Yes, absolutely. Tens of millions when added up over the years.”

  “And where does Captain Binh fit in?” Eleanor asked.

  “You see,” Ernst said, “our information at the time was that the corruption within the Saigon police department was orchestrated or controlled by a triad called the Devil’s Three. You paid them or you did not do business. It was that simple.

  “Coincidentally, or rather not coincidentally, the Saigon police had three captains whose domain corresponded, so to speak, quite nicely with the domain of the triad. One captain in charge of vice. One narcotics. One for patrol. Our information is that these three captains were, in fact, the triad.”

  “You keep saying ‘Our information.’ Is that trade and development’s information? Where are you getting this?”

  Ernst made a movement to straighten things on the top of his desk again and then stared coldly at Bosch. “Detective, you come to me for information. If you want to know where the source is, then you have made a mistake. You’ve come to the wrong person. You can believe what I tell you or not. It is of no consequence to me.”

  The two men locked eyes but said nothing else.

  “What happened to them?” Eleanor asked. “The members of the triad.”

  Ernst pulled his eyes away from Bosch and said, “What happened is that after the United States pulled military forces in 1973 the triad’s source of revenue was largely gone. But like any responsible business entity they saw it coming and looked to replace it. And our intelligence at the time was that they shifted their position considerably. In the early seventies they moved from the role of providing protection to narcotics operations in Saigon to actually becoming part of those operations. Through political and military contacts and, of course, police enforcement they solidified themselves as the brokers for all brown heroin that came out of the highlands and was moved to the United States.”

  “But it didn’t last,” Bosch said.

  “Oh, no. Of course not. When Saigon fell in April 1975, they had to get out. They had made millions, an estimated fifteen to eighteen million American dollars each. It would mean nothing in the new Ho Chi Minh City and they wouldn’t be alive to enjoy it anyway. The triad had to get out or they’d face the firing squads of the North Army. And they had to get out with their money….”

  “So, how’d they do it?” Bosch said.

  “It was dirty money. Money that no Vietnamese police captain could or should have. I suppose they could have wired it to Zurich, but you have to remember you are dealing with the Vietnamese culture. Born of turmoil and distrust. War. These people did not even trust banks in their homeland. And besides it wasn’t money anymore.”

  “What?” Eleanor said, puzzled.

  “They had been converting all along. Do you know what eighteen million dollars looks like? Would probably fill a room. So they found a way to shrink it. At least, that’s what we believe.”

  “Precious gem
s,” Bosch said.

  “Diamonds,” Ernst said. “It is said eighteen million dollars’ worth of the right diamonds would easily fit in two shoe boxes.”

  “And into a safe-deposit box,” Bosch said.

  “That could be, but, please, I don’t want to know what I don’t need to know.”

  “Binh was one of the captains,” Bosch said. “Who were the other two?”

  “I am told one of them was named Van Nguyen. And he is believed to be dead. He never left Vietnam. Killed by the other two, or maybe the North Army. But he never got out. That was confirmed by our agents in Ho Chi Minh after the fall. The other two did. They came here. And both had passes, arranged through connections and money, I suppose. I can’t help you there…. There was Binh, who it seems you have found, and the other was Nguyen Tran. He came with Binh. Where they went and what they did here, I can’t help you with. It’s been fifteen years. Once they came across they were no longer our concern.”

  “Why would you allow them to come across?”

  “Who says we did? You have to realize, Detective Bosch, that much of this information was put together after the fact.”

  Ernst stood up then. That was all the information he would decompartmentalize for today.

  • • •

  Bosch didn’t want to go back up to the bureau. The information from Ernst was amphetamine in his blood. He wanted to walk. He wanted to talk, to storm. When they got in the elevator he pushed the button for the lobby and told Eleanor they were going outside. The bureau was like a fishbowl. He wanted a big room.

  In any investigation, it had always seemed to Bosch, information would come slowly, like sand dropping steadily through the cinched middle of an hourglass. At some point, there was more information in the bottom of the glass. And then the sand in the top seemed to drop faster, until it was cascading through the hole. They were at that point with Meadows, the bank burglary, the whole thing. Things were coming together.

  They went out through the front lobby and onto the green lawn where there were eight U.S. flags and a California state flag flapping lazily on poles posted in a semicircle. There were no protestors on this day. The air was warm and unseasonably humid.

  “Do we have to walk out here?” Eleanor asked. “I would rather be upstairs, where we’d be near the phones. You could have a coffee.”

  “I want to smoke.”

  They walked north toward Wilshire Boulevard.

  Bosch said, “It’s 1975. Saigon is about to go down the sewer. Police Captain Binh pays people to get him and his share of diamonds out. Who he pays, we don’t know. But we do know that he gets VIP treatment all the way. Most people took boats out, he flew. Four days from Saigon to the States. He is accompanied by an American civilian adviser to help smooth things. That’s Meadows. He —”

  “He may have been accompanied,” she said. “You forgot the word ‘may’ there.”

  “We’re not in court. I’m saying it the way I see it might’ve been, okay? Afterward, if you don’t like it, you say it your way.”

  She raised her arms in a hands-off kind of way and Bosch continued.

  “So, Meadows and Binh are together. Nineteen seventy-five. Meadows is working refugee security or something. See, he’s getting out of there, too. He may or may not have known Binh from his old sideline, dealing heroin. The chances are he did. He was probably, in effect, working for Binh. Now, he may or may not have known what Binh was carrying with him to the States. Chances are he at least had an idea.”

  Bosch stopped to organize his thoughts and Eleanor reluctantly took over.

  “Binh takes with him his cultural dislike or distrust for putting his money in the hands of bankers. He has an additional problem, too. His money is not kosher. It is undeclared, unknown and illegal for him to have. He can’t declare it or make a normal deposit because this would be noticed and then have to be explained. So, he keeps this sizable fortune in the next best thing: a safe-deposit vault. Where are we going?”

  Bosch didn’t answer. He was too consumed by his thoughts. They were at Wilshire. When the walk sign flashed above the crosswalk they went with the flow of bodies. On the other side of the street they turned west, walking along the hedges that bordered the veterans cemetery. Bosch took over the story.

  “Okay, so Binh’s got his share in the safe-deposit box. He starts the great American dream as a refugee. Only he’s a rich refugee. Meantime, Meadows comes back after the war, can’t get into the groove of real life, can’t beat his habit, and starts capering to feed it. But things aren’t as easy as in Saigon. He gets caught, spends some time in stir. He gets out, goes back, gets out, then finally starts blocking some real time on federal raps on a couple of bank jobs.”

  There was an opening in the hedge and a brick walkway. Bosch followed it and they stood looking at the expanse of the cemetery, the rows of carved stones a weather-polished white against the sea of grass. The tall hedge buffered the sound from the street. It was suddenly very peaceful.

  “It’s like a park,” Bosch said.

  “It’s a graveyard,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

  “You don’t have to whisper. Let’s walk around. It’s quiet.”

  Eleanor hesitated but then trailed him as he followed the bricks beneath an oak tree that shaded the graves of a grouping of World War I veterans. She caught up and continued the dialogue.

  “So we have Meadows in TI. Somehow, he hears about this place Charlie Company. He gets the ear of the ex-soldier-slash-minister who operates the place, gets his backing and gets early release from TI. Now, at Charlie Company, he connects with two old war buddies. Or so we assume. Delgado and Franklin. Except there is only one day that all three of them are at Charlie Company at the same time. Just one day. Are you telling me they hatched this whole thing on that one day?”

  “I don’t know,” Bosch said. “Could’ve been, but I doubt it. It might have been planned later, after they made that recontact at the farm. The important thing is that we have them together, or in close proximity, in Saigon, 1975. Now we have them together again at Charlie Company. After that, Meadows graduates, takes a few cover jobs until he finishes parole. Then he quits and disappears from view.”

  “Until?”

  “Until the WestLand burglary. They go in, they hit the boxes until they find Binh’s box. Or maybe they already knew which one was his. They must have followed him to plan the job and find out where he kept whatever was left of his share of the diamonds. We need to go back to the vault records and see if this Frederic B. Isley ever visited at the same time as Binh. I bet we find that he did. He saw which box was Binh’s because he was in the vault with him at the same time.

  “Then during the vault break-in, they hit his box and then all the others, taking everything as camouflage. The genius of it was that they knew Binh couldn’t report what was taken from him because it did not exist, legally. They knew this. It was perfect. And what made it that way is them taking all the other stuff, to cover for the real target. The diamonds.”

  “The perfect crime,” she said, “until Meadows pawned the bracelet with the jade dolphins on it. That gets him killed. Which brings us back to the question we had a few days ago. Why? And another thing that makes no sense: why, if he had helped loot the vault, was Meadows living in that dump? He was a rich man not acting like a rich man.”

  Bosch walked in silence for a while. It was the question he had been formulating an answer to since halfway through the meeting with Ernst. He thought about Meadows’s eleven-month lease, paid in advance. If he were alive, he would be moving out next week. As they walked through the garden of white stone, it all seemed to fit together. There was no sand left in the top of the hourglass. He finally spoke.

  “Because the perfect crime was only half over. By pawning the bracelet, he was giving it away too soon. So he had to go, and they had to get that bracelet back.”

  She stopped and looked at him. They were standing on the access road next to the World War II
section. Bosch saw that the roots of another old oak had pushed some of the weathered stones out of alignment. They looked like teeth waiting for an orthodontist’s hands.

  “Explain that to me, what you just said,” Eleanor said.

  “They hit several of the boxes to cover that all they really wanted was what was in Binh’s box. Okay?”

  She nodded. They still weren’t walking.

  “Okay. So in order to keep that cover, what would be the thing to do? Get rid of the stuff from all the other boxes so it would never turn up again. And I don’t mean fence it. I mean get rid of it, destroy it, sink it, bury it for good, somewhere it would never be found. Because the minute the first piece of jewelry or old coin or stock certificate turns up and the police find out about it, then they’ve got a lead and they’ll come looking.”

  “So you think Meadows was killed because he pawned the bracelet?” she said.

  “Not quite because of that. There is some other current moving through all of this. Why, if Meadows had a share of Binh’s diamonds, would he even bother with a bracelet worth a few thousand bucks? Why would he live the way he lived? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re losing me, Harry.”

  “I’m losing myself. But look at it this way for a minute. Say they — Meadows and the others — knew where both Binh and the other police captain, Nguyen Tran, were, and where each of them had stashed what was left of the diamonds they had brought over here. Say there were two banks and the diamonds were in two safe-deposit boxes. And say they were going to hit them both. So first they rip off Binh’s bank. And now they are going for Tran’s.”

  She nodded that she was following along. Bosch felt excitement building.

  “Okay. So these things take time to plan, to put the strategy together, to plan it for a time the bank is closed three days in a row because that’s how much time they need to open enough boxes to make it look real. And then there is the time needed to dig the tunnel.”

  He’d forgotten to light a cigarette. He realized now and put one in his mouth, but started talking again before lighting it.

  “You with me?”

  She nodded. He lit the cigarette.