Bosch knew that Boland’s take on the case was on target. It was depressing to think that Broussard might have successfully sealed himself off from prosecution for the Merced shooting.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“Good luck, guys. And believe me, I don’t like shooting holes in cases. I’d much rather file them. But as you said at the beginning, I need to file good, winnable cases, or I’ll be stuck in this little room the rest of my career.”
Bosch stood up to go. As off-putting as Boland’s personality was, Bosch knew the same aspects of confidence, smarm, and ability to forecast and strategize a case would make him a solid prosecutor when he finally got that courtroom job.
Bosch and Soto walked down Spring Street back to the PAB. Their next stop would be the captain’s office, where he and his lieutenant were overdue for the promised update on the case. Considering Boland’s response to their efforts so far, Bosch knew that the next meeting would not go any better. Captain Crowder had told him that morning that he was getting a lot of pressure from the tenth floor and needed results. Bosch had asked for the rest of the day, and now they were at the point that Crowder would be waiting for them because the tenth floor was waiting for him.
“You want me to go in with you?” Soto asked.
“I think I can handle them,” Bosch said.
“What do you say is next?”
“Not sure yet. What do you think about me telling them we’re going to be putting some pressure on Broussard to see how he reacts?”
“What kind of pressure?”
“I’m still thinking. Maybe knocking on his door, maybe planting a story in the paper.”
“You knock on his door and he’ll probably lawyer up on the spot.”
“If he does that, then that says something right there.”
“What would a story in the paper say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that we have narrowed in on a suspect. Mention no names. Maybe we put it out there that we’ve got the murder weapon.”
“That would sure let Broussard know we’re close.”
“And that’s the risk. Do we want to show our hand like that? It’s a desperate move. Are we there yet? I don’t know.”
Bosch hated the idea of acting desperately. A move like that put the following move in someone else’s hands. It meant losing control of the investigation—bringing the media in, which was always risky, and waiting for the suspect to react, which was never guaranteed and couldn’t be fully anticipated.
Bosch had seen it work beautifully before and he had seen it go horribly wrong. He had once been on a case where the lead team decided to plant a story saying the task force was closing in on a suspected serial rapist and killer. They dropped in one piece of evidence they knew would let the suspect know that they were specifically closing in on him—that the man they were looking at was a respected husband and father with a white-collar job. The 911 calls starting coming in shortly after. The man grabbed his boss and holed up in a supply closet, keeping a pair of scissors to his hostage’s neck. The police moved in but were too late to stop the murder-suicide that ensued in the closet. There simply was no telling what would happen if Broussard learned that the Merced investigation was getting close to him.
Bosch thought about the fund-raiser scheduled for that night at the Beverly Hilton. They could possibly put some pressure on Broussard there—without having to resort to the media. At minimum they could get their first up-close look at the man they believed was behind the Merced shooting.
“Whatever you want to do, Harry,” Soto said. “I’m with you.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight? I don’t know. You want to go to Broussard’s house?”
“No, but there’s a fund-raiser he’s hosting away from the house. I was thinking of going just to get a look at him, maybe have him get a look at us. I can try to use it to put Crowder off for another day. Tell him we’ll meet tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a plan. I’m in.”
“Okay, then.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
28
The Beverly Hilton was a vast hotel complex with several entrances and many different-size rooms to accommodate weddings, political fund-raisers, and other gatherings. Bosch had been there several times over the years for both professional and personal reasons. He and Soto self-parked in the garage and then walked in through the main lobby, where they moved through the crowds amassed for various events and followed signs to the escalators leading up to the banquet rooms. Along the way Bosch noticed several hotel security men in blue blazers posted throughout the lobby, radio buds in their ears, eyes scanning the crowd. He guessed that Zeyas was drawing some heavy hitters to his five-hundred-dollars-a-plate dinner.
On the second floor they walked down a long hallway with entrances to the various ballrooms. The Merv Griffin Room was actually a grand ballroom at the end of the hallway with two sets of double doors that stood open and waiting. On the wall between the doors was a ten-foot-high poster showing a black-and-white photo of Armando Zeyas shaking hands and engaged with a circle of smiling supporters. The shot had been taken with a fish-eye lens, which gave the resulting photo an exaggerated sense that Zeyas stood at the center of the people. Bosch paused in horror when he saw the slogan printed above the circle of people of every age, gender, and race:
Everybody Counts or Nobody Counts!
ZEYAS 2016
Below the poster was a long draped table behind which three women sat waiting to check people in and collect their money for the Zeyas bid for the governor’s seat. Standing to the side of either entrance to the ballroom were two men with beefy physiques beneath blue blazers.
Not wanting to give away their identity right off the bat, Bosch directed Soto to the left of the welcoming table, and they walked down a short hallway to a set of glass doors leading to an outdoor promenade, which Bosch knew from times past was used as a smokers’ porch.
“Where are we going?” Soto asked as they pushed through the doors.
“Strategic advantage,” Bosch said. “You try to hang on to it for as long as you can.”
They stepped out onto the windy promenade. It overlooked Wilshire Boulevard, which was packed with wall-to-wall traffic. The hotel was situated at the intersection of two main traffic arteries—Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards, a crossroads that was always a traffic knot.
Bosch leaned his elbows on the balcony edge and looked down at the traffic. In times past he would have lit a smoke.
“What’s our advantage?” Soto asked.
“They don’t know who we are,” Bosch said. “I didn’t want to walk up first thing and badge them. Makes it a little harder to move around.”
“I thought we wanted to get a look at Broussard, maybe have him get a look at us.”
“Right. But we want to be subtle about it. Make him think. Make him wonder. You know what I mean?”
“I think.”
Soto turned her back to the view and took in the massive facade of the building.
“So this is the place where Whitney Houston died,” she said.
“Right,” Bosch said. “In a bathtub.”
“They played one of her songs at my high school graduation.”
“Which one?”
“‘Greatest Love of All.’ ”
Bosch nodded.
“Where’d you go? Garfield?”
“No, by then I was up in the Valley. I graduated from San Fernando High in Pacoima.”
“Forgot you were up there.”
“What about you?”
“I went to Hollywood High but I didn’t graduate. Went into the service early and had to get a GED when I got back.”
“Oh, right. Vietnam. Did you do any college?”
“Yeah, City College for a couple years. Then I joined the Department. Where’d you go after high school?”
She smiled and shook her head. She was embarrass
ed by the answer.
“Mills. It’s a girls’ school up in Oakland.”
Bosch whistled.
“Nice.”
Now that his daughter was a year away from college, he was familiar with most of what was out there, especially in California. Mills was a tough school to get into, even tougher to afford.
“I know, I know,” she said. “How did a Pacoima girl end up at Mills?”
“More like how did a Mills girl end up in the LAPD?” he said.
She nodded. Good question.
“Well, I got a lot of scholarship money and I chose Mills because at the time I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. You know, civil rights, Legal Aid, tenant rights, things like that. But then, when I got away from L.A. and really started thinking about things, I thought about being a cop, you know, and maybe that would be the best way to help my community.”
Bosch nodded but knew she was leaving something out.
“And there was the Bonnie Brae case,” he said.
She nodded back.
“There was that, too,” she said.
She seemed to drop the conversation at that point. Bosch went back to considering what he had hoped to accomplish by coming to the fund-raiser. There had been no real plan other than to get a look at Broussard. It was like a coach scouting the opposition. Perhaps Bosch would get a measure of the man he was zeroing in on. But now that he was here, he was trying to think of how they were going to handle getting into the Merv Griffin Room and eyeballing Broussard. Harry was beginning to realize that it was probably a faulty idea in the first place. At this level of politics, there was always a high degree of security involved. His idea of just blending in with the crowd and moving through the doors was unrealistic. He was considering bagging the whole thing and heading over to Hollywood to check on his daughter—from a distance.
“Uh, Harry?” Soto said.
“What?” he responded.
“I think we’re about to lose strategic advantage.”
Bosch turned away from the traffic. He saw Soto looking down the length of the promenade. He followed her eye line and saw a door sixty feet farther down. Two men in tuxedos had stepped out and were bent over against the wind as they attempted to light cigarettes. When they straightened up, Bosch saw that one was Connor Spivak, candidate Zeyas’s right-hand man. The other man looked familiar to Bosch. He was big and had a full beard.
“Is that . . . ?” Soto asked.
“Broussard,” Bosch said. “I think so.”
Bosch had only seen photos of Broussard and glimpsed the dark figure on the balcony of his house the night before.
“We’ve been made,” he said.
Spivak had spotted them and now he and the other man were walking toward them.
“What’s our reason for being here?” Soto said under her breath.
“I’ll handle it,” Bosch said. “Follow my lead.”
Spivak was smiling as he approached. The other man was moving a little more slowly and was a few paces behind.
“Detectives?” Spivak said. “I thought that was you two. What a surprise!”
He shook hands with both of them.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“Well,” Bosch said, “we heard about the dinner tonight and thought we’d come by, maybe see if we could talk to the candidate for a few moments. You know, keep him informed about the investigation, since he’s putting his own money on the line.”
“That’s very thoughtful. He will be impressed. But he isn’t here just yet. He had to make a stop at a synagogue in Westwood and then he’s going to swing in after the dinner to say a few words here.”
He checked his watch.
“That probably won’t be for another hour,” he said. “But I’d be happy to take the update and pass it on.”
Bosch glanced at Broussard and then back to Spivak.
“Oh, of course,” Spivak said. “We want to keep this on the down low. By the way, this is one of our generous hosts for the evening, Charles Broussard.”
Broussard offered his hand first to Bosch. Harry shook it, holding eye contact with the man he believed had been responsible for the shooting of Orlando Merced.
“My friends call me Brouss.”
Soto shook his hand next.
“You people do fine work under very difficult circumstances,” Broussard said. “I wish you all the best. Stay safe.”
“Thank you,” Soto said.
“Brouss, maybe you can wait for me inside,” Spivak suggested.
“No problem,” Broussard said. “Just one last drag and then it’s back in for politics as usual.”
Bosch smiled at him and Spivak laughed a little too hard.
Broussard tipped his head back and blew smoke into the air. He then dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. He play-punched Spivak on the arm.
“See you inside, Sparky,” he said to him. Then to Bosch and Soto, he said, “Pleasure to meet you.”
Broussard started down the promenade toward the door he and Spivak had come through.
“That’s sort of a backstage holding area,” Spivak explained. “We snuck out.”
“How much does a guy have to give to be a host at one of these things?” Bosch asked.
“A hundred K,” Spivak answered without hesitation.
Bosch whistled.
“He can afford it,” Spivak said. “Did you say you have an update on the Merced case, Detective?”
“Yes, for the candidate,” Bosch said. “What are the chances of getting five minutes with him when he gets here?”
“I have to be honest, not good. As soon as he gets here, he’s got to go to the podium. Then as soon as I get him offstage we head to the airport and I put him on a plane. He’s got a prayer breakfast in the morning in San Francisco.”
“What happened to ‘Everybody counts or nobody counts’? We can’t grab him for five minutes?”
Spivak shook his head as though he wished he had a better answer.
“I’m sorry, Detectives,” he said. “It’s just not a good night. But I can take any update you want to give him. I’ll keep it confidential. It will go just to him.”
Bosch canted his head back and forth as though he were weighing the option of going through Spivak.
“It can wait,” he finally said. “Just tell the candidate that he better get his checkbook ready.”
Bosch made a move toward the door.
“Then you’re getting close?” Spivak asked.
Bosch looked at him, noting the excited tone in his voice.
“That’s for the candidate,” he said. “Not the masses. Understand? I don’t want it to end up in a speech tonight or the newspaper tomorrow.”
“Of course, of course,” Spivak said. “Completely confidential.”
Bosch and Soto left him there and went back to the doors they had come through. Spivak headed off to his own door.
“Think he’ll tell Broussard?” Soto asked, once they were inside the building again.
“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “Maybe.”
“I wish I could be there for that.”
“Let’s go. I want to get over to Hollywood Station.”
They walked down the short hall and saw that the table in front of the ballroom doors was now abandoned. The banquet had begun and the check-in ladies had moved inside. The security men were gone as well, probably posted inside the doors for the duration of the event.
Bosch looked around and saw that at the moment, there was no one present but him and Soto. He quickly moved behind the welcome table and pulled the poster down off the wall. He started rolling it up into a tight tube.
“Harry, what are you doing?” Soto asked in an urgent whisper.
“He stole my line,” Bosch said. “I’m just stealing it back.”
Bosch finished putting the poster into a tight roll and turned to head down the hallway. They were almost to the escalator alcove when Virginia Skinner came around the corner, her head down as she tri
ed to pull something bulky from her purse.
“Ginny?”
She looked up and stopped herself from colliding with Bosch.
“Harry, you’re here.”
Bosch handed the rolled poster to his partner. Then he pulled out his car key.
“Take this,” he said to Soto. “And go get the car. Pick me up out front.”
“You got it,” she said.
After Soto disappeared down the escalator, Bosch turned his attention back to Skinner.
“I thought you said you don’t cover these things,” he said.
“And I thought you were going to tell me if you were going,” Skinner said.
“It was spur of the moment and I wasn’t planning on staying, so I didn’t call.”
“Spur of the moment here too,” Skinner said. “You’re right, I don’t cover these things. Not usually. But I thought I’d drop by and maybe put a paragraph or two into my column. I mean, the cat’s out of the bag with Zeyas. He’s running and it’s just a matter of fund-raising semantics.”
“So it’s nothing to do with me or what we’ve been talking about?”
“No, nothing. We have a deal and I’m sticking to it. I promise.”
“Okay, good.”
“What was that rolled-up thing that you gave her? Is that your partner? She’s young.”
Bosch didn’t know which question to answer first.
“Yes, she’s my partner. The Department always pairs the old with the new. And the rolled-up thing was just a souvenir.”
“A souvenir of what?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“Did you see Broussard here?”
“Yes, I saw him. I actually met him. He was with Spivak and it sort of just happened.”
“Ugh, Spivak. The only guy in the Zeyas entourage I can’t stand. Too greasy. I think Zeyas would be better off without him—especially now that he’s going statewide. Spivak is not a big-league guy. He’s a ground-level local guy who’s risen to his level of incompetence. If you ask me.”
“Broussard called him Sparky.”
“Yeah, that’s an old one. He wrote a position paper for a candidate once. It favored replacing lethal injection with the electric chair. His thesis was that it would be a better deterrent. The idea obviously failed but people started calling him ‘Sparky’ Spivak after that.”