“No problem, Chief,” Lindell said before Bosch could respond. “I will be talking to you then.”
Fifteen minutes later Bosch was walking down the hallway to the elevators again. Edgar and Rider were following behind.
“Harry, where are we going?” Edgar asked.
“We’ll work out of Hollywood station.”
“What? Doing what? Who is going to run the show?”
“Lindell. I made a deal. He runs the show. We do something else.”
“Suits me,” Edgar said. “Too many agents and too much brass around here anyway.”
Bosch got to the elevators and pushed the call button.
“What exactly are we doing, Harry?” Rider asked.
He turned and looked at them.
“Starting over,” he said.
22
The squad room was completely empty, which was unusual, even for a Sunday. Under the twelve-and-twelve readiness plan all detectives not assigned to time-critical investigations were to be in uniform and out on the street. The last time such deployment had been instituted was after a major earthquake had rocked the city in 1994. The Elias murder was a social rather than a geologic cataclysm, but its magnitude was just as great.
Bosch carried the box containing Elias’s files on the Black Warrior case to what they called the homicide table, a raft of desks pushed up against each other to create a huge boardroom-like table. The section that belonged to team one, Bosch’s team, was at the end, near an alcove of file cabinets. He put the box in the middle, where his team’s three desks conjoined.
“Dig in,” he said.
“Harry . . . ,” Rider said, not happy with his lack of direction.
“Okay, listen, this is what I want. Kiz, you’re going to be master of the ship. Jerry and I will work the field.”
Rider groaned. Master of the ship meant that she was to be the keeper of the facts. She was to become familiar with all facets of the files, a walking compendium of the details of the investigation. Since they were starting off with an entire carton of files, this was a lot of work. It also meant she would not be doing much, if anything, in the way of field investigation. And no detective wants to be stuck in a windowless and empty office all day.
“I know,” Bosch said. “But I think you are best for it. We’ve got a ton of stuff here and your mind and your computer will be best for keeping track of it.”
“Next time I get the field.”
“There might not be a next time if we don’t do something this time. Let’s see what we got here.”
They spent the next ninety minutes going through Elias’s files on the Harris case, pointing out specific items to each other when they seemed to warrant attention, other times tossing files back into the box when their importance was not apparent.
Bosch spent his time with the investigative files that Elias had subpoenaed from the LAPD. He had a copy of the entire RHD murder book. Reading the daily investigative summaries turned in by Sheehan and other RHD detectives, Bosch noted that the case seemed initially to be lacking a focus. Stacey Kincaid had been taken from her room in the night, her abductor jimmying the lock on a bedroom window with a screwdriver and then grabbing the girl while she slept. Initially suspecting an inside job, the detectives interviewed the gardeners, the pool man, a local maintenance man, a plumber who had been in the house two weeks earlier, as well as the sanitation men and postal workers who had the route that included the Kincaids’ home in Brentwood. Teachers, janitors and even fellow students from Stacey’s private school in West Hollywood were interviewed. But the wide net being thrown by Sheehan and his cohorts was pulled in after the lab came up with the fingerprint match between the missing girl’s schoolbook and Michael Harris. The case then shifted to a complete focus on locating Harris, taking him into custody and then attempting to make him confess to what he had done with the girl.
The second section of the file also dealt with the crime scene investigation and efforts to connect Harris to the body through scientific analysis and technology. This proved to be a dead end. The girl’s body had been found by two homeless men in a vacant lot. The body was naked and badly decomposed after four days. It had apparently been washed after her death and therefore was lacking any significant microscopic evidence that could be analyzed and connected to Harris’s apartment or car. Though the girl appeared to have been raped, no bodily fluids belonging to her attacker were recovered. Her clothes were never found. The ligature that had been used to strangle her had been cut away by her killer and that, too, was never found. In the end, the only evidence that connected Harris to the crime was his fingerprints on the book in Stacey’s bedroom and the disposal of the body in the vacant lot less than two blocks from his apartment.
Bosch knew that was usually more than enough to win a conviction. He had worked cases in which convictions were won with less evidence. But that was before O.J. Simpson, before juries looked at police in Los Angeles with suspicious and judging eyes.
Bosch was writing a list of things to do and people to be interviewed when Edgar cried out.
“Yahtzee!”
Bosch and Rider looked at him and waited for an explanation.
“Remember the mystery notes?” Edgar said. “The second or third one said license plates prove he’s innocent?”
“Wait a second,” Bosch said.
He opened his briefcase and took out the file containing the notes.
“The third one. ‘License plates prove his innocence.’ Came in April five. Innocence spelled wrong.”
“Okay, here’s Elias’s file on subpoena returns. Got one here dated April fifteen for Hollywood Wax and Shine. That’s where Harris worked before they arrested him. It seeks—quote—‘copies of all records and receipts of customer orders and billings containing license plate numbers of said customers between the dates of April one and June fifteen of last year.’ It’s gotta be what the note was talking about.”
Bosch leaned back in his chair to think about this.
“This is a subpoena return, right? It was approved.”
“Right.”
“Well, April one and June fifteen, that’s seventy-five days. There —”
“Seventy-six days,” Rider corrected.
“Seventy-six days. That would be a lot of receipts. We got none here and there weren’t any in the office I saw. There should be boxes of receipts.”
“Maybe he returned them,” Edgar said.
“You said he subpoenaed copies.”
Edgar hiked his shoulders.
“Another thing, why those days?” Bosch asked. “The murder of the girl was July twelve. Why not subpoena the receipts right up until then?”
“Because he knew what he was looking for,” Rider said. “Or knew within the parameters of those dates.”
“Knew what?”
They dropped into silence. Bosch’s mind was running the puzzle but coming up empty. The license plate clue was still as mysterious as the Mistress Regina lead. Then by joining the two mysteries he came up with something.
“Pelfry again,” he said. “We need to talk to him.”
He stood up.
“Jerry, get on the phone. See if you can run down Pelfry and set up an interview for as soon as you can get it. I’m going out back for a few minutes.”
Normally, when Bosch told his partners he was going out back it meant he was going outside the building to have a smoke. As he walked toward the rear doorway, Rider called after him.
“Harry, don’t do it.”
He waved without turning back.
“Don’t worry, I’m not.”
Out in the lot Bosch stood and looked around. He knew he had done some of his best analytical thinking while standing outside smoking. He hoped he could put something together now, without the aid of a smoke. He looked into the sand jar that the station’s smokers used and saw a half-smoked cigarette protruding from the sand. There was lipstick on it. He decided he wasn’t that desperate yet.
He thought about the mystery notes. He knew because of postmarks and the markings made on the notes by Elias that they had numbers two, three and four, but not the first note. The meaning of the fourth note—the warning Elias was carrying with him—was obvious. The third note they now had a line on, thanks to the subpoena return Edgar had come across. But the second note—dot the i humbert humbert—still made no sense to Bosch.
He looked at the cigarette protruding from the sand again but once more dismissed it. He remembered he carried no matches or lighter anyway.
It suddenly occurred to him that the one other piece of the puzzle that seemed to stand out as making no sense, at least so far, was the Mistress Regina connection—whatever that was.
Bosch turned and quickly headed back into the station. Edgar and Rider had their heads down and into the paperwork when he came to the table. Bosch immediately began looking through the stacks of files.
“Who has the Mistress Regina file?”
“Over here,” Edgar said.
He handed over the file and Bosch opened it and took out the photo printout of the dominatrix. He then put it down next to one of the mystery notes and tried to make a comparison between the printing on the note and the printing below the photo—the web page address. It was impossible for him to determine if the same hand had printed both lines. He was no expert and there were no obvious anomalies in the printing to make a comparison easy.
When Bosch took his hand off the printout, its top and bottom edges rose an inch off the desk, telling him that at one time the page had been folded top and bottom, as if to be placed in an envelope.
“I think this is the first note,” he said.
Bosch had often found that when he made a logic breakthrough it was like clearing a clog in a drain. The pipe was open and other breaks soon came. It happened now. He saw what he could have and maybe should have seen all along.
“Jerry, call Elias’s secretary. Right now. Ask her if he had a color printer in the office. We should have seen this—I should have seen it.”
“Seen what?”
“Just make the call.”
Edgar started looking through a notebook for a phone number. Rider got up from her spot and came around next to Bosch. She looked down at the printout. She was now riding on Bosch’s wave. She saw where he was going.
“This was the first one,” Bosch said. “Only he didn’t keep the envelope because he probably thought it was crank mail.”
“But it probably was,” Edgar said, the phone to his ear. “We were there, the woman didn’t know the man and didn’t know what the hell we —”
He stopped and listened when his line was picked up.
“Mrs. Quimby? It is Detective Edgar from yesterday? I have one quick question for you. Do you know if there was a color printer in the office? A printer that could print out stuff from one of the computers. In color.”
He waited and listened, his eyes on Bosch and Rider.
“Thank you, Mrs. Quimby.”
He hung up.
“No color printer.”
Bosch nodded and looked down at the printout of Mistress Regina.
“We should have picked up on this yesterday,” Rider said.
Bosch nodded and started to ask Edgar if he had contacted Pelfry, the private investigator, when his pager went off. He cut it off and pulled it off his belt. It was his home number. Eleanor.
“Yeah, I talked to him,” Edgar said. “He’ll meet us at noon at his office. I didn’t mention anything about receipts or this Regina. I just said we needed to talk.”
“Okay.”
Bosch picked up his phone and punched in his home number. Eleanor answered after three rings. She sounded either sleepy or sad.
“Eleanor.”
“Harry.”
“Everything all right?”
He slid back into his seat and Rider went back to hers.
“I’m fine . . . I just . . .”
“When did you get in?”
“A little while ago.”
“Did you win?”
“I didn’t really play. After you called me there last night . . . I left.”
Bosch leaned forward and put an elbow on the table, a hand against his forehead.
“Well . . . where’d you go?”
“A hotel . . . Harry, I just came back for some clothes and things. I . . .”
“Eleanor?”
There was a long silence on the phone. Bosch heard Edgar say he was going to get some coffee in the watch office. Rider said she’d go along, even though Bosch knew she didn’t drink coffee. She had an assortment of herbal teas she kept in the drawer of her desk.
“Harry, it’s not right,” Eleanor said.
“What are you talking about, Eleanor?”
Another long moment of silence went by before she answered.
“I was thinking about that movie we saw last year. About the Titanic.”
“I remember.”
“And the girl in that. She fell in love with that boy, that she only met right there on the boat. And it was . . . I mean, she loved him so much. So much that at the end she wouldn’t leave. She didn’t take the lifeboat so she would be with him.”
“I remember, Eleanor.”
He remembered her crying in the seat next to him and his smiling and not being able to understand how a film would affect her in such a way.
“You cried.”
“Yes. It’s because everybody wants that kind of love. And, Harry, you deserve that from me. I —”
“No, Eleanor, what you give me is more than —”
“She jumped from a lifeboat back onto the Titanic, Harry.” She laughed a little bit. But it sounded sad to Bosch. “I guess nobody can ever top that.”
“You’re right. Nobody can. That’s why it was a movie. Listen . . . you are all I’ve ever wanted, Eleanor. You don’t have to do anything for me.”
“Yes, I do. I do . . . I love you, Harry. But not enough. You deserve better.”
“Eleanor, no . . . please. I . . .”
“I’m going to go away for a while. Think about things.”
“Will you wait there? I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. We can talk about —”
“No, no. That’s why I paged. I can’t do this in person.”
He could tell she was crying.
“Well, I’m coming up there.”
“I won’t be here,” she said urgently. “I packed the car before I paged you. I knew you’d try to come.”
Bosch put his hand over his eyes. He wanted to be in darkness.
“Where will you be?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Will you call?”
“Yes, I’ll call.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m . . . I’ll be fine.”
“Eleanor, I love you. I know I never said that enough but I —”
She made a shushing sound in the phone and he stopped.
“I love you, Harry, but I have to do this.”
After a long moment, during which he felt a deep tearing inside, he said, “Okay, Eleanor.”
The silence that followed was as dark as the inside of a coffin. His coffin.
“Good-bye, Harry,” she finally said. “I’ll see you.”
She hung up. Bosch took his hand away from his face and the phone from his ear. In his mind he saw a swimming pool, its surface as smooth as a blanket on a bed. He remembered a time long before when he had been told his mother was dead and that he was alone in the world. He ran to that pool and dove beneath the calm surface, into its warm water. At the bottom, he screamed until his air was gone and his chest ached. Until he had to choose between staying there and dying, or going up and life.
Bosch now longed for that pool and its warm water. He wanted to scream until his lungs burst inside him.
“Everything okay?”
He looked up. It was Rider and Edgar. Edgar carried a steaming cup of coffee. Rider had a look that said she was concerned or mayb
e even scared by the look she was seeing on Bosch’s face.
“Everything’s cool,” Bosch said. “Everything’s fine.”
23
They had ninety minutes to kill before the meeting with Pelfry. Bosch told Edgar to drive over to Hollywood Wax & Shine, on Sunset not far from the station. Edgar pulled to the curb and they sat there watching. Business was slow. Most of the men in orange coveralls who dried and polished the cars for minimum wage and tips were sitting around, drying rags draped over their shoulders, waiting. Most of them stared balefully at the slickback as if the police were to blame.
“I guess people aren’t that interested in having their cars washed when they might end up turned over or torched,” Edgar said.
Bosch didn’t answer.
“Bet they all wish they were in Michael Harris’s shoes,” Edgar continued, staring back at the workers. “Hell, I’d trade three days in an interview room and pencils in my ears to be a millionaire.”
“So then you believe him,” Bosch said.
Bosch hadn’t told him about Frankie Sheehan’s barroom confession. Edgar was quiet a moment and then nodded.
“Yeah, Harry, I guess I sort of do.”
Bosch wondered how he had been so blind as to not even have considered that the torturing of a suspect could be true. He wondered what it was about Edgar that made him accepting of the suspect’s story over the cops’. Was it his experience as a cop or as a black man? Bosch assumed it had to be the latter and it depressed him because it gave Edgar an edge he could never have.
“I’m gonna go in, talk to the manager,” Bosch said. “Maybe you should stay with the car.”
“Fuck that. They won’t touch it.”
They got out and locked the car.
As they walked toward the store Bosch thought about the orange coveralls and wondered if it was coincidence. He guessed that most of the men working at the car wash were ex-cons or fresh out of county lockup—institutions in which they also had to wear orange coveralls.
Inside the store Bosch bought a cup of coffee and asked for the manager. The cashier pointed down a hallway to an open door. On the way down the hall, Edgar said, “I feel like a Coke but I don’t think I can drink a Coke after what I saw last night in that bitch’s closet.”