The Overlook

  “Harry, what were you asking about the wall over the toilet?”

  Bosch looked at Ferras. Part of the reason the young detective was partnered with Bosch was so that the experienced detective could mentor the inexperienced detective. Bosch decided to put the Sherlock Holmes crack aside and tell him the story.

  “About thirty years ago there was a case in Wilshire. This woman and her dog found drowned in her bathtub. The whole place had been wiped clean but the lid was left up on the toilet. That told them they were looking for a man. The toilet had been wiped but on the wall up behind it they found a palm print. The guy had taken a leak and leaned on the wall while doing it. By measuring the height of the palm they were able to figure out the guy’s height. They also knew he was left-handed.”

  “How?”

  “Because the print on the wall was a right palm. They figured a guy holds his tool with his preferred hand while taking a leak.”

  Ferras nodded in agreement.

  “So they matched the palm to a suspect?”

  “Yeah, but only after thirty years. We cleared it last year in Open-Unsolved. Not a lot of palms in the data banks back then. My partner and I came across the case and sent the palm through the box. We got a hit. We traced the guy to Ten Thousand Palms in the desert and went out there to get him. He pulled a gun and killed himself before we could make the arrest.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I always thought it was weird, you know?”

  “What? Him killing himself?”

  “No, not that. I thought it was kind of weird that we traced his palm to Ten Thousand Palms.”

  “Oh, yeah. Ironic. So you didn’t get a chance to talk to him?”

  “Not really. But we were sure it was him. And I sort of took his killing himself in front of us as an admission of guilt.”

  “No, yeah, of course. I just mean I would’ve liked to talk to the guy and ask him why he killed the dog, that’s all.”

  Bosch stared at his partner for a moment.

  “I think if we had talked, we would have been more interested in why he killed the woman.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was just wondering, why the dog, you know?”

  “I think he thought the dog might be able to identify him. Like the dog knew him and would react in his presence. He didn’t want to risk it.”

  Ferras nodded like he accepted the explanation. Bosch had just made it up. The question about the dog had never come up during the investigation.

  Ferras went back to his work, and Bosch leaned back in his chair and considered things about the case at hand. At the moment, it was a jumble of thoughts and questions. And once again most prominent in his mind was the basic question of why Stanley Kent was killed. Alicia Kent said the two men who held her captive had worn ski masks. Jesse Mitford said he thought the man he saw kill Kent on the overlook was wearing a ski mask. To Bosch this begged the questions why shoot Stanley Kent if he couldn’t even identify you? and why wear the mask if the plan all along was to kill him? He supposed that wearing the mask could have been a ploy to falsely reassure Kent and to make him cooperative. But that conclusion didn’t feel right to him either.

  Once more he put the questions aside, deciding that he didn’t have enough information yet to properly go at them. He drank some coffee and got ready to take another shot at Jesse Mitford in the interview room. But first he pulled out his phone. He still had Rachel Walling’s number from the Echo Park case. He had decided never to delete it.

  He pushed the button and called the number, preparing for it to have been disconnected by her. The number was still good but when he heard her voice it was a recording telling him to leave a message after the beep.

  “It’s Harry Bosch,” he said. “I need to talk to you about things and I want my cigarette ashes back. That crime scene was mine.”

  He hung up. He knew the message would annoy her, maybe even make her mad. He knew that he was inextricably heading toward a confrontation with Rachel and the bureau that probably wasn’t necessary and could easily be avoided.

  But Bosch couldn’t bring himself to roll over. Not even for Rachel and the memory of what they once had. Not even for the hope of a future with her that he still carried like a number in a cell phone’s heart.

  TEN

  B OSCH AND FERRAS STEPPED OUT the front door of the Mark Twain Hotel and surveyed the morning. The light was just beginning to enter the sky. The marine layer was coming in gray and thick and was deepening the shadows in the streets. It made it look like a city of ghosts and that was fine with Bosch. It matched his outlook.

  “You think he’ll stay put?” Ferras asked.

  Bosch shrugged.

  “He’s got no place else to go,” he said.

  They had just checked their witness into the hotel under the alias Stephen King. Jesse Mitford had turned into a valuable asset. He was Bosch’s ace in the hole. Though he had not been able to provide a description of the man who shot Stanley Kent and took the cesium, Mitford had been able to give the investigators a clear understanding of what had transpired at the Mulholland overlook. He would also be useful if the investigation ever led to an arrest and trial. His story could be used as the narrative of the crime. A prosecutor could use him to connect the dots for the jury and that made him valuable, whether or not he could ID the shooter.

  After Bosch had consulted with Lieutenant Gandle, it was decided that they shouldn’t lose track of the young drifter. Gandle approved a hotel voucher that would keep Mitford in the Mark Twain for four days. By then things would be clearer in regard to which way the case was going to go.

  Bosch and Ferras got into the Crown Victoria that Ferras had earlier checked out of the car shed and headed down Wilcox to Sunset. Bosch was behind the wheel. At the light he got out his cell phone. He hadn’t heard back from Rachel Walling, so he called the number her partner had given him. Brenner answered right away and Bosch proceeded cautiously.

  “Just checking in,” he said. “We still on for the meeting at nine?”

  Bosch wanted to make sure he was still part of the investigation before updating Brenner on anything.

  “Uh, yes . . . yes, we’re still on for the meeting but it’s been pushed back.”

  “Till when?”

  “I think it’s ten now. We’ll let you know.”

  The answer didn’t make it sound like the meeting with the locals was a done deal. He decided to press Brenner.

  “Where will it be? At Tactical?”

  Bosch knew from working with Walling before that the Tactical unit was off campus in a secret location. He wanted to see if Brenner would slip.

  “No, in the federal building downtown. Fourteenth floor. Just ask for the TIU meeting. How helpful was the witness?”

  Bosch decided to hold his cards close until he had a better idea of his standing.

  “He saw the shooting from a distance. Then he saw the transfer. He said one man did it all, killed Stanley Kent and then moved the pig from the Porsche to the back of another vehicle. The other guy waited in another car and just watched.”

  “You get any plates from him?”

  “No, no plates. Mrs. Kent’s car was probably the one used to make the transfer. That way there would be no cesium trace in their own car.”

  “What about the suspect he did see?”

  “Like I said, he couldn’t ID him. He was still wearing a ski mask. Other than that, nada.”

  There was a pause before Brenner responded.

  “Too bad,” he said. “What did you do with him?”

  “The kid? We just dropped him off.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Halifax, Canada.”

  “Bosch, you know what I mean.”

  Bosch noticed the change in tone. That and the use of his last name. He didn’t think Brenner was casually asking about Jesse Mitford’s exact location.

  “He’s got no local address,” he replied. “He’s a drifter. We just dropped him off at the Denny’s
on Sunset. That’s where he wanted to go. We gave him a twenty to cover breakfast.”

  Bosch felt Ferras staring at him as he lied.

  “Can you hold a second, Harry?” Brenner said. “I’ve got another call coming in here. It might be Washington.”

  Back to first names, Bosch noted.

  “Sure, Jack, but I can just go.”

  “No, hold on.”

  Bosch heard the line go to music and he looked over at Ferras. His partner started to speak.

  “Why’d you tell him we—”

  Bosch held a finger to his lips and Ferras stopped.

  “Just hold it a second,” Bosch said.

  Half a minute went by while Bosch waited. A saxophone version of “What a Wonderful World” started to play on the phone. Bosch had always loved the line about the dark sacred night.

  The light finally changed and Bosch turned onto Sunset. Then Brenner came back on the line.

  “Harry? Sorry about that. That was Washington. As you can imagine, they’re all over this thing.”

  Bosch decided to draw things out into the open.

  “What’s new on your end?”

  “Not a lot. Homeland is sending a fleet of choppers with equipment that can track a radiation trail. They’ll start up at the overlook and try to pick up a signature specific to cesium. But the reality is it’s got to come out of the pig before they’ll pick up a signal. Meantime, we’re organizing the status meeting so that we can make sure everybody’s on the same page.”

  “That’s all the big G has accomplished?”

  “Well, we’re just getting organized. I told you how it would be. Alphabet soup.”

  “Right. You called it pandemonium. The feds are good at that.”

  “No, I’m not sure I said all of that. But there’s always a learning curve. I think after the meeting we’ll be hitting this thing on all cylinders.”

  Bosch now knew for sure that things had changed. Brenner’s defensive response told him the conversation was either being taped or overheard by others.

  “It’s still a few hours till the meeting,” Brenner said. “What’s your next move, Harry?”

  Bosch hesitated but not for long.

  “My next move is to go back up to the house and talk to Mrs. Kent again. I have some follow-up. Then we’ll go over to the south tower at Cedars. Kent’s office is there and we need to see it and to talk to his partner.”

  There was no response. Bosch was coming up on the Denny’s on Sunset. He pulled into the lot and parked. Through the windows he could see that the twenty-four-hour restaurant was largely deserted.

  “You still there, Jack?”

  “Uh, yeah, Harry, I’m here. I should tell you that it probably won’t be necessary, you going back to the house and then by Kent’s office.”

  Bosch shook his head. I knew it, he thought.

  “You’ve already scooped everybody up, haven’t you?”

  “Wasn’t my call. Anyway, from what I hear, the office was clean and we have Kent’s partner in here being questioned right now. We brought Mrs. Kent in as kind of a precautionary thing. We’re still talking to her, too.”

  “Not your call? Then whose call was it, Rachel’s?”

  “I’m not going to get into that, Harry.”

  Bosch killed the car’s engine and thought about how to respond.

  “Well, then maybe my partner and I should head downtown to TIU,” he finally said. “This is still a homicide investigation. And last I heard, I was still working it.”

  There was a long thread of silence before Brenner responded.

  “Look, Detective, the case is taking on larger dimensions. You have been invited to the status meeting. You and your partner. And at that time you will be updated on what Mr. Kelber has had to say and a few other things. If Mr. Kelber is still here with us I will do my best to get you in to speak with him. And with Mrs. Kent, too. But to be clear, the priority here is not the homicide. The priority is not finding out who killed Stanley Kent. The priority is finding the cesium and we’re now almost ten hours behind.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “I have a feeling that if you find the killer you find the cesium,” he said.

  “That may be so,” Brenner responded. “But the experience is that this material is moved very quickly. Hand to hand. It takes an investigation with a lot of velocity. That’s what we’re engaged in now. Building velocity. We don’t want to be slowed down.”

  “By the local yokels.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you at ten, Agent Brenner.”

  Bosch closed his phone and started to get out. As he and Ferras crossed the lot to the restaurant’s doors, his partner barraged him with questions.

  “Why did you lie to him about the wit, Harry? What’s going on? What are we doing here?”

  Bosch held his hands up in a calming motion.

  “Hold on, Ignacio. Just hold on. Let’s sit down and have some coffee and maybe something to eat and I’ll tell you what is going on.”

  They almost had their pick of the place. Bosch went to a booth in a corner that would allow them a clear view of the front door. The waitress came over quickly. She was an old battle-ax with her steel-gray hair in a tight bun. Working graveyard at a Denny’s in Hollywood had leached the life out of her eyes.

  “Harry, it’s been a long time,” she said.

  “Hey, Peggy. I guess it’s been a while since I’ve had to chase a case through the night.”

  “Well, welcome back. What can I get you and your much younger partner?”

  Bosch ignored the dig. He ordered coffee, toast and eggs-over medium well. Ferras ordered an egg-white omelet and a latte. When the waitress smirked and told him that neither could be accomplished he settled for scrambled eggs and regular coffee. As soon as the waitress left them alone Bosch answered Ferras’s questions.

  “We’re being cut out,” he said. “That’s what’s going on here.”

  “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “Because they’ve already scooped up our victim’s wife and partner and I can guaran-damn-tee you they are not going to let us talk to them.”

  “Harry, did they say that? Did they tell you that we couldn’t talk to them? There’s a lot at stake here and I think you’re being a little paranoid. You’re jumping to—”

  “Am I? Well, wait and see, partner. Watch and learn.”

  “We’re still going to the meeting at nine, aren’t we?”

  “Supposedly. Except now it’s at ten. And it will probably be a dog and pony show just for us. They’re not going to tell us anything. They’re going to sweet-talk us and brush us aside. ‘Thanks a lot, fellas, we’ll take it from here.’ Well, fuck that. This is a homicide and nobody, not even the FBI, brushes me off a case.”

  “Have a little faith, Harry.”

  “I have faith in myself. That’s it. I’ve been on this road before. I know where it goes. On the one hand, who cares? Let them run with the case. But on the other hand, I care. I can’t trust them to do it right. They want the cesium. I want the bastards who terrorized Stanley Kent for two hours and then forced him down on his knees and put two slugs in the back of his head.”

  “This is national security, Harry. This is different. There’s a greater good here. You know, the good of the order.”

  It sounded to Bosch like Ferras was quoting from an academy textbook or the code of some sort of secret society. He didn’t care. He had his own code.

  “The good of the order starts with that guy lying dead on the overlook. If we forget about him, then we can forget about everything else.”

  Nervous about debating his partner, Ferras had picked up the salt shaker and was manipulating it in his hand, spilling salt on the table.

  “Nobody’s forgetting, Harry. It’s about priorities. I am sure that when things shake out during the meeting, they will share any information relating to the homicide.”

  Bosch grew frustrated. He was tr
ying to teach the kid something but the kid wasn’t listening.

  “Let me tell you something about sharing with the feds,” Bosch said. “When it comes to sharing information, the FBI eats like an elephant and shits like a mouse. I mean, don’t you get it? There will be no meeting. They put that out there so we would stay in line until nine and now ten, all the while thinking we’re still part of the team. But then we’ll show up there and they’ll delay it again and then they’ll delay it again until they finally trot out with some organizational chart that’s supposed to make us feel like we’re part of everything when the reality is we’re part of nothing and they’ve run out the back door.”

  Ferras nodded as though he was taking the advice to heart. But then he spoke from somewhere else.

  “I still don’t think we should have lied to them about the witness. He might be very valuable to them. Something he told us might fit with something they know about already. What’s the harm in telling them where he is? Maybe they take a shot at him and get something we didn’t. Who knows?”

  Bosch emphatically shook his head.

  “No fucking way. Not yet. The wit is ours and we don’t give him up. We trade him for access and information or we keep him for ourselves.”

  The waitress brought their plates and looked from the salt spilled on the table to Ferras and then Bosch.

  “I know he’s young, Harry, but can’t you teach him some manners?”

  “I’m trying, Peggy. But these young people don’t want to learn.”

  “I hear you.”

  She left the table and Bosch immediately dug into his food, holding a fork in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. He was starved and had a feeling they’d be on the move soon. When they would next have time for a meal was anybody’s guess.

  He was halfway through his eggs when he saw four men in dark suits walk in with unmistakable federal purpose in their strides. Wordlessly, they split into twos and started walking through the restaurant.

  There were less than a dozen diners in the place, most of them strippers and their boyfriend pimps heading home from four o’clock clubs, Hollywood night crawlers fueling the engine before putting it to sleep. Bosch calmly continued to eat and watched the men in suits stop at each table, show credentials and ask for IDs. Ferras was too busy splashing hot sauce on his eggs to notice what was happening. Bosch got his attention and nodded toward the agents.