The Crossing

  “Really?” Haller said. “What exactly do you know? The truth is, you don’t know anything. We don’t know anything. Not yet.”

  “I know that I probably led those two killers to the two brothers in that store.”

  “Really? How? You’re saying that the two brothers weren’t involved in this and they got whacked because you talked to them?”

  “No, I…Look, less than an hour after I was in that store, they get hit. You’re saying that’s a coincidence?”

  “What I’m saying is we don’t know enough to go around telling the cops anything, not when we have a client in county who is looking at the rest of his life in prison.”

  Haller pointed in the direction of downtown even though it was miles from where they stood.

  “That is where our allegiance lies,” he said. “Not to those assholes in that room.”

  “I used to be one of those assholes,” Bosch said.

  “Look, all I’m saying is we’re still pulling in the nets, Harry. Let’s finish pulling them in and then see what we got. Then we decide what we tell and who we tell it to and, most important of all, where we tell it. We’ve got a trial in five weeks and we need to know the whole story by then.”

  Bosch broke away from him and walked out to the curb. He realized he had made a terrible mistake crossing to the other side of the aisle. Haller came up behind him and spoke to his back.

  “Anything we tell them now, we give them the opportunity to turn it against us and our client. Our client, Harry. You have to remember that.”

  Bosch shook his head and looked off down the street.

  “What did those two brothers know?” Haller asked. “Why were they killed?”

  Bosch turned and looked at Haller.

  “I don’t know yet. But I will.”

  “All right, then. What’s next?”

  “I picked up a name in Vegas. A guy in Beverly Hills who may know the secret behind this watch. Behind everything. He’s next.”

  “All right. Keep me informed.”

  “Yeah, will do. And listen, if they followed me to the jewelry store, they might also be following you.”

  “I haven’t seen any sign of that.”

  “That’s the point. You wouldn’t. You have anyone who can check your car? I’m going to check mine.”

  “I’ll get it done.”

  “Good. Like I said before, be careful. Watch your back.”

  “You, too.”

  32

  Bosch drove directly home from the substation and came in from the carport to an empty house. He called out his daughter’s name and got no answer. Fear stabbed at him until he remembered that she was on the camping trip. His mind had been so cramped with thoughts about the jewelry store murders that he had forgotten. Relieved, he texted her to see if she had made it to the mountain without problem. Her response was succinct as usual.

  Made it. Bus ride was bouncy.

  Bosch changed clothes, getting into an old set of coveralls he used to wear at crime scenes. He grabbed a flashlight out of a kitchen cabinet and went out into the carport. Before turning on the light he studied the street in front of his house and the driveways of his neighbors. He was looking for any vehicle that was occupied or seemingly didn’t fit in. He was sure he was being watched in some way—the killing of the Nguyen brothers told him this. But he needed to determine to what extent. Was there physical and electronic surveillance? Was there any window of opportunity for him to make a move without being watched?

  He saw no vehicles in the street that drew his suspicion. He next studied the utility poles and trees for a reflection of light that might come off a camera lens. He saw nothing and, emboldened, stepped down the short inclined driveway to the street to further extend the sweep of his visual search. He covered what he was doing by going to the mailbox and retrieving the day’s delivery.

  Bosch saw no indication of surveillance in either direction on the street. He walked back up the driveway and into the carport, flipping a light switch and tossing the mail onto the workbench. He walked to the front of the Cherokee and then crouched down in front of its grill. He flicked on the flashlight and began a search of the front end, looking in all places where a GPS transmitter could be attached.

  Soon he was under the car, the engine compartment close to his face and still hot. He felt as though he were getting slow-roasted from above but pursued the search, even after a searing drop of engine oil streaked down his cheek and he cursed out loud.

  He found the GPS tag in the front left wheel well behind one of the suspension struts, where it would not be in danger of getting hit and knocked off by any road debris kicked up by the tire. It was in a plastic case held to the internal cowling with two heavy-duty magnets. The case snapped open to reveal the transmitter and the power source consisting of two AA batteries. The device would send an uninterrupted signal to a cellular receiver, allowing its holder to track the movement of the Cherokee in real time on a laptop map. The fact that the device was battery operated and not hardwired to an electrical line in the car indicated to Bosch that this was most likely considered a short-term surveillance by those watching his moves.

  Bosch snapped off the flashlight and lay unmoving under the Cherokee for a few minutes as he thought about whether to remove the tracker—and thereby reveal to his followers that he had found it—or leave it in place and fold it into his investigative strategy moving forward.

  He decided to leave the tracker in place for now. He climbed out from beneath his car, turned off the light, and stepped out to the end of the carport. He looked around once more and saw no one.

  Bosch went back into the house and locked the door behind him. He changed back into his regular clothes and then made a call to Lucia Soto. She answered right away.

  “Harry.”

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “All right. I was going to call you. The secret’s out and everybody knows you’re doing defense work.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been getting the calls.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me, if that’s why you’re calling. I didn’t tell a soul.”

  “No, I know it wasn’t you.”

  “So then what’s up?”

  “Uh, my daughter’s not around and she usually helps me with the phone stuff. You mentioned Uber last night. How do I go about getting that?”

  “That’s easy. First put your phone on speaker so you can hear me while I walk you through it.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Yeah. You’re on speaker.”

  Soto talked him through the setup. The operation took less than ten minutes.

  “Okay, you’re ready to rock,” Soto said.

  “Cool,” Bosch said. “So I can just order a car now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Great.”

  “It’s late. Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Just for a ride. I want to check out a place.”

  “What place?”

  Bosch worked the screen and successfully ordered a car.

  “Just some guy’s place. Says the car will be here in six minutes. The driver’s name is Marko and he’s driving a black Tesla.”

  “Well done.”

  “It’s asking my destination.”

  “You can put it in or leave it blank. They’ll still come. That way they don’t program an address and you can tell them what way to go.”

  Bosch left it blank because he wasn’t sure of his destination yet.

  “Thanks, Lucia.”

  “I’m gonna go now.”

  “Oh, wait. One question. Is this like a cab? Can you make the driver wait, like if you have to go into a store or a house or something?”

  “Yeah, you just tell them what you want and it goes on your credit card. I think there’s like a charge for every fifteen minutes of waiting time.”

  “Okay, cool. Thanks, and good night.”

  “Good night.”

>   Bosch waited out in front of his house so that he could get a read on whether his Uber driver was followed up the hill. Marko was now supposed to arrive in three minutes, according to the app.

  While he waited, Bosch went on his phone’s search engine and plugged in “Schubert MD, Beverly Hills.” He got a hit for a plastic surgeon named George Schubert with offices at something called the Center for Cosmetic Creation on Third Street near the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. The address was actually in West Hollywood. Nothing else came up, and there was no listing for a residential address.

  Bosch clicked over and made a call back to Lucia Soto, hoping she hadn’t gone to sleep or out to Eastside Luv again.

  “Now what, Harry? You want to know about the phone dating app?”

  “No. You mean there is one?”

  “There’s an app for everything. What’s up? I have to get to bed. Last night I stayed at it way too long.”

  “You dance on the bar at Eastside Luv?”

  “Matter of fact I did. But I kept my clothes on. What’s up?”

  Bosch could see headlights coming around the bend. His ride was arriving.

  “You got your laptop home with you?”

  “What do you need?”

  “I was wondering if you could use your tracker software to run a name for me. A doctor in Beverly Hills.”

  When they had been partners, Soto was the one who was computer adept and had subscribed to a number of Internet services and software that helped track addresses through financial, property, and utility records. These methods were often quicker and more reliable than established law enforcement data banks. What Bosch was asking her to do broke no rules because she was using her own laptop and software.

  “No problem.”

  Bosch gave her Schubert’s name and she said she would call him back as soon as she had something. He thanked her and disconnected. A car had now cleared the bend and was approaching with its high beams on. Bosch felt lit up and vulnerable in the darkness.

  The near-silent Tesla came to a stop in front of him. Bosch checked the clock on his phone. Marko was right on time. Being new to Uber, Bosch didn’t know if he was supposed to get in the front or the back but opted for opening the front door.

  “Marko?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A deep eastern European accent.

  “Where do I sit?”

  “Right in front is very good.”

  Bosch got in.

  “Which way?” Marko asked. “You did not put in destination.”

  “I thought that was an option,” Bosch said. “I want you to go up the hill. When we get to the top at Mulholland we’ll turn around and come back down.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No, then we’re going to go down into Beverly Hills, I think.”

  “Do you have address? I plug it in.”

  “Not yet. But I’ll get it before we get there.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The car took off up the hill. There was no engine sound. It reminded Bosch of amusement park bumper cars.

  “It’s quiet,” he said. “You could sneak up on people.”

  “Yes, I drive Tesla,” Marko said. “The people out here like the electric car. The Hollywood people. I get the repeat business, you see. Besides this, I am Serb. From Smiljan.”

  Bosch nodded like he understood the connection between Hollywood and Smiljan.

  “Tesla,” Marko explained. “A great man who came from my hometown.”

  “The car? It’s his company?”

  “No, he worked with Edison to make electricity. Long time ago. The car, it is name for him.”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  Bosch noted that based on his singular experience, Uber drivers seemed to talk way more than taxi drivers. The ride was as much a social outing as it was getting from point A to point B. When they got up to the stop sign at Mulholland, Bosch told Marko to turn the car around and go back down Woodrow Wilson past his house.

  Bosch saw nothing suspicious on the ride back through his neighborhood. No out-of-place cars, no pedestrians who didn’t belong, no glowing cigarettes in the dark recesses between houses. He felt confident that the GPS tracker on his car was the key to the surveillance. He could work with that—drive the Cherokee when he needed to go to insignificant locations, just to show movement, then use Uber or rent a car for when he needed to go places he didn’t want the followers to know about. Just to be sure, Bosch turned and looked back through the rear window to see if a car was trailing in their wake.

  He saw nothing.

  Soto called him back just as they got to the bottom of the hill and had turned south on Cahuenga toward Hollywood. She had come up with a residential address for Schubert on Elevado in the flats of Beverly Hills.

  “It comes up the same on three different searchwares, so I think it’s legit and current,” she said.

  “Excellent,” Bosch said. “Thank you.”

  “Glad to help, Harry. Anything else?”

  “Uh, actually one other thing. Did you ever get the names on that Vice Unit I gave you the call sign for? The guys that might’ve been working James Allen off book as an informant?”

  “Yeah, I thought I sent that to you,” Soto said.

  “You mean an e-mail? I haven’t checked. I’ll do it as soon—”

  “Just hold on. I have it right here.”

  Bosch waited and listened as he heard her flip through the pages of a notebook. In the short period they had been partners, she had adopted Bosch’s habit of carrying a small notebook with her at all times.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “That was six-Victor-fifty-five and that belongs to Don Ellis and Kevin Long. Do you know them?”

  Bosch thought for a moment. The names meant nothing to him. It had been more than ten years since he worked out of Hollywood Division. The personnel there were probably 95 percent different now.

  “No, I don’t know them,” he said.

  “How are you going to check that?” she asked. “If they were working an informant off book, they’re not going to just tell you about it.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He thanked her again and told her to get some sleep. He disconnected and then told Marko to work his way down to Sunset and head west toward Beverly Hills.

  “You sure?” Marko said. “Sunset Strip will be very slow this time of the night. I think Santa Monica better.”

  “Santa Monica is better but I want to take Sunset,” Bosch said. “There’s something I want to see.”

  “Okay, you be the boss.”

  Marko drove as instructed and was dead-on about the traffic on Sunset. Late-evening cruisers slowed movement to a crawl on the Strip. Bosch saw black-clad crowds lining up outside the clubs, tourist vans on nighttime celebrity patrols, minimum-wage hustlers waving flashlights toward overpriced parking lots, Sheriff’s patrol cars flashing blues to keep people moving along. He gazed out past the neon reflected on the windshield of the Tesla but was deep in reflective thought, the colors not penetrating his dark eyes.

  He was thinking about Vin Scully, the Los Angeles Dodgers broadcaster. He had been calling games for more than sixty years—more than ten thousand games in all. There was no voice that was as iconic or as synonymous with Los Angeles as his. He had called so many games and yet never lost his love of the game or the city of his team. And he was always and repeatedly tickled when the vagaries of coincidence produced a running line of twos on the scoreboard. The deuces are wild, he would announce before a pitch. Two balls, two strikes, two out, two on, and two to two in the bottom of the second.

  Bosch could hear Scully’s voice in his head as he considered that the deuces were now wild in his own game. Two murders possibly connected and followed by two brothers killed in the back room of a jewelry store. Two possible killers at the jewelry store. Two car doors heard in the alley where James Allen’s body was left propped against a wall. Two watches said to be stolen and then not. Two vice cops who
pull over Mickey Haller on a DUI and two vice cops who may have worked James Allen as an informant. Coincidence? Bosch had a feeling Vin Scully wouldn’t think so, and he didn’t either.

  The deuces were wild all right and Bosch was on the case. He called Haller and woke him up.

  “What’s wrong?” the lawyer said.

  “Nothing,” Bosch said. “Got a question. Your DUI. You said you were pulled over by a couple of plainclothes guys.”

  “That’s right. They were lying in wait for me. What’s the question?”

  “Were they vice cops?”

  “Could have been.”

  “What were their names?”

  “I don’t know. They passed me off to the backup team. A couple of patrol cops.”

  “Aren’t their names on the arrest report?”

  “Maybe but I haven’t gotten it yet.”

  “Shit.”

  “Why are you calling me up at this hour, asking about those bastards?”

  “Not sure. When I know more I’ll call you back.”

  “Make sure it’s tomorrow. I’m going back to sleep.”

  Bosch disconnected and bounced the phone a couple times off his chin as he thought about what he could do to answer the question he had just posed to Haller. He knew he could go back to Lucia Soto but he also knew that a records search for an arrest report would leave digital fingerprints. He couldn’t put her in that kind of danger. He had to find another way of getting there.

  When they drove by Nelson Grant & Sons in Sunset Plaza the media trucks were gathered along the curb in front of the jewelry store. Bosch saw television reporters and videographers claiming spots and setting up for live reports at eleven. Looking past them Bosch could see mobile lights set up in the store’s showroom. The crime scene was still being processed twelve hours after the murders. Two Sheriff’s deputies were stationed outside the door for security.

  “Something bad happen there,” Marko said.

  “Yeah,” Bosch said. “Something really bad.”

  Once into Beverly Hills they made a left on Camden and dropped down into the flats, a square mile or so of residences between Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevard that comprised one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in all of California. It was a cool, crisp night with wind rippling through the fronds of the palm trees that lined the streets. The Tesla took one more turn and then came to a silent stop against the curb on Elevado. The house where George Schubert lived was a mansion of Spanish design that sprawled across two lots and stood tall behind a wide and deep lawn displayed beneath lights attached to the palm trees. The lawn’s edges were cut razor sharp and it seemingly was untouched by the ravages of the California drought. In Beverly Hills the lawns always somehow managed to stay green even in times of water restriction.