The Crossing

  He didn’t know about Long but he had certainly planned for this day. He pulled out his phone and opened the weather app. He had several cities tabbed just in case his phone ever fell into the wrong hands. But only one mattered. It was seventy-six degrees in Placencia, Belize. What could be more perfect?

  He put his phone away.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “What is it?” Long asked.

  “This. Right here. This is the end of the line. We have a choice to make.”

  “What choice?”

  “You take this car, I go back to my car, and we split. We grab our stashes and we split. For good.”

  “No, no, we can’t just—”

  “It’s over. Over.”

  “What’s the other choice?”

  Long’s voice was off. It had gone up a notch or two as panic began to take hold of his vocal cords.

  “We go in,” Ellis said. “And we finish it. Leave no one to tell the story.”

  “That’s it?” Long asked. “That’s your big plan?”

  “It’s not a plan. It just might buy us more time. We go in, take care of business, and it might be tomorrow morning before anyone finds them. By then, you’re in Mexico and I’m halfway to wherever.”

  Long drummed the fingers of both hands on his thighs.

  “There’s gotta be another way, another plan,” he said.

  “There’s nothing,” Ellis said. “I told you. Dominoes. It’s come to this. Make the call.”

  “What about the girls? We could take—”

  “Forget the girls. I’ll take care of them as soon as I leave here.”

  Long looked sharply at him.

  “What the fuck, man?” he said.

  “I told you,” Ellis said. “Dominoes.”

  Now Long was rubbing his jaw with one hand while gripping the wheel with the other.

  “Make the call,” Ellis repeated.

  44

  Bosch studied the timeline and saw how it all worked, how the dominoes all fell in a way pointing directly to Ellis and Long.

  “When was the last time you saw Ellis and Long?” he asked.

  Schubert had dropped into a quiet reverie while Bosch looked at the timeline. Now he straightened up at the question.

  “Seen them? I haven’t seen them in months. But they’ve called me a lot. They called me two days ago to ask if anybody had been snooping around. I guess they were talking about you.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Do you have their number?” he asked.

  “No, they always call me,” Schubert said. “The number is always blocked.”

  “What about Deborah? You have a number for her?”

  “In the files.”

  “I need to get that. And her address.”

  “I think it’s illegal for me to share information from a medical file.”

  “Yes, but we’re well beyond that now, right?”

  “Right, I guess. What happens now?”

  “Uh…I have some work to do getting independent confirmation of some of this. And I’m going to pay a visit to Deborah and her roommate. I’m going to need a list of all the jewelry you gave Long and Ellis in addition to the watches.”

  “I have a list. My wife made it.”

  “Good. Where did you physically hand over all of the stuff to them?”

  Schubert looked down when he answered.

  “They came to my house and looked through what we had,” he said. “My wife was in Europe. I stood there while they went through her things. They took what they wanted and left the rest. They knew what was valuable and what wasn’t. What they could and couldn’t sell.”

  “They take anything besides jewelry?”

  “One of them—Ellis—knew his wine. He went through our storage rack and took my two bottles of ’eighty-two Lafite.”

  “Maybe he just took the old stuff because it looked valuable.”

  “No, he took the ’eighty-two Lafite and left the nineteen eighty. The ’eighty-two is worth fifty times what the ’eighty is worth and will taste fifty times as good. He knew that.”

  Bosch nodded. He realized the wine might be more important to the case than the jewelry. If Ellis had kept it for himself, there might still be a bottle somewhere in his possession, and it could link him to the case and be a verifiable point should Schubert’s story be challenged in court or elsewhere.

  “You said it was their idea to make it look like a burglary?”

  “When I told them I couldn’t pay them cash without my wife knowing, they said we could make it look like a burglary, only I wouldn’t report it. I would only tell my wife I had reported it when she came back from her trip. They even mocked up a burglary report that I could show her. It had phony names, phony everything.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Yes. At the house.”

  “We’re going to need that. Did you make an insurance claim on everything that was taken?”

  If Schubert had also engaged in insurance fraud, it could undercut his strength as a witness.

  “No, I didn’t,” Schubert said. “That was their rule. They didn’t want the stuff reported stolen because it would make it hard for them to sell it and get their money. They told me if they found out I’d made a claim, they would come back and kill my wife and me.”

  “So didn’t your wife wonder about that? The insurance, I mean.”

  “I told her we were negotiating with them and then I went out and made some cash calls, slowly got the money together, and made it look like it had come from the insurance company.”

  “‘Cash calls’?”

  “Like I said before, I do house calls on occasion. There are people out there, Detective, who have money and are willing to pay for privacy. They don’t use medical insurance. They pay cash for procedures so there is no record and no one will ever know. I get requests like that—mostly I’m talking about Botox injections and other minor things but it sometimes goes to full surgeries.”

  This wasn’t news to Bosch. The rich and famous in Los Angeles had such power. Michael Jackson came to mind. The megastar singer had died while at home and under the care of a private doctor. In a place where image often counted more than anything else, a plastic man who made cash calls could do well.

  “Is that how you planned to get the money to pay them fifty grand every six months?”

  “That was the plan. There is a payment at the end of June and I’m almost ready for it.”

  Bosch nodded. He wanted to tell Schubert that he wouldn’t have to make that payment but he held off. There was no telling for sure how long the investigation would wind out. He brought the interview back on point.

  “Did they take anything else in this phony burglary?”

  “A piece of artwork. It wasn’t worth much. It was just special to me. I think it’s why they took it. They said they owned me and could take whatever they wanted.”

  Schubert was slouched with his elbows on the arms of his seat. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

  “This is all going to come out now, isn’t it?” he said.

  “We’ll do our best to keep you away from it,” Bosch said. “Everything that has happened occurred after this anyway. It was all triggered by Alexandra Parks sending the watch out to be fixed.”

  “Then, what makes you so sure that I’m in danger?”

  “Because these two guys are cops and they know how the system works. If there are no witnesses, then there is no threat to them. They haven’t come back to you because they don’t know yet that everything has been traced back to that watch. When they do, they’ll come—and it won’t be just to collect the next fifty grand.”

  “Well, don’t you have enough to arrest them now? You seem to know everything.”

  “I think with confirmation of parts of your story, there will be more than enough evidence to do that.”

  “Are you Internal Affairs?”

  “No, I’m not.”

/>   “Then—”

  There was a noise from outside the office. It sounded like the thump of a door closing.

  “Is there anybody else still here?” Bosch asked.

  “Uh, maybe one of the girls,” Schubert said.

  Bosch stood up.

  “I didn’t see anybody when we walked in,” he said quietly.

  He walked to the door, thought about opening it and looking into the hallway, but then thought better of it. He leaned his head toward the jamb and listened. He heard nothing at first but then clearly heard a whispered voice from out in the hallway say, “Clear.”

  It was a man. He knew then that Ellis and Long were in the building and were coming for them.

  45

  Bosch quickly pushed the button on the doorknob, locking it, then reached over and flicked off the office’s overhead light. He moved quickly back toward the desk, pulling his weapon out of the holster on his hip.

  Schubert stood up from his chair and his eyes grew wider with every step Bosch took toward him.

  “They’re here,” Bosch whispered. “They must’ve followed me or they were watching you and waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For me to make the connection.”

  Bosch pointed to a door to the left of the desk.

  “Where does that go?” he asked.

  “It’s just a bathroom,” Schubert said.

  “Is there a window?”

  “Yes, but it’s small and it’s a twenty-foot drop.”

  “Shit.”

  Bosch turned around and surveyed the room, trying to come up with a plan. He knew that going out into the hall would be a mistake. They’d be open targets. They were going to have to make their stand right where they were.

  He turned back and grabbed the corded phone off the desk. He knew calling on the landline would automatically deliver the building’s address to the 911 operator. It would speed the response.

  “How do I get an outside line?” he asked quickly.

  Schubert reached over and hit a button on the bottom of the phone base. Bosch heard the dial tone and punched in 9-1-1. He then pointed toward the office window.

  “Close the curtain, make it dark.”

  The call to 911 started ringing. Schubert did as instructed, hitting a button on the wall next to the window. A curtain started automatically moving across the ceiling track. Bosch kept his eyes on the office door.

  “Come on, come on, come on, pick up,” he said.

  Once the curtain closed off direct light, the room dropped into shadow. Bosch then pointed at the bathroom door.

  “Go in there,” he commanded. “Lock the door and stay low.”

  Schubert didn’t move.

  “You dialed nine-one-one,” he said. “Can’t you just call for backup?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a cop. Now go in there.”

  Schubert looked puzzled.

  “I thought—”

  “I said GO!”

  There was nothing whispered about the command this time. It propelled Schubert backwards toward the bathroom door. He went inside and closed the door. Bosch heard the click of the lock. He knew it wouldn’t stop Ellis and Long if it came to that. But it might buy a few more seconds.

  The 911 operator finally answered and Bosch spoke in a loud and exaggeratedly panicked voice. He wanted Ellis and Long to know he was calling for help. They were probably in the hallway outside at that moment and Bosch thought there was a chance they would retreat if they heard him making the call.

  “Yes, hello, I need help. There are two armed men in my office and they’re going to kill everybody,” he said loudly. “Their names are Ellis and Long, Ellis and Long, and they came here to kill us.”

  “Hold on, sir,” the operator said. “Your location is fifteen-fifteen West Third Street?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Hurry!”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “What does that matter? Just send help.”

  “I need your name, sir.”

  “Harry Bosch.”

  “Okay, sir, we are sending help. Please stay on the line for me.”

  Bosch moved directly behind the desk. He put the phone in the crook of his neck and used his thigh and his free hand to lift the edge of the desk and tip it over on its side, its aluminum top now a barricade facing the door. Everything on the desk, including the desk phone, his own phone, and the cup full of pens slid off and loudly crashed to the floor. The phone’s handset was yanked from his neck when the cord reached its maximum extension. Bosch knew there was no time to go back around to retrieve it. He had to hope the call wasn’t disconnected and that the operator didn’t decide it was a prank.

  Bosch crouched down behind the barricade. He knocked a fist on the underside of the desktop and felt and heard wood. The double layer of wood and metal might actually stop bullets—if he was lucky.

  He squatted down further behind the blind and pointed his Glock at the door. He had brought the gun as part of the show to trick Schubert into believing he was a cop. Now it might be the only thing that kept them alive. The gun was maxed with thirteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. He hoped it would be enough.

  He heard a slight metallic sound from the far side of the room and knew Ellis and Long were outside the door and trying the knob. They were about to come in. Bosch realized at that very moment that he was in the wrong spot. He was positioned dead center in the room exactly where they would expect him to be.

  46

  Ellis signaled to Long that the door was locked and that he should kick it in. Long tossed him the flashlight and then backed off a few feet. He raised his leg, aiming his heel at a spot just above the doorknob. He had done this a lot over the years and was good at it.

  The door flew open and slammed back on the inside wall of the office, revealing a darkened room lit only by the dim light leaking around the edges of a window curtain on the far wall. Long was left in a vulnerable position as the momentum from his kick carried him into the office. Ellis moved in behind him, following his left flank and holding his gun and the flashlight in the standard crossed-wrists configuration.

  “Police!” he called out. “Nobody move!”

  The light fell on a desk that had been tipped onto its side to create a barricade. He put the aim of his weapon on the top edge of the desk, ready for Bosch or Schubert to show himself.

  “Wait!”

  The voice called out from behind the door to the left of the desk. Ellis recalibrated the aim of both his light and gun.

  “It’s me!” Schubert called. “He told me he was a cop!”

  The door opened and there stood Schubert, his hands raised.

  “Don’t shoot. I thought he—”

  Ellis opened fire, sending three quick shots toward Schubert. In his peripheral vision he saw Long on his right, turning and raising his gun to fire as well.

  “No!”

  The shout came from behind him and to the right. Ellis turned and saw Bosch moving laterally out from behind a folding partition that split the room. He had a gun up and opened fire as Ellis realized the overturned desk had been a decoy and Bosch had the superior position.

  Ellis lurched forward to put Long’s larger body between Bosch and himself. He saw his partner react as the bullets struck him. The impacts redirected Long’s momentum into a spin. He was going to go down. Ellis shifted his weight and drove his shoulder into Long’s upper body, holding his partner up and swinging his own gun hand around his torso at the same time. Ellis fired wildly, shooting blindly in the direction he had last seen Bosch. He then reversed his footing and started back toward the door, dragging Long with him as a shield.

  There was more gunfire, and Ellis felt the impacts through his partner’s body. At the doorway he dropped Long and fired two more shots in the direction of where Bosch’s fire had come from. He backed into the hallway and then turned and ran toward a door marked w
ith an exit sign.

  As he raced down the stairway to the garage, Ellis had one question bouncing through the impulses of his brain.

  Fight or flight?

  Was it all over or was there still a chance he could contain this, somehow turn it all on Bosch? Tell them Bosch was the one. Bosch opened fire. Bosch had some kind of crazy vendetta going. Bosch—

  He knew he was kidding himself. It couldn’t work. If Bosch was still alive up there, then it wouldn’t work.

  Ellis ran across the garage to his car. He could hear an approaching siren—Sheriff’s deputies responding to Bosch’s 911 call. He judged it to be two or three blocks away. He had to get out before they got here. That was priority one. After that, he knew it was time to fly.

  He was prepared. He had known it might someday come to this and he had planned for it.

  47

  His gun braced in two hands, Bosch moved in on Long, who was collapsed in the doorway. He was writhing in pain and gasping for breath. Bosch saw the last two bullets he had fired embedded in Long’s shirt, held in place by the bulletproof vest underneath. Bosch yanked the gun out of Long’s hand and slid it across the floor behind him. He put his weight down on Long and leaned forward to cautiously look into the hallway and make sure Ellis wasn’t waiting out there.

  Satisfied that Ellis was gone, Bosch pulled back into the room and turned Long over onto his chest. He took the vice cop’s cuffs off his belt and used them to bind his wrists behind his back. He then saw the blood on Long’s right side. One of Bosch’s shots had found skin below the vest. Long was bleeding from a wound just above his right hip. Bosch knew that a .45 slug fired from ten feet was going to do major internal damage. Long might be mortally wounded.

  “You motherfucker,” Long finally managed to get out. “You’re going to die.”

  “Everybody dies, Long,” Bosch said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Bosch heard multiple sirens now and wondered if the Sheriff’s had gotten Ellis on his way out.