The Crossing

  Bosch slid his glass toward the bartender and got off the stool. He saw a woman looking for a spot to sit and signaled her over.

  “See you at nine,” he said to Haller. “Don’t oversleep.”

  “Don’t worry,” Haller said. “I’ll be there.”

  9

  Ellis and Long watched from a car parked at the curb on Las Palmas west of Musso’s rear parking lot. There was an easy silence between them that came from years of sitting in cars and watching people. Long had gone into Musso’s earlier and observed from the opposite end of the bar while the lawyer was meeting with another man—a man Long didn’t recognize. So when he scanned the parking lot and saw the same mystery man standing under the light at the parking attendant’s booth, he sat up straight in the passenger seat.

  “That’s him,” he said. “The guy he was meeting with.”

  “You sure?” Ellis asked.

  He raised a pair of binoculars and studied the mystery man.

  “Yeah,” Long said. “You should go. In case.”

  In case the man at the booth had seen Long inside earlier. But they didn’t have to finish sentences like that.

  Ellis left the binoculars on the dashboard and got out of the car. Long slid over behind the wheel. Just in case. Ellis walked into the lot and ducked between two cars so it would look like he just parked and was walking in. He waited until the man got his keys at the booth and started walking toward his car. Ellis stepped out, hands in his pockets, and started walking down the same driving aisle as the approaching man. Ellis noted he was clean shaven and had a full head of gray hair and a lean build. He guessed he was midfifties but could be one of those lucky fuckers who looked younger than he was.

  Just before they passed each other the mystery man turned left between two cars and used his key to unlock the door on an old Jeep Cherokee. Ellis glanced casually at the rear plate and kept going toward the steps that led to the rear entrance at Musso’s. He speed-dialed Long. When he answered, Ellis gave his partner the make of the car and the license plate number and told him he was going inside to check on the status of the lawyer.

  “Think I should tail the Jeep?” Long asked.

  Ellis thought a moment. On principle he didn’t like the idea of splitting up. But if this guy was a player, then it could be a missed opportunity.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “Go get a beer,” Long said. “I’ll see where this guy goes.”

  “He’s driving a shit box. He’s probably not going far.”

  “Those old Cherokees? Collectors’ items.”

  “Shit box.”

  “Go on craigslist, ten grand for a good one, easy. Two hundred thousand miles? Still ten grand.”

  “Whatever. I’m going in. Haller’s in the back bar, right?”

  “Yeah, back bar. No names, remember?”

  “Right.”

  Ellis could hear the Cherokee’s engine turn over behind him. Then a voice called to him from behind as well.

  “Sir, did you park?”

  He turned to see the parking attendant in the doorway of the booth.

  “No, I’m on the street.”

  He pointed toward Las Palmas, then turned back and went down the stairs into the hallway behind the restaurant’s kitchen. He followed it around past the old wooden phone booths and out into the new dining room. Musso’s was almost a hundred years old. There was the new room and the old room but even that distinction was a half century old. He followed an ancient waiter in a red half coat into the old room and then moved into the bar area. It was crowded with a congregation two deep behind the lucky ones sitting on bar stools.

  He saw Haller on a stool near the far end. He was engaged in conversation with the woman sitting to his left. It looked like a pickup situation to Ellis but he could tell the woman wasn’t having any. The bartender put down fresh martinis in front of them just the same. With sidecar shakers on ice.

  Haller wasn’t going anywhere soon. Ellis retraced his steps and went into one of the old phone booths in the back entrance hall. There was no longer a pay phone in the booth but the small space could still be used for privacy. He closed the door, pulled out his own phone, and called Long.

  “Did you follow him?”

  “Yeah, we’re going up Highland.”

  “The plate?”

  “There’s a law enforcement block on it. Says LAPD.”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “Yep, or possibly retired. He looked like he could have put in at least twenty-five.”

  “Either way, what’s he doing talking to our guy?”

  “No way of telling. Let’s see where he goes.”

  “I’ll be here. Looks like our man is working some chick at the bar.”

  “Talk to you.”

  Long didn’t care what Ellis thought. The blue Cherokee up ahead was a nice ride. Classic squared-off design that was utilitarian and solid. Long wondered why they had changed them. Now they looked like any other SUV. Bloated, like a fat guy whose blubber goes over his belt. His ex-wife called them muffin tops.

  The mystery man was now on Cahuenga, still heading north. Long saw the left turn signal on the Cherokee start flashing. The mystery man was going to head up into the hills. This would complicate things for Long.

  Long drove by the Cherokee as it waited for an opening in the traffic to turn. He glanced to his left and saw the left turn led to an immediate split. Mulholland Drive to the left, Woodrow Wilson to the right.

  He watched the side-view mirror and as soon as he saw the Cherokee make the turn, he hit his emergency lights and made a U-turn right in front of oncoming traffic that had slowed to a stop. He turned off the lights, pegged the accelerator, and got back to the turnoff. There was no sign of the Cherokee’s taillights in either direction.

  Without hesitation Long chose Mulholland because it was the more popular street and it went farther. He started the winding road up to the crest but pretty soon realized he had chosen wrong. The roadway wound back and forth, edging the mountain. He wasn’t that far behind the Cherokee and would have seen its lights on one of the hairpin curves ahead.

  Once more he made a U-turn and this time headed back to Woodrow Wilson, pushing the sedan beyond safe limits on the winding road. All he needed was Ellis coming down on him for losing this guy. Fuck the limits.

  Woodrow Wilson was a narrow residential road that wound its way up the opposite side of the mountain from Mulholland. After a half dozen switchbacks and hairpins Long finally saw the familiar lights of the Cherokee ahead. He slowed down and maintained distance. Soon he rounded a curve and saw the Cherokee pulling into a lighted carport next to a powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle. He drove by without breaking speed.

  Long followed the road around two more bends before pulling over and putting the transmission in park. He checked his phone for texts or missed calls from Ellis. There was nothing. He let three minutes go by and then used the empty carport of a house to turn around. He then killed the lights on his car and coasted past the house where the Cherokee had parked. It was a small cantilevered house with the glowing lights of the city behind it.

  Long checked the plates of the Volkswagen as he went by. He also noticed that a city trash bin had been rolled out to the curb.

  Haller was striking out with the woman next to him and was chasing defeat with vodka. Ellis watched him in the mirror behind the bar, camouflaged by the crowd. He held a full beer now, as part of blending in, but was not drinking from the bottle. He never ingested alcohol.

  The woman Haller was working was at least fifteen years younger and Haller had ignored a key rule when it came to picking up younger women. Avoid reminders of the age difference—especially mirrors behind the bar.

  Ellis felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and he retreated to the back hall. He put the beer bottle down on the floor of one of the phone booths and accepted the call from Long as he closed the door for privacy.

  “I think he’s bu
ttoned up for the night,” Long said.

  “Where?” Ellis asked.

  “House in the hills. Nice on a cop’s salary.”

  “You sure he’s staying in?”

  “No, but if you want me to sit on it, I’m still in the vicinity. I can go back.”

  Ellis thought for a moment. A plan was forming. A short-term plan. He needed Long to come back. While he was working it out, Long broke the silence.

  “I got his ID.”

  “How? Who is he?”

  “There was another car but I checked it and it’s got a law enforcement block on it too. But tomorrow’s trash pickup. I grabbed a couple bags out of the bin on the street, then drove away and looked through the shit. I found some mail. The guy’s name—not sure how to pronounce it—is Hermonius Bosch or something. All the mail was addressed to him.”

  “Spell it. First and last.”

  “H-I-E-R-O-N-Y-M-U-S and B-O-S-C-H.”

  “Hieronymus, like the painter.”

  “What painter?”

  “Never mind. Just get back here. I have a plan to slow our guy here down.”

  “Give me fifteen.”

  “Make it ten. I think he’s about to split.”

  Ellis disconnected, picked up his beer, and went back to the bar in the old room. Haller was still in place but the woman he had been working was gone and had been replaced by a man in a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt. Haller was holding a silver credit card up and trying to get the bartender’s attention with it. He was ready to leave.

  Ellis squeezed between two patrons and put his bottle up on the bar. He then went up the steps and out of the restaurant. Walking back out to Las Palmas, he saw a shadowed recess beside the pedestrian entrance of a public parking garage. From there, he would have a line of sight to Musso’s parking lot while he waited for Long.

  As he moved into the shadows, he nearly tripped over something in the darkness. There was a rustling sound followed by a groan and a complaint.

  “What the fuck, man. You’re in my space.”

  Ellis reached into his pocket for his phone. He engaged the screen and turned it so that dim light washed across the concrete floor. There was a man clawing his way out of a dirty sleeping bag, his belongings in plastic bags lined against the wall. Ellis glanced behind him and saw no one in the street and no sign of Haller walking to his car in the lot. He turned back to the homeless man and made a decision. He kicked the man in the ribs as he moved on all fours. Ellis felt the impact of the kick through his whole leg and knew he had broken bone. The man flipped onto his back and released the sound of a wounded animal. Before he could scream Ellis stomped down on the man’s throat with all of his weight, crushing the air passage. He then backed off and came right back with a heel to the bridge of the man’s nose. The man was silent and unmoving after that.

  Ellis returned his phone to his pocket and took a position in the alcove where he could watch for Haller. Soon enough he saw the lawyer emerge from the restaurant’s back steps.

  “Shit,” Ellis whispered.

  He noticed that Haller showed no signs of alcohol impairment as he paid the attendant and retrieved his keys. Ellis called Long.

  “The fuck are you?”

  “Two minutes. Just turned onto Hollywood.”

  “I’ll be at the same spot. Put on the radio.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  Ellis disconnected without answering. He noticed that Haller was talking on his cell phone as he walked to his Lincoln. Ellis reached into another pocket and pulled out a second phone and turned it on. He always carried a burner. While he waited for it to boot up he heard a gurgling sound from behind him. In the enclosed concrete space it echoed. He turned and drove his foot, heel first, into the darkness where he knew the homeless man lay. He connected with solid mass. The gurgling sound stopped.

  Once the burner was ready he dialed 911 and pulled the sleeve of his jacket out over his hand to muffle his voice. The call was answered by an operator that Ellis identified as female and black. She sounded calm and efficient.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  “There’s a man, he’s driving drunk, and he’s going to kill somebody.”

  “What is your location, sir?”

  “Hollywood Boulevard and Las Palmas. He just pulled right out in front of me on Hollywood.”

  “Is he traveling eastbound or westbound?”

  “Westbound right now.”

  “And can you describe the vehicle?”

  “Black Lincoln Town Car. The license plate is I WALK ’EM.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “It’s a personal plate. I-W-A-L-K-E-M. I walk ’em—he must be a lawyer or something.”

  “Hold a moment, sir.”

  Ellis knew the operator would now send a hot shot to dispatch. She would then get back to him to request his name and details. He closed the phone, ending the call. He watched as Haller’s Lincoln pulled out of the parking lot onto Las Palmas and headed the short distance to Hollywood Boulevard. The Lincoln passed the Challenger that Long was driving.

  Ellis stepped out of the alcove and into the street to rendezvous. Just as the Challenger pulled up he bent down and put the burner in front of the back tire so it would be crushed. He opened the door and got into the passenger seat, telling Long to turn the car around. The broadcast on the possible DUI was already going out on the police radio.

  “Any Hollywood unit: Citizen reports a DUI driver going westbound on Hollywood Boulevard at Las Palmas. Suspect driving black late-model Lincoln Town Car, California license plate Ida-William-Adam-Lincoln-King-Edward-Mary.”

  The microphone cord was draped over the rearview mirror, its once tight rubber coils stretched straight by time. Ellis looped it off and brought the microphone to his mouth.

  “Six-Victor-fifty-five, we are westbound Hollywood Boulevard and are one minute away from that location.”

  He took his finger off the send button and turned to Long.

  “Go west on Hollywood. He’s probably heading home.”

  Long gunned the engine and proceeded to the end of the block, where he turned around in the intersection and then headed back down to Hollywood Boulevard. Ellis glanced toward the darkened entrance of the parking garage as they went by.

  “What are we doing?” Long asked.

  “We’re going to pull him over and book him for DUI. That ought to slow him down a little bit.”

  “What if he isn’t drunk?”

  “Doesn’t matter, he’s a lawyer. He’ll refuse to take the test or a Breathalyzer and we’ll get to draw blood. We’ll end up booking him. I want to look in his trunk.”

  Long nodded and drove in silence. They caught up with Haller at a red light at La Brea.

  “Now?” Long asked.

  “No,” Ellis said. “Stay with him. Wait till he crosses La Brea and we’re in residential. Less people around. Less cameras.”

  Ellis raised the microphone to his mouth.

  “Six-Victor-fifty-five, show us on a traffic stop Hollywood and Camino Palmero possible DUI driver, license Ida-William-Adam-Lincoln-King-Edward-Mary. Request any A unit for backup.”

  When the light changed, Long jockeyed back and forth between lanes until he got into position behind the Lincoln. He hit the flashers and Haller pulled to the curb in front of a two-story apartment building.

  “Okay, I’ll take lead,” Ellis said.

  He opened the glove box to get out a plastic snap tie. He didn’t want to use his cuffs because his intention was to hand off Haller to a patrol unit so he and Long could search the Lincoln.

  “He’s getting out,” Long said.

  Ellis looked up and through the windshield. Haller had already gotten out of the Lincoln. He was talking on his cell phone. He finished the call and threw the phone into his car. He hit the lock button and closed the door. He then put his hands on the roof of his car and waited.

  “He just locked the car,” Long said. “Keys are
probably in it.”

  “Asshole,” Ellis said. “He thinks he’ll keep us out of it.”

  He got out and walked between the two cars to get to Haller.

  “Hello, Detective,” the lawyer said.

  “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?” Ellis asked.

  “Yes, I have,” Haller said. “But not enough to warrant you pulling me over.”

  “Well, we received a nine-one-one call describing your car down to its vanity plate and reporting erratic, dangerous driving. We were just behind you for about five blocks and you were all over the place.”

  “That’s bullshit. I saw you guys. You were the ones doing the weaving, trying to catch up to me.”

  “Who were you calling? Do you know it’s illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving?”

  “The answer to question one is none of your business. And as to question two, I didn’t make the call until I pulled to a stop. There’s nothing illegal about that. But do what you gotta do, Detective.”

  “It’s Officer, actually. Where are you coming from?”

  “Musso and Frank’s.”

  “Did you eat or just drink?”

  “I ate some olives, that’s for sure.”

  “Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

  “Sure thing. May I reach into the front inside pocket of my jacket, Officer?”

  “Slowly.”

  Haller retrieved his wallet and handed Ellis his driver’s license. Ellis glanced at it and then put it into his back pocket.

  “We’re going to step over to the sidewalk and conduct a field sobriety test now,” he said.

  “Actually, we’re not. This is an unwarranted stop and my cooperation ended with me pulling over and giving you my driver’s license.”

  “You understand that not submitting to a field sobriety test or a Breathalyzer exam is cause for arrest and suspension of your driver’s license? Then we take you to the hospital and pull your blood anyway.”