The Wrong Side of Goodbye

by Michael Connelly

  To Ida Townes Forsythe, my secretary, friend and confidante of 35 years, I give, devise, and bequeath $10,000,000.00 (ten million US Dollars), together with my thanks and gratitude for her loyal service, counsel, and friendship.

  To the heir of my body, my issue, my genetic descendant, and the last of my bloodline, I give, devise, and bequeath all of the remainder of my estate, in its entirety, of any, all, and whatever kind and character, which shall include all my bank accounts, all my stocks, bonds, and business interests, my homes and all my real property in fee simple, and all my personal property, possessions, and chattels. In particular, to the heir of my body I bequeath the pen with which this Will is written. It is made of gold mined by our progenitors and passed down through generations to have and hold until it is passed to succeeding generations of our blood.

  Done by and in my own hand

  Whitney P. Vance

  October 5, 2016, at 11:30 A.M. Pacific Standard Time

  Bosch was stunned by what he had in his hands. He reread the will and it didn’t lessen his wonder. He held a document that was essentially worth billions of dollars, a document that could change the course of a giant corporation and industry, not to mention the life and family of an unsuspecting woman born forty-six years ago of a father she never knew.

  That is, if she was still alive and Bosch could find her.

  Bosch read the first letter for the third time and took Whitney Vance’s charge to heart. He would be vigilant and determined.

  He refolded the two documents and returned them to the envelope. He hefted the heavy pen in his hand for a moment and then placed it back in the envelope as well. He realized that at some point, there would be an authentication process and he might have already damaged it by his handling of the stationery. He took the envelope into the kitchen and found a large resealable plastic bag to preserve it in.

  Bosch also knew he had to safeguard the package. He suspected that there would be many forces out there bent on destroying it. The thought reminded him of when Howard Hughes died and various wills came to the surface. He didn’t remember how that probate was decided but he recalled the multiple claims to the fortune. The same could be the case with Vance. Bosch knew he needed to make copies of the documents in the envelope and then secure the originals in his safe deposit box.

  Bosch went back into the living room and turned off the TV so he could make a call. He hit the speed dial for Mickey Haller’s cell phone and his half brother picked up the call after one ring.

  “What’s up, broheim?”

  “Are you my lawyer?”

  “What? Of course I am. What did you do now?”

  “Funny. But you’re not going to believe this. Are you sitting down?”

  “I’m sitting in the back of the Lincoln, heading in to see my girl Clara Foltz.”

  The translation was that Haller was heading to court. The downtown courthouse was formally known as the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center.

  “You heard about Whitney Vance dying?” Bosch asked.

  “I heard something about it on the radio, yeah,” Haller said. “But what do I care about some billionaire kicking the bucket?”

  “Well, I’m holding his last will and testament. He sent it to me. It names me executor and I don’t know the first thing about what to do with it.”

  “Are you pulling my dick, broheim?”

  “No, broheim. I’m not pulling your dick.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “Hold on.”

  Bosch then heard Haller redirect his driver from the downtown destination to the Cahuenga Pass, where Bosch lived. Then he got back on the line.

  “How the fuck did you end up with his will?”

  Bosch gave him a short summary of the Vance case. He also revealed that this was the case he had called Haller about to get the referral to a private DNA lab.

  “Okay, who else knows you have this will?” Haller asked.

  “No one,” Bosch said. “Actually, somebody might. It came in the mail and Vance’s letter says he gave the task to his longtime secretary. But I don’t know if she knew what was in the package she mailed. She’s in the will to the tune of ten million.”

  “That’s a big reason to make sure she got the will to you. You said it came in the mail? Was it certified—did you have to sign for it?”

  “No, it was stuffed into the box with all the junk mail.”

  “That was risky but maybe it was the best way to get it to you under the radar. Slip it out with the secretary, have her drop it in a mail box. Okay, listen, I need to get off the line so I can get somebody to take my appearance in arraignment court. But you sit tight. I’m heading your way.”

  “Do you still have that copier in the car?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Good. We need to make copies.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Do you even know anything about wills and probate, Mick?”

  “Hey, bro, you know me. Have case, will travel. Doesn’t matter what kind of case it is, I can handle it. And what I don’t know, I can bring somebody in on to help. I’ll be there inside of thirty.”

  As Bosch put the phone down he wondered if he had made a critical mistake bringing the Lincoln Lawyer into the case. His instincts were that Haller’s lack of experience in probate and inheritance law would be more than balanced by his street smarts and legal cunning. Bosch had seen him work and knew he had something that didn’t come with training, no matter what the school or specialty. He had a deep hollow that he somehow filled by standing as a David against the Goliaths of the world, whether in the form of the power and might of the state or a billion-dollar corporation. Bosch also had no doubts about Haller guarding his back. He could trust him. And he had a growing feeling that this might be the most important support to have in the days ahead.

  He checked his watch and saw it was near nine now and Bella Lourdes would be at the station. He called but she didn’t answer. He assumed that was because she was already working the phones responding to the batch of call-in tips he had left on her desk. He was leaving her a message telling her to call him back when his call-waiting indicated she was already doing so.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m still at home. You’re going to have to handle things on your own today.”

  She groaned and asked why.

  “Something’s come up on a private case I’m working,” he said. “It can’t wait.”

  “The one with all the birth certificates?” she asked.

  “How did you—”

  He remembered her eying the stack of copies he had placed on his desk in the cubicle.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Just don’t mention that to anybody. I should be back in a couple days.”

  “A couple days?” Lourdes exclaimed. “Harry, the proverbial iron is hot right now. This guy just tried to strike for the first time we know about in eight months. We now have the mask. Things are happening and we really need you in here.”

  “I know, I know. But this other thing can’t wait and it looks like I have to go to San Diego.”

  “You’re killing me, Harry. What’s the case?”

  “I can’t tell you right now. When I can, I will.”

  “That’s nice of you. And it’s more important than a guy running around up here raping Mexican girls.”

  “It’s not more important. But we both know that the Screen Cutter is lying low right now with all of this attention. Unless he’s already split. And if he has, then we’re spinning our wheels, anyway.”

  “Okay, fine, I’ll let the cap know and I’m sure he’ll be happy not to have you around. Last thing he wants is for you to crack this thing anyway.”

  “There you go.”

  “No, there you go. Running out on the case.”

  “Look, I’m not running out. This other thing will clear soon. And I’m only a phone c
all away. In fact, there’s something I was going to do today but you need to do it now instead.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The caller who led me to the mask said the guy was checking car doors while he was running.”

  “So?”

  “So something happened that messed up his getaway.”

  “Yeah, Beatriz clocked him with the broomstick.”

  “Something more. He lost his ride.”

  “You mean you think he had a getaway driver? Maybe we’re looking for more than one suspect. Different masks, different rapists, but working together—is that it?”

  “No, the DNA is from one offender.”

  “Right, forgot. So you think he’s a rapist with a getaway driver?”

  “I thought about that but it’s a long shot. Most serial offenders are loners. There are exceptions but it’s rare. Most of the time you go with the percentages and you come out ahead.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “I think you should go out and search Beatriz’s house again. Do you guys have a metal detector?”

  “A metal detector? For what?”

  “The backyard by the window the Screen Cutter jumped through. I think maybe he lost the keys to his getaway car when he went through the window and hit the ground. There’s a bed of vines and ground cover there.”

  “Right, I saw.”

  “It was a panic move. He’s disoriented by the blow from the broomstick, he drops the knife, jumps through the window, and falls on the ground. His keys could have gone flying. So what’s he do? He can’t sit there looking through the bushes and vines. He’s gotta get out of there. He just starts running.”

  “That to me sounds like the long shot.”

  “Maybe. But this guy is a planner and there he was, running down the street, trying to find an unlocked car to boost.”

  “True.”

  “Anyway, what else are you going to do, chase call-in tips and look-alikes all day?”

  “There you go again against the tip line. But you do have a point. And they do have a metal detector over at Public Works for finding underground pipes and cables and stuff. We used it once to find a gun a banger wrapped in plastic and buried in his backyard. Tied him to an assault with a deadly. If Dockweiler’s over there, he’ll let us use it. If he’s in a good mood.”

  “Grab that and run it through the bushes and the ground cover under that window.”

  “You don’t grab it. It’s like a lawnmower. It’s got wheels.”

  “Then take Sisto with you. Give him a chance to redeem himself.”

  “Redeem himself for what?”

  “I don’t really think his heart was in it the other day. He was babysitting the scene for us, playing on his phone the whole time, not paying attention. Not his case, not invested. Between you and me, his search was lazy. We’re lucky he found the knife without cutting himself on it.”

  “But we’re not judgmental, are we?”

  “Back in the day, we’d say a guy like that couldn’t find shit in his mustache with a comb.”

  “We are just brutal!”

  “I know what I saw. I’m glad I’m working with you and not him.”

  She paused and Bosch knew it was to smile.

  “I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” she said then. “From the great Harry Bosch, no less. Anyway, sounds like a plan. I’ll let you know.”

  “Remember, you find something, you owe me a beer. You also should ask Sisto about auto thefts Friday from Area Two—the other side of Maclay. Maybe the Screen Cutter grabbed a car over there.”

  “Aren’t you just full of ideas today.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I get the big bucks.”

  “And all because of one of the tip line calls that you swore up and down were going to be a complete waste of time.”

  “When you’re wrong, you’re wrong, and I admit I was wrong.”

  “You heard it here first, folks.”

  “I gotta go, Bella. Be careful out there.”

  “You too—with whatever your super-secret case is.”

  “Roger that.”

  They disconnected.

  24

  While Haller studied the letter and will that Bosch had unpackaged and spread with gloved hands on the dining room table, Harry worked his computer, seeing if he could get access to 1970 birth records in San Diego County. Whitney Vance’s death was a game changer. He felt a more urgent need to nail down the heir question. He needed to get this to the DNA level. He needed to find Dominick Santanello’s daughter.

  Unfortunately he found that the Bureau of Vital Records and Statistics had digital records going back only twenty-four years. As he had in his search for Santanello’s birth certificate, Bosch would need to look through physical records and microfilm by hand to find a San Diego County birth in 1970. He was writing down the address for the Bureau on Rosecrans Street when Haller completed his first assessment of the two documents.

  “This is off the charts,” he said.

  Bosch looked at him.

  “What is?” he asked.

  “Every damn thing about this,” Haller said. “What you have here is a holographic will, okay? That means it was handwritten. And I checked on the way over. Holographic wills are accepted as legal instruments upon verification in California.”

  “Vance probably knew that.”

  “Oh, he knew a lot. That’s why he sent you the pen. Not for the bullshit reason in the will. He sent it because he knew verification is the key. You say that when you met with him last week at the mansion, he was of sound mind and body—like he says here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And exhibiting no sign of illness or health threat?”

  “Other than being old and fragile, none.”

  “I wonder then what the coroner will find.”

  “I wonder if the coroner will even look. An eighty-five-year-old man comes through, they’re not going to look too long and hard at him. Eighty-five-year-olds die. It’s no mystery.”

  “You mean there won’t be an autopsy?”

  “There should be but that doesn’t mean there will be. If the Pasadena Police signed off on it at the scene as a natural, there might not be a full autopsy unless there’s visible evidence to the contrary upon medical examiner’s inspection.”

  “I guess we’ll see. You have a connection inside Pasadena PD?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.”

  Upon his arrival, Haller’s driver had carried in the photocopier/printer from the Lincoln, then returned to wait behind the wheel. Haller now pulled gloves from the cardboard dispenser Bosch had placed on the table. He stretched a pair on and started making copies of the documents.

  “Why don’t you have a copier here?” he asked while he worked.

  “I did,” Bosch said. “Had a printer-copier combo but Maddie took it to school with her. Haven’t gotten around to getting another.”

  “How’s she doing down there?”

  “Good. How about Hayley?”

  “She’s good too. Totally into it.”

  “That’s good.”

  An awkward silence followed. Both their daughters—the same age and each the other’s only cousin—had gone to Chapman University, but because of different majors and interests, they had not formed the tight bond their fathers had hoped for and expected. They had shared a dorm room in the first year but gone separate ways the second. Hayley had stayed in the dorms and Maddie had rented the house with girls from the Psychology Department.

  After making at least a dozen copies of the will, Haller moved on to the letter Vance wrote to Bosch and started making an equal number of copies.

  “Why so many?” Bosch asked.

  “’Cause you never know,” Haller said.

  That was a non-answer, Bosch thought.

  “So what do we do from here?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Haller said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing
. For now. Nothing public, nothing in the courts. We just lie low and wait.”

  “Why?”

  “You keep working the case. Confirm that Vance has an heir. Once we have that, we see who makes a move, see what the corporation does. When they make their move we make ours. But we make our move from a position of knowing what they’re up to.”

  “We don’t even know who ‘they’ are.”

  “Sure we do. It’s all of them. It’s the corporation, the board of directors, the security people, it’s all of them.”

  “Well, ‘they’ may be watching us right now.”

  “We have to assume they are. But they don’t know what we have here. Otherwise this package wouldn’t have sat in your mailbox for four days.”

  Bosch nodded. It was a good point. Haller gestured to the documents on the table, meaning the two originals.

  “We have to safeguard these,” he said. “At all costs.”

  “I have a safe deposit box,” Bosch said. “Studio City.”

  “You can bet they already know that. They probably know everything about you. So we make copies and you put copies in your bank box. If they’re watching you they’ll think that’s where the will is.”

  “And where will it really be?”

  “You’ll figure something out. But don’t tell me.”

  “Why not?”

  “In case I get hit with an order from a judge to produce the will. If I don’t have it and don’t know where it is, I can’t produce it.”

  “Smart.”

  “We need to get to Ida Forsythe too. If you’re right about her being the one who smuggled this stuff to the post office, then we need to lock her story down in a statement. It will be part of the chain of authenticity. We’ll need verification of every step we take. When I finally go into court with this, I don’t want my ass hanging out in the wind.”

  “I can get her address. If she has a driver’s license.”

  Still wearing gloves, Haller picked up the gold pen.

  “And this,” he said. “You’re sure it’s the one he had last week?”

  “Pretty sure. I saw it in photos, too, on a wall in the mansion. A photo of him signing a book to Larry King.”

  “Cool. Maybe we’ll bring Larry into court to verify—that’ll get a headline or two. We’ll also need Ida to confirm it as well. Remember, verification on all levels. His pen, his signature in the pen’s ink. We’ll match it. I have a lab that will do that—when the time is right.”