“Nothing,” he said. “Not even a driver’s license.”
“But that’s good,” Rachel said. “Don’t you see? Robert Foxworth would be about to turn thirty-five right now. If there’s no history or current license, then that is further confirmation that he is no more, that he’s either dead or he became someone else.”
“Raynard Waits.”
She nodded.
“I guess I was hoping for a DL with an Echo Park address,” Bosch said. “I guess that’s too much to ask for.”
“Maybe not. Is there a way in this state to check defunct driver’s licenses? Robert Foxworth, if that’s his real name, probably got a license when he turned sixteen in nineteen eighty-seven. When he switched identities it would have expired.”
Bosch considered this. He knew that the state did not start requiring a thumbprint from licensed drivers until the early nineties. It meant Foxworth could have gotten a driver’s license in the late eighties and there would be no way to connect him to his new identity as Raynard Waits.
“I could check with DMV in the morning. It’s not something I can get through communications dispatch tonight.”
“There is something else you can check tomorrow,” she said. “Remember the quick and dirty profile I did the other night? I said these early crimes weren’t aberrations. He built up to them.”
Bosch understood.
“A juvy jacket.”
She nodded.
“You might find a juvenile record on Robert Foxworth—again, if that’s his real name. It wouldn’t have been accessible through dispatch either.”
She was right. State law kept juvenile records from trailing an offender into adulthood. The name may have come up clean when Bosch called dispatch to run it but that didn’t mean it was squeaky clean. As with the driver’s license information, Bosch would have to wait until morning, when he could get into the juvenile records at the Department of Probation.
But as soon as his hopes were lifted he knocked them down again.
“Wait a minute, that doesn’t work,” he said. “His prints would have drawn a match. When they ran his prints as Raynard Waits, they would have hit the prints taken from Robert Foxworth as a juvenile. His record might not be available but the prints stay in the system.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Two separate systems. Two separate bureaucracies. The crossover doesn’t always work.”
That was true, but it was more wishful thinking than anything else. Bosch now reduced the juvenile angle to a long shot. It was more likely that Robert Foxworth had never been in the juvenile system. Bosch was beginning to think the name was just another false identity in a string of them.
Rachel tried to change the subject.
“What do you think about this heirloom medallion he pawned?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“The fact that he wanted to get it back is interesting. Makes me think maybe it wasn’t stolen. Like maybe it belonged to someone in his family and he needed to get it back.”
“It would explain him cursing and slamming doors, I guess.”
She nodded.
Bosch yawned and all at once he realized how tired he was. He had been running all day just to get to this name and the uncertainties that accompanied it. The case was crowding his brain. Rachel seemed to read him.
“Harry, I say we quit while we’re ahead and have another beer.”
“I don’t know how far ahead we are but I could use another beer,” Bosch said. “There’s only one problem with that.”
“What?”
“No more beer.”
“Harry, you invited a girl over to do your dirty work and help you crack the case and all you give her is one beer? What’s wrong with you? What about wine? You have some wine?”
Bosch shook his head sadly.
“But I’m on my way to the store.”
“That’s good. I’m on my way to the bedroom. I’ll be waiting for you there.”
“Then, I won’t delay.”
“Make mine a red wine, will you?”
“I’m on it.”
Bosch hurried from the house. He had parked earlier at the front curb so that Rachel could use the carport if she came over. As he walked out the front door he noticed a vehicle sitting at the opposite curb two houses down. The vehicle, a silver SUV, caught his eye because it was parked in a red zone. There was no parking allowed along that curb, since it was too close to the next curve in the road. A car could come around the bend and easily collide with any car parked there.
As Bosch looked up the street the SUV suddenly took off without its lights on. It sped north around the bend and disappeared.
Bosch ran to his car, jumped in and headed north after the SUV. He drove as fast as he could safely go. Within two minutes he had followed the curving street around to the four-way stop at Mulholland Drive. There was no sign of the SUV and it could have gone in any of three directions from the stop.
“Shit!”
Bosch sat at the intersection for a long moment, thinking about what he had just seen and what it might mean. He decided that it either meant nothing or it meant someone was watching his house and therefore watching him. But at the moment there was nothing he could do. He let it go. He turned left and drove Mulholland at a safe speed all the way down to Cahuenga. He knew there was a liquor store near Lankershim. He headed there, checking the rearview mirror for a trailer the whole way.
26
HOME DUTY OR NOT, Bosch dressed in a suit the next morning before heading out. He knew it would give him an aura of authority and confidence while dealing with government bureaucrats. And by twenty minutes after nine it had paid off. He had a solid lead. The Department of Motor Vehicles’ archives had produced a driver’s license issued to a Robert Foxworth on November 3, 1987, the day he turned sixteen and was eligible to drive. The license was never renewed in California but there was no DMV record of the holder being deceased. This meant Foxworth had either moved to another state and was licensed there, decided he no longer wanted to drive or changed identities. Bosch was betting on the third option.
The address on the license was the lead. It listed Foxworth’s residence as the Los Angeles County Department of Children and Family Services, 3075 Wilshire Blvd., Los Angeles. In 1987 he had been a juvenile ward of the county. He either had no parents or they had been declared unfit to raise him and he was removed from them. The designation of DCFS as his address meant that he was either housed in one of the department’s youth halls or had been placed in its foster care program. Bosch knew all of this because he, too, had had such a designation on his first driver’s license. He, too, had been a ward of the county.
As Bosch stepped out of the DMV offices on Spring Street he felt a renewed surge of energy. He had broken through what had seemed to be a dead end the night before and had turned it into a solid lead. As he headed to his car his cell phone vibrated and he answered it without breaking stride or looking at the screen, hoping that it would be Rachel and that he’d be able to share the good news.
“Harry, where are you? No one answered the home line.”
It was Abel Pratt. Bosch was getting tired of his constant checking up on him.
“I’m on my way in to visit Kiz. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure, Harry, except you’re supposed to check in with me.”
“Once a day. It’s not even ten o’clock!”
“I want to hear from you every morning.”
“Whatever. Tomorrow’s Saturday, should I call you? What about Sunday?”
“Don’t go overboard. I’m just trying to look out for you, you know.”
“Sure, Top. Whatever you say.”
“You heard the latest, I take it.”
Bosch stopped in his tracks.
“They caught Waits?”
“No, I wish.”
“Then, what?”
“It’s all over the news. Everybody’s worked up about it down here. Some girl got snatched off the stree
t in Hollywood last night. Pulled into a van on Hollywood Boulevard. The division had those new street cameras installed last year and one of the cameras caught part of the abduction. I haven’t seen it but they say it’s Waits. He’s changed his look—shaved his head, I think—but they’re saying it was him. There’s a press conference at eleven and they’re going to show the tape to the world.”
Bosch felt a dull thud pound in his chest. He had been right about Waits not leaving town. He wished now he had been wrong. As he had these thoughts he realized that he still thought of the killer as Raynard Waits. It didn’t matter if he was truly Robert Foxworth, Bosch knew he would always think of him as Waits.
“Did they get a plate off the van?” he asked.
“No, it was covered. All they put out was that it was a plain white Econoline van. Like the other one he used but older. Look, I’ve gotta go. I just wanted to check in. Hopefully, this is the last day. OIS will finish up and you’ll be back in the unit.”
“Yeah, that would be good. But listen, during his confession, Waits said he had a different van in the nineties. Maybe the task force should get somebody to look through old DMV registrations under his name. They might come up with a plate to go with the van.”
“It’s worth a shot. I’ll tell them.”
“Okay.”
“Stay close to home, Harry. And give my regards to Kiz.”
“Right.”
Bosch closed the phone, happy that he’d been able to come up with the Kiz line on the spot like that. But he also knew that he was becoming a good liar with Pratt, and that didn’t make him very happy.
Bosch got into his car and headed toward Wilshire Boulevard. The call from Pratt had increased his sense of urgency. Waits had abducted another woman, but there had been nothing in the files to indicate that he killed his victims immediately. That meant the latest victim might still be alive. Bosch knew that if he could get to Waits he could save her.
The DCFS offices were crowded and loud. He waited at a records counter for fifteen minutes before he got the attention of a clerk. After taking Bosch’s information and typing it into a computer, she told him that there was indeed a juvenile file relating to Robert Foxworth, DOB 11/03/71, but that to see it he would need a court order authorizing his search of the records.
Bosch just smiled. He was too excited by the fact that a file was actually still in existence to be upset by one more frustration. He thanked her and told her he would be back with the court order.
Bosch stepped back out into the sunlight. He knew he was at a crossroads now. Dancing around the truth of where he was during phone calls with Abel Pratt was one thing. But if he was to apply for a search warrant seeking the DCFS records without departmental approval—coming in the form of a supervisor’s okay—then he would be completely going off the reservation. He would be conducting a rogue investigation and committing a firing offense.
He figured he could take what he had into Randolph at OIS or the Fugitive Task Force and let them run with it, or he could go the rogue route and accept the possible consequences. Since coming back from retirement Bosch had felt less constricted by the rules and regulations of the department. He had already walked out the door once and knew that if push came to shove he would be able to do it again. The second time would be easier. He didn’t want it to come to that but he could do it if he had to.
He pulled out his phone and made the one call he knew might save him from making a choice between two bad options. Rachel Walling answered her cell on the second ring.
“So what’s happening over there in Tactical?” he asked.
“Oh, we always have something happening here. How did it go downtown? Did you hear that Waits abducted another woman last night?”
She had a habit of asking more than one question at a time, especially when she was excited. Bosch told her that he had heard about the abduction and then related the tale of his morning’s activities.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m thinking about seeing if the FBI might be interested in joining the case.”
“And what about the case would carry it across the federal threshold?”
“You know, corruption of public officials, campaign finance violations, kidnapping, cats and dogs living together—the usual stuff.”
She stayed serious.
“I don’t know, Harry. You open that door and there’s no telling where it will go.”
“But I’ve got an insider. Somebody who will watch out for me and safeguard the case.”
“Wrong. They probably wouldn’t let me anywhere near this. It’s not my group and there’s the conflict of interest.”
“What conflict? We’ve worked together before.”
“I’m just telling you how this will likely be received.”
“Look, I need a search warrant. If I go off the reservation to get one I probably won’t be able to come back on again. I know it will be the last straw with Pratt, that’s for sure. But if I can say that I was brought into a federal investigation, then that would give me a valid explanation. It would give me an out. All I want is to look at Foxworth’s DCFS file. I think it will lead us to whatever’s in Echo Park.”
She was quiet for a long moment before responding.
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m still at DCFS.”
“Go get a doughnut or something. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You sure?”
“No, but that’s what we’re going to do.”
She hung up the phone. Bosch closed his and looked around. Instead of a doughnut he went over to a newspaper box and got the morning edition of the Times. He took a seat on the planter that ran along the front length of the DCFS building and looked through the paper for stories on the Raynard Waits and Beachwood Canyon investigations.
There was no story on the abduction on Hollywood Boulevard because that had occurred during the night and long after the paper’s deadline. The coverage of the Waits story had moved off the front page to the state and local section but it was still extensive. There were three stories in all. The most prominent report was on the so-far-unsuccessful nationwide search for the escaped serial killer. Most of the information had already been rendered obsolete by the events of the night. There was no nationwide search anymore. Waits was still here in the city.
This story jumped inside the section and was framed by two sidebars. One was an update on the investigation that filled in some of the details of what had happened during the shoot-out and escape, and the other story was a political update. This latter story was written by Keisha Russell and Bosch quickly scanned it to see if anything they had discussed about Rick O’Shea’s campaign financing had gotten into the paper. Luckily there was nothing, and he felt his trust in her rising.
Bosch finished reading the stories and there was still no sign of Rachel. He moved into other sections of the paper, studying the box scores of sporting events he cared nothing about and reading reviews of movies he would never see. When there was nothing left for him to read he put the paper aside and started pacing in front of the building. He became anxious, worried that he’d lose the edge the morning’s discoveries had given him.
He got out his phone to call her but decided instead to call St. Joseph’s Hospital and check on Kiz Rider’s condition. He was transferred to the third-floor nursing station and was then put on hold. While he was waiting to be connected he saw Rachel finally pull up in a federal cruiser. He closed the phone, crossed the sidewalk and met her as she was getting out.
“What’s the plan?” he said by way of greeting.
“What, no ‘how are you doing’ or ‘thanks for coming’?”
“Thanks for coming. What’s the plan?”
They started walking into the building.
“The plan is the federal plan. I go in and draw down on the man in charge the full force and weight of the government of this great country. I raise the specter of terrorism and he gives us t
he file.”
Bosch stopped.
“You call that a plan?”
“It’s worked pretty well for us for more than fifty years.”
She didn’t stop. He now had to hurry to catch up.
“How do you know it’s a man in charge?”
“Because it always is. Which way?”
He pointed straight ahead in the main hallway. Rachel didn’t break stride.
“I didn’t wait around for forty minutes for this, Rachel.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I had a better idea. A federal search warrant, remember?”
“That was a nonstarter, Bosch. I told you, I open that door and you get trampled. This is better. In and out. If I get you the file, I get you the file. Doesn’t matter how.”
She was two paces in front of him now, moving with federal momentum. Bosch secretly started to believe. She moved through the double doors beneath the sign that said RECORDS with an authority and command presence that could not be questioned.
The clerk Bosch had dealt with was at the counter speaking with another citizen. Walling stepped right up and didn’t wait for an invitation to speak. She drew her credentials from her suit jacket pocket in one smooth move.
“FBI. I need to see your office manager in regard to a matter of urgency.”
The clerk looked at her with an unimpressed face.
“I will be with you as soon as I fin—”
“You’re with me now, honey. Go get your boss or I’ll go get him. This is life-or-death urgent.”
The woman made a face that seemed to indicate she had never encountered such rudeness before. Without a word to the citizen in front of her or anyone else she stepped away from the counter and walked to a door behind a row of cubicles.
They waited less than a minute. The clerk stepped back out through the door, followed by a man wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt and a maroon tie. He came directly to Rachel Walling.
“I’m Mr. Osborne. How can I help you?”
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