Echo Park

by Michael Connelly

  “Thanks, Jason.”

  “You got it.”

  Edgar started walking back to the elevators. Bosch thought of something and called after him.

  “Jason, this glass has got film on it, right? Nobody can see us looking out, right?”

  “Yeah, no problem. You could stand there naked and nobody would see you from the outside. But don’t try that at night, ’cause it’s a different story. Internal light changes things and you can look right in.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  “When I come back, I’ll bring a couple chairs.”

  “That would be good.”

  After Edgar disappeared into the elevator, Walling said, “Good, at least we’ll be able to sit naked at the window.”

  Bosch smiled.

  “Sounded like he knew all that from experience,” he said.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Bosch raised the binoculars and looked down at the house at 710 Figueroa Lane. It was of similar design to the other two on the street; built high on the hillside with steps leading down to a street-front garage cut into the embankment below the house. It had a red barrel-tile roof and a Spanish motif. But while the other houses on the street were neatly painted and cared for, 710 appeared run-down. Its pink paint had faded. The embankment between the garage and the house was overrun with weeds. The flagpole that stood at the corner of the front porch flew no flag.

  Bosch fine-tuned the focus of the field glasses and moved them from window to window, looking for indications of occupancy, hoping to get lucky and see Waits himself looking back out.

  Next to him he heard Walling click off a few photos. She was using the camera.

  “I don’t think there’s any film in that. It’s not digital.”

  “It’s all right. Just force of habit. And I wouldn’t expect a dinosaur like you to have a digital camera.”

  Beneath the binoculars, Bosch smiled. He tried to think of a rejoinder but let it go. He focused his attention back on the house. It was of a style commonly seen in the city’s older hillside neighborhoods. While with newer construction the contour of the land dictated design, the houses on the inclined side of Figueroa Lane were of a more conquering design. At street level the embankment was excavated for a garage. Then, above this, the hillside was terraced and a small single-level home had been constructed. The mountains and hillsides all over the city were molded this way in the forties and fifties as the city sprawled through the flats and grew up the hillsides like a rising tide.

  Bosch noticed that at the top of the stairs that ran from the side of the garage up to the front porch there was a small metal platform. He checked the stairs again and saw the metal guide rails.

  “There’s a lift on the stairs,” he said. “Whoever’s living there now is in a wheelchair.”

  He saw no movement behind any window viewable from the angle they had. He dropped his focus down to the garage. It had a pedestrian entrance door and double garage doors that had been painted pink a long time before. The paint, what was left of it, was gray now and the wood was splintering in many places from direct exposure to the afternoon sun. One garage door looked as though it had closed at an uneven angle to the pavement. It didn’t look operational anymore. The pedestrian entrance door had a window, but a shade was pulled down behind it. Across the top panel of each of the garage doors was a row of small square windows, but they were being hit with direct sunlight and the dazzling reflection prevented Bosch from seeing in.

  Bosch heard the elevator ding and put the binoculars down for the first time. He checked behind him and saw Jason Edgar carrying two chairs toward them.

  “Perfect,” Bosch said.

  He took one of the chairs and positioned it near the glass so he could sit on it backwards and prop his elbows on the seat back—classic surveillance form. Rachel positioned her chair so she could sit normally in it.

  “Did you get a chance to check with records, Jason?” she asked.

  “I did,” Edgar said. “Services to that address are billed to a Janet Saxon and have been for twenty-one years.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. I take it that’s all you need from me right now?”

  Bosch looked up at Edgar.

  “Jerry, you—I mean, Jason—you’ve been a great help. We appreciate it. We’ll probably stick around a little bit and then split. You want us to let you know or drop these chairs off somewhere?”

  “Uh, just tell the guy in the lobby on your way out. He’ll get a message to me. And leave the chairs. I can take care of that.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  “Good luck. Hope you get your man.”

  Everybody shook hands and Edgar returned to the elevator. Bosch and Walling went back to watching the house on Figueroa Lane. Bosch asked Rachel if she would prefer taking shifts and she said no. He asked if she would rather use the binoculars and she said she would stick with the camera. Its long lens actually allowed her a closer focus than the binoculars did.

  Twenty minutes went by and no movement at the house was seen. Bosch had spent the time moving back and forth between the house and the garage but was now training his focus on the heavy brush on the ridgeline up above, looking for another possible observation position that would put them closer. Walling spoke excitedly.

  “Harry, the garage.”

  Bosch lowered his focus and picked up the garage. The sun had moved behind a cloud and the glare had dropped off the line of windows across the top panel of each garage door. Bosch saw Rachel’s discovery. Through the windows of the garage door that appeared to still be functional he could see the back of a white van.

  “I heard that a white van was used in the abduction last night,” Walling said.

  “That’s what I heard, too. It’s part of the BOLO.”

  He was excited. A white van in a house where Raynard Waits had lived.

  “That’s it!” he called out. “He has to be in there with the girl. Rachel, we gotta go!”

  They got up and hurried to the elevator.

  28

  THEY DEBATED BACKUP as they sped out of the DWP garage. Walling was for it. Bosch was against.

  “Look, all we have is a white van,” he said. “She might be in that house, but he might not be. If we storm in there with the troops, we could lose him. So all I want to do is check it out up close. We can call for backup when we get there. If we need it.”

  He believed his view was certainly reasonable, but so was hers.

  “And what if he is in there?” she asked. “The two of us could be walking into an ambush. We need at least one team of backup, Harry, to do this correctly and safely.”

  “We’ll call them when we get there.”

  “That will be too late. I know what you’re doing. You want this guy for yourself and you’re willing to risk that girl—and us—to get it.”

  “You want me to drop you off, Rachel?”

  “No, I don’t want you to drop me off, Harry.”

  “Good. I want you to be there.”

  Decision made, they ended the discussion. Figueroa Street ran behind the DWP Building. Bosch took it east under the 101 Freeway, crossed Sunset and then followed it as it jogged north and under the 110 Freeway. Figueroa Street became Figueroa Terrace, and they drove to where it ended and Figueroa Lane curved up to the crest of the hillside. Bosch pulled the car to the curb before driving up it.

  “We walk up and then we stay close to the line of garages until we get to seven-ten,” he said. “If we stay in close, he won’t have an angle on us from the house.”

  “What if he isn’t in the house? What if he’s in the garage waiting for us?”

  “Then we deal with it. We clear the garage first and then go up the stairs to the house.”

  “The houses are on the hillside. We still need to cross the street.”

  He looked at her across the top of the car as they got out.

  “Rachel, are you with me or not?”
r />   “I told you, I’m with you.”

  “Then, let’s go.”

  Bosch got out and started trotting up the sidewalk leading up the hill. He pulled out his phone and turned it off so it wouldn’t possibly vibrate while they were sneaking the house.

  He was huffing by the time he got to the top. Rachel was right behind him and didn’t show the same level of oxygen depletion. Bosch hadn’t smoked in years but the damage of twenty-five years before that had been done.

  Their only visual exposure to the pink house at the end of the street came when they got to the top and had to cross over to the garages that lined the east side of the street. They walked it, Bosch casually holding Walling by the arm and whispering in her ear.

  “I’m using you to block my face,” he said. “He’s seen me but he’s never seen you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said when they got across. “If he saw us, you can expect he knows what’s happening.”

  He ignored the warning and started moving in front of the garages, which were built right along the sidewalk line. They got to 710 quickly and Bosch went to the panel of windows over one of the doors. Cupping his hands against the dirty glass, he looked in and saw that the interior was crowded by the van and stacks of boxes, barrels and other junk. He saw no movement and heard no sound. A door at the back wall of the garage was closed.

  He stepped over to the garage’s pedestrian door and checked the knob.

  “Locked,” he whispered.

  He stepped back and looked at the two pull-up doors. Rachel was now standing by the far door and leaning in close to it to listen for sounds from inside. She looked at Bosch and shook her head. Nothing. He looked down and saw that there was a handle at the bottom of each pull-up door but no exterior locking mechanism. He went to the first one, bent down and tried to pull the door open. It came about an inch and then stopped. It was locked from the inside. He tried the second door and encountered the same response. The door gave for a few inches but then stopped. Because of the minimal movement each door allowed, Bosch guessed that they were secured inside by padlocks.

  Bosch stood up and looked at Rachel. He shook his head and pointed upward, meaning it was time to go up to the house.

  They moved to the concrete stairs and quietly started up. Bosch led the way and stopped four steps from the top. He crouched and tried to catch his breath. He looked at Rachel. He knew they were winging it. He was winging it. There was no way to approach the house but to go directly to the front door.

  He turned from her and studied the windows one by one. He saw no movement, but he thought he could hear the sound of a television or radio coming from inside. He pulled his gun—it was a backup he had gotten out of the hallway closet that morning—and went up the final steps, holding the weapon down at his side as he quietly crossed the porch to the front door.

  Bosch knew that a search warrant was not at issue here. Waits had abducted a woman, and the life-and-death nature of the situation assuredly pushed them into no-warrant, no-knock territory. He put his hand on the knob and turned. The door was unlocked.

  Bosch slowly pushed the door open, noticing that a two-inch ramp had been placed over the threshold to accommodate a wheelchair. As the door came open the sound of the radio became louder. An evangelical station, a man talking about the impending rapture.

  They stepped into the house’s entry area. To the right it opened into a living room with a dining area to the back. Directly ahead through an arched opening was the kitchen. A hallway to the left led to the rest of the house. Without looking back at Rachel he pointed to the right, meaning she would go that way while he moved forward and cleared the kitchen before taking the hallway to the left.

  As he reached the archway Bosch glanced at Rachel and saw her moving through the living room, weapon up in a two-handed grip. He stepped into the kitchen and saw that it was clean and neat, without a dish in the sink. The radio was on the counter. The speaker was telling his listeners that those who did not believe would be left behind.

  There was another archway leading from the kitchen to the dining room. Rachel came through it, pointed her gun up when she saw Bosch and shook her head.

  Nothing.

  That left the hallway leading to the bedrooms and the rest of the house. Bosch turned and went back through the archway to the entry area. When he turned toward the hallway he was startled to see an old woman sitting in a wheelchair in the threshold to the hallway. On her lap she was holding a long-barrel revolver. It looked like it was too heavy for her frail arm to hold up.

  “Who’s there?” she said forcefully.

  Her head was turned at an angle. Though her eyes were open they were focused on the floor instead of Bosch. It was her ear that was trained toward him and he knew she was blind.

  He raised his gun and pointed it at her.

  “Mrs. Saxon? Take it easy. My name is Harry Bosch. I’m just looking for Robert.”

  A look of puzzlement played on her features.

  “Who?”

  “Robert Foxworth. Is he here?”

  “You’ve got the wrong place, and how dare you come in here without knocking.”

  “I—”

  “Bobby uses the garage. I don’t let him use the house. All those chemicals, it smells awful.”

  Bosch started edging toward her, his eyes on the gun the whole time.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Saxon. I thought he was up here. Has he been here lately?”

  “He comes and goes. He comes up here to give me the rent, that’s all.”

  “For the garage?”

  He was getting closer.

  “That’s what I said. What do you want him for? Are you his friend?”

  “I just want to talk to him.”

  Bosch reached down and took the gun out of her hand.

  “Hey! That’s my protection.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Saxon. I’ll give it back. I just think it needs to be cleaned up a little. And oiled. This way it will be sure to work in case you ever really need to use it.”

  “I need it.”

  “I’m going to take it down to the garage and get Bobby to clean it. Then I’ll bring it back.”

  “You better.”

  Bosch checked the gun. It was loaded and appeared operational. He put it into the waistband at the back of his pants and looked at Rachel. She was standing three feet behind him in the entryway. She made a movement with her hand, pantomiming turning a key. Bosch understood.

  “Do you have a key to the garage door, Mrs. Saxon?” he asked.

  “No. Bobby came and got the extra key.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Saxon. I’ll check with him.”

  He moved toward the front door. Rachel joined him and they went out. Halfway down the steps to the garage, Rachel grabbed his arm and whispered.

  “We have to call backup. Now!”

  “Go ahead and call but I’m going into the garage. If he’s in there with the girl, we can’t wait.”

  He shook off her grip and continued down. When he got to the garage he looked once again through the windows on the top panels and saw no movement inside. His eyes focused on the door on the rear wall. It was still closed.

  He moved over to the pedestrian door and opened the blade of a small folding knife that was attached to his key ring.

  Bosch went to work on the door’s lock and got the blade across the tongue. He nodded to Rachel to be ready and pulled the door open. But it didn’t come. He tried it again and pulled hard. Again the door would not come open.

  “There’s an inside lock,” he whispered. “It means he’s in there.”

  “No, it doesn’t. He could’ve come out through one of the garage doors.”

  He shook his head.

  “They’re locked from the inside,” he whispered. “All the doors are locked from the inside.”

  Rachel understood and nodded.

  “What do we do?” she whispered back.

  Bosch thought about things for a moment a
nd then handed her his keys.

  “Go back and get the car. When you get up here, park it with the rear end right here. Then pop the trunk.”

  “What are you—”

  “Just do it. Go!”

  She ran down the sidewalk in front of the garages and then crossed the street and dropped from sight down the hill. Bosch moved toward the pull-up door that looked like it had closed awkwardly. It was out of alignment and he knew it would be the better of the two doors to try to breach.

  Bosch heard the Mustang’s big engine before he saw his car come over the hill. Rachel drove toward him fast. He stepped back against the garage to give her maximum room to maneuver. She made almost a complete turn in the street and then backed toward the garage. The trunk was popped and Bosch immediately reached in for the rope he kept in the back. It was gone. He then remembered that Osani had taken it after discovering it on the tree in Beachwood Canyon.

  “Shit!”

  He quickly looked through the trunk and found a shorter length of clothesline he had used once to tie down the trunk lid when he was moving a piece of furniture to the Salvation Army. He quickly tied one end of the cord to a steel towing loop underneath the car’s bumper and then the other end to the handle at the bottom of the garage door. He knew that something would have to give. The door, the handle or the rope. They had a one-in-three shot at getting the door open.

  Rachel had gotten out of the car.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Bosch quietly closed the car’s trunk.

  “We’re going to pull it open. Get back in the car and go forward. Go slow. A sudden jerk will snap the line. Go ahead, Rachel. Hurry.”

  Without a word she got back in the car, dropped it in drive and started moving forward. She watched in the rearview and he rolled a finger to keep her moving. The cord pulled taut and then Bosch could hear the sound of the garage door groaning as the pressure mounted. He stepped back and at the same time drew his gun again.

  The garage door gave way all at once and popped up and out three feet.

  “Stop!” Bosch yelled, knowing there was no longer any need for whispers.

  Rachel stopped pulling but the line remained taut and the garage door was held open. Bosch moved forward quickly and used his momentum to duck and roll beneath it. He came up inside the garage with his gun up and ready. He swept the space but saw no one. Keeping his eyes on the door at the rear wall, he sidestepped over to the van. He jerked one of the side doors open and quickly checked the interior. It was empty.