Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2

by Michael Connelly

  “Elias wouldn’t have known Chastain had been corked unless Chastain had told him, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So just by putting Chastain on the stand and asking him about it would be revealing Chastain as his source.”

  Garwood nodded.

  “I can see that,” he said. “Yeah.”

  “Even if Chastain sat up there and denied every question, Elias could ask the questions in a way that they would still get the point—and in this case, the truth—across to the jury.”

  “It would also make the point at Parker Center,” Garwood said. “Chastain would be exposed. Question is, why would Elias expose his source? Somebody who had been helping him a hell of a lot over the years. Why would he give that up?”

  “Because this was Elias’s home run case. The big one that would put him on the national map. It would put him on Court TV, Sixty Minutes, Larry King and everything else. It would make him. He would be willing to burn his source for that. Any lawyer would.”

  “I see that, too. Yeah.”

  The next part was left unsaid. That being the question of what Chastain would do to prevent being publicly burned on the stand. To Bosch the answer was obvious. If he were exposed not only as Elias’s source but as the investigator who compromised the internal investigation of Michael Harris’s complaint, he would be vilified both inside and outside the department. There would be nowhere for him to go and that would be untenable for a man like Chastain, for any man. Bosch believed Chastain would be willing to kill to prevent that from happening.

  “Thanks, Captain,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “It doesn’t matter, you know.”

  Bosch looked over at him.

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The press releases have been made, the press conferences given, the story’s out and the city is ready to go like kindling. You think the people in the south end care which cop killed Elias? They don’t give a shit. They already have what they want. Chastain, Sheehan, doesn’t matter. What matters is that a badge did it. And if you go making noise you’ll just be adding more fuel to the fire. You bring up Chastain and you bring up the cover-up. A lot of people might get hurt, lose their jobs, all because they wanted to head this off in the first place. You better think about that, Harry. Nobody cares.”

  Bosch nodded. He understood the message. Go along to get along.

  “I care,” he said.

  “Is that enough of a reason?”

  “What about Chastain then?”

  Garwood had a thin smile on his face. Bosch could see it behind the glowing point of his cigarette.

  “I think Chastain deserves whatever he gets. And someday he’ll get it.”

  Now there was a new message and Bosch thought he understood that as well.

  “And what about Frankie Sheehan? What about his reputation?”

  “There’s that,” Garwood said, nodding. “Frankie Sheehan was one of my guys . . . but he’s dead and his family doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Bosch said nothing but that answer wasn’t acceptable. Sheehan was his friend and partner. Tainting him tainted Bosch himself.

  “You know what bothers me?” Garwood asked. “And maybe you might be able to help me, being that you and Sheehan were partners at one time.”

  “What? What bothers you?”

  “The gun Sheehan used. It wasn’t yours now, was it? I know they asked you that.”

  “No, not mine. We had gone by his house on the way to mine. To get clothes and things. He must’ve picked it up then. The FBI must’ve missed it when they searched his place.”

  Garwood nodded.

  “I heard you made notification to his wife. Did you ask her about that? You know, about the gun.”

  “I asked. She said she didn’t know about any gun but that doesn’t —”

  “No serial number,” Garwood said, cutting in. “A throw-down gun, everybody knows that’s what that was.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s what bothers me. I knew Sheehan a lot of years. He worked for me a long time and you get to know your guys. I never knew him to be the kind of guy who would have a throw-down . . . I asked some of the other guys—especially the ones that partnered with him since you went to Hollywood. They never knew about a throw-down. What about you, Harry? You worked with him the longest. Did he ever carry an extra piece?”

  It hit Bosch then, like a punch in the chest. The kind where you have to keep perfectly still and silent and wait it out until you slowly get your breath back. He had never known Frank Sheehan to carry a throw-down on the job. He was too good for that. And if you were too good to carry one on the job, why have one hidden at home? That question and its obvious answer had been there right in front of him all along. But he had missed it.

  Bosch remembered sitting in his car outside Sheehan’s house. He remembered the set of headlights he saw in the mirror and the car pulling to the curb down the block. Chastain. He had followed them. To Chastain, Sheehan alive was the only loose end that could cause things to unravel.

  He thought of his neighbor’s reports of three to four shots being fired at his house. In his mind a drunken cop’s suicide was now a calculated murder.

  “Motherfucker,” Bosch whispered.

  Garwood nodded. He had successfully led Bosch down the road to where he apparently already was.

  “Now, do you see how it could have been done?” he asked.

  Bosch tried to slow his thoughts and let it come to him. Finally, he nodded.

  “Yes, I see now.”

  “Good. I’ll make a call. I’ll have whoever is on duty in the basement let you have a look at the sign-out log. No questions asked. That way you’ll be sure.”

  Bosch nodded. He reached over and opened the door. He got out without another word and started back toward his car. He was running before he got there. He didn’t know why. There was no hurry. It was no longer raining. He just knew he had to keep moving to keep from screaming.

  37

  Outside of Parker Center there was a candlelight vigil and a funeral procession. Two cardboard caskets—one marked JUSTICE, the other marked HOPE—WERE BEING CARRIED ALOFT BY THE CROWD AS THEY MARCHED BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE FRONT PLAZA. OTHERS CARRIED SIGNS THAT SAID justice for people of all colors and JUSTICE FOR SOME IS JUSTICE FOR NONE. Above news helicopters circled and on the ground there were at least six news crews that Bosch could see. It was getting close to eleven and all of them were getting ready to put out live reports from the protest front.

  At the front door a phalanx of cops in uniforms and riot helmets stood ready to defend the police headquarters if the crowd turned from peaceful demonstration to violence. In 1992 a peaceful demonstration had turned violent and the mob roamed downtown destroying everything in its path. Bosch hurried toward the lobby doors, skirting behind the procession of protesters and through a crack in the human defense line, after holding his badge up high over his head.

  Inside, he passed the front counter, which had four cops behind it, also wearing helmets, and went through the elevator lobby and took the stairwell. He went down to the basement level and then followed the hallway to the evidence storage center. He realized as he went through the door into evidence that he hadn’t passed a soul since the front counter. The place seemed empty. Under the emergency response plan, all available hands of the A shift were out on the street.

  Bosch looked through the wire-mesh window but didn’t recognize the man on duty. He was an old vet with a white mustache on a face flushed with gin blossoms. They moved a lot of the old broken-down ones to the basement. This one got off his stool and came to the window.

  “So what’s the weather like outside? I don’t have no windows in here.”

  “The weather? It’s partly cloudy with a chance of riots.”

  “I figured. Tuggins still got his crowd out front?”

  “They’re there.”

  “Yeah, the mutts. Wonder how’d they’d like it
if there were no coppers around. See how they’d like life in the jungle then.”

  “That’s not their point. They want police. They just don’t want cops that are killers. Can you blame ’em for that?”

  “Yeah, well some people need killing.”

  Bosch had nothing to say to that. He didn’t even know why he was parrying with this old dog. He looked down at his nameplate. It said HOWDY. Bosch almost laughed. Something about seeing the unexpected name cracked through the tension and anger that had been twisting him all night.

  “Fuck you. It’s my name.”

  “Sorry. I’m not laughing at—it’s something else.”

  “Sure.”

  Howdy pointed over Bosch’s shoulder at a little counter with forms on it and pencils tied to strings.

  “You want something you gotta fill out the form with the case number.”

  “I don’t know the case number.”

  “Well, we must have a couple million in here. Why don’t you take a wild guess?”

  “I want to see the log.”

  The man nodded.

  “Right. You the one Garwood sent over?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  Bosch didn’t answer. Howdy reached below the window to someplace Bosch couldn’t see. Then he came up with a clipboard and put it into the pass-through slot beneath the wire mesh.

  “How far back you want to look?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Bosch said. “I think just a couple days will do it.”

  “There’s a week on there. That’s all the sign outs. You want sign outs not sign ins, right?”

  “Right.”

  Bosch took the clipboard over to the forms counter so he could look at it without Howdy watching what he was doing. He found what he was looking for on the top page. Chastain had checked out an evidence box at seven that morning. Bosch grabbed one of the sign-out forms and a pencil and started filling it out. He noticed as he wrote that the pencil was a Black Warrior No. 2, the first choice of the LAPD.

  He took the clipboard and form back to the window and slid them through the slot.

  “That box might still be on the go-back cart,” he said. “It was just checked out this morning.”

  “No, it will be back in place. We run a tight ship”—he looked down at the form and the name Bosch had filled out—“Detective Friendly.”

  Bosch nodded and smiled.

  “I know you do.”

  Howdy walked over and got on a golf cart and then drove away into the bowels of the huge storage room. He was gone less than three minutes before the cart came back into view and he parked it. He carried a pink box with tape on it over to the window, unlocked the mesh window gate and passed the box over to Bosch.

  “Detective Friendly, huh? They send you around to the schools to talk to the kids, tell ’em to say no to drugs, stay out of the gang, shit like that?”

  “Something like that.”

  Howdy winked at Bosch and closed the window gate. Bosch took the box over to one of the partitioned cubicles so he could look through its contents privately.

  The box contained evidence from a closed case, the investigation of the shooting of Wilbert Dobbs five years earlier by Detective Francis Sheehan. It had fresh tape sealing it, having just been signed out that morning. Bosch used a little knife he kept on his key chain to cut the tape and open the box. The process of unsealing the box actually took longer than it did for him to find what he was looking for inside it.

  Bosch walked through the crowd of protesters as if they weren’t even there. He didn’t see them or hear their chants of No justice, no peace. Some of them yelled insults directly at Bosch but he didn’t listen to those either. He knew that you didn’t win justice by carrying a sign or a cardboard coffin. You earned it by being on the side of the righteous, by being unswayed from that path. And he knew that true justice was blind to all colors except one: the color of blood.

  Bosch opened his briefcase after getting to his car and looked through all the paperwork until he found the call-out sheet he’d had put together on Saturday morning. He called Chastain’s pager and punched in the number of his cell phone. He then sat in the car for five minutes, waiting for the callback and watching the protest march. As he watched, several of the television crews broke away from their positions and hurried with their equipment toward their vans and he realized that the helicopters were already gone. He sat up straight in his seat. His watch said ten minutes to eleven. He knew that if the media were leaving all at once, and before making their broadcasts, then something must have happened—something big. He flipped on the radio, which was already tuned to KFWB, and caught the middle of a report being delivered in an urgent, quavering voice.

  “— out of the truck, then the beating began. Several bystanders attempted to stop the attack but initially the angry mob of youths held them back. The firefighters were pulled into separate knots of attackers and were being assaulted until a platoon of LAPD units stormed the intersection and rescued the victims, who were pulled into the patrol cars and then driven away—to receive medical attention, we assume, at nearby Daniel Freeman Hospital. The fire engine, left behind, had been set ablaze after the mob unsuccessfully tried to turn it over. The police quickly established a perimeter in the area and calmed things. While some of the attackers were arrested, several escaped into the residential neighborhoods bordering Normandie Boul —”

  Bosch’s phone began ringing. He cut off the radio and flipped the phone open.

  “Bosch.”

  “It’s Chastain, what do you want?”

  Bosch could hear lots of voices and radio squawking in the background. Chastain wasn’t at home.

  “Where are you? We have to talk.”

  “Not tonight. I’m on duty. Twelve and twelves, remember?”

  “Where are you?”

  “In wonderful south L.A.”

  “You’re A shift? I thought all detectives were B shift.”

  “All except IAD. We got the shaft—night shift. Listen, Bosch, I’d love to talk about the schedule but —”

  “Where are you? I’ll come to you.”

  Bosch turned the car’s ignition and started backing out of his spot.

  “I’m at the Seventy-seventh.”

  “I’m on my way. Meet me out front in fifteen minutes.”

  “Forget it, Bosch. I’ll be swamped. I’m on arrest processing and I hear they’re bringing in a dozen mooks who just attacked a fire truck, for chrissakes. These guys were trying to put out a fire in their neighborhood and these animals go after them. I tell you, it’s un-fucking believable.”

  “It never is believable. Be out front in fifteen minutes, Chastain.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Bosch. Things are going to hell out there and Big Blue is about to put down the boots on it. I don’t have time to talk. I have to get ready to put people in jail. You want me to stand out front like a target for some mook with a gun? What is this about, Bosch?”

  “Frank Sheehan.”

  “What about him?”

  “Fifteen minutes. Be out there, Chastain, or I’ll come find you. You won’t want that.”

  Chastain started another protest but Bosch closed the phone.

  38

  It took Bosch twenty-five minutes to get to the Seventy-seventh Street Division station. He was delayed because the 110 Freeway had been closed in all directions by the California Highway Patrol. The freeway was a conduit from downtown to the South Bay area, directly through South L.A. In the last riot, snipers had fired on cars passing through and concrete blocks had been dropped from pedestrian overpasses onto cars below. The CHP was not taking any chances. Motorists were advised to take the circuitous route of the Santa Monica Freeway to the San Diego Freeway and then south. It would take twice as long but it was safer than a run through the expected war zone.

  Bosch took surface streets the whole way. Almost all of them were deserted and he never st
opped once for a traffic light or stop sign. It was like driving through a ghost town. He knew there were hot spots of looting and arson, but he never passed through them. He thought about the picture the media was projecting compared to what he was seeing. Most of the people were inside, locked down and waiting for this to pass. They were good people waiting out the storm, staring at the television and wondering if that was really their city that was being shown on fire.

  The front of the Seventy-seventh station was also strangely empty when Bosch finally pulled up. A police academy bus had been pulled across the entranceway as a guard against drive-by shots and other attacks. But there were no protesters out front and no cops. As Bosch pulled to the no-parking curb in front, Chastain stepped out from the rear of the bus and approached. He was in uniform, his weapon holstered on his hip. He came to Bosch’s window and Bosch lowered it.

  “Where you been, Bosch, you said fif —”

  “I know what I said. Get in.”

  “No, Bosch. I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what the hell you’re doing here. I’m on duty, remember?”

  “I want to talk about Sheehan and the ballistics. About the Wilbert Dobbs case.”

  He noticed Chastain take a slight step back from the car. Mentioning Dobbs had landed a punch. Bosch noticed the sharpshooter ribbon on Chastain’s uniform below the badge.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about but the case on Sheehan is closed. He’s dead, Elias is dead. Everybody’s dead. That’s it. Now we have this—the whole city coming apart again.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Chastain stared at him, trying to read him.

  “You’re not making sense, Bosch. You need to get some sleep. We all do.”

  Bosch opened the door and stepped out. Chastain moved back another step and drew his right hand up a little until he hooked his thumb on his belt near his gun. There were unwritten rules of engagement. That was one of them. Bosch was now on deadly ground. He understood this. He was ready.