The Harry Bosch Novels

by Michael Connelly

  Bosch quickly scanned the room and saw a white telephone on the desk. It would be perfect. It was an antique, the kind where the handset was cradled above a rotary dial. Binh moved toward his desk but Bosch quickly spoke up.

  “Mr. Binh? Would it be okay if we sat over here on the couch? We’d like to keep this as informal as possible. We sit at desks all day, to tell you the truth.”

  Binh shrugged his shoulders as though it made no difference to him, that they were inconveniencing him no matter where they sat. It was a distinctly American gesture, and Bosch believed his seeming difficulty with English was a front used to better insulate him. Binh sat down on one side of the L-shaped couch and Eleanor and Bosch took the other. “Nice office,” Bosch said and looked around. He saw no other phone in the room.

  Binh nodded. He offered no tea or coffee, no small talk. He just said, “What do you want, please?”

  Bosch looked at Eleanor.

  She said, “Mr. Binh, we are just retracing our steps. You reported no financial loss in the vault break-in. We —”

  “That is right. No loss.”

  “That is correct. What did you keep in the box?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Papers and such, no value. I told this to everyone already.”

  “Yes, we know. We are sorry to bother you again. But the case remains open and we have to go back and see if we missed anything. Could you tell me in specific detail what papers you lost? It might help us, if we make a recovery of property and can identify who it belongs to.”

  Eleanor took a small notebook and pen out of her purse. Binh looked at his two visitors as if he could not possibly see how his information could help. Bosch said, “You’d be surprised sometimes what little things can —”

  His pager tone sounded and Bosch pulled the device off his belt and looked at the number display. He stood up and looked around, as if he was just noticing the room for the first time. He wondered if he was overdoing it.

  “Mr. Binh, can I use your phone? It’ll be local.”

  Binh nodded, and Bosch walked to the front of the desk, leaned over and picked up the handset. He made a show of checking the pager number again, then dialed Edgar’s number. He remained standing with his back to Eleanor and Binh. He looked up at the wall, as if studying the silk tapestry that hung there. He heard Binh begin to describe to Eleanor the immigration and citizenship papers that had been taken from his safe-deposit box. Bosch put the pager in his coat pocket and came out with the small pocketknife, the T-9 phone bug and the small battery he had disconnected from his own phone.

  “This is Bosch, who paged me?” he said into the phone when Edgar picked up. After Edgar put the phone down, he said, “I’ll hold a few minutes, but tell him I’m in the middle of an interview. What’s so important?”

  With his back still to the couch and Binh still talking, Bosch turned slightly to the right and cocked his head as if he were holding the phone to his left ear, where Binh could not see it. Bosch brought the handset down to stomach level, used the knife to pop off the earpiece cover — clearing his throat as he did this — and then pulled out the audio receiver. With one hand he connected the bug to its battery — he had practiced doing it earlier while waiting for the new car in the fleet yard at Wilcox. Then he used his fingers to shove the bug and battery into the barrel of the handset. He put the receiver back in and snapped on the cover, coughing loudly to camouflage any sound.

  “Okay,” Bosch said into the phone. “Well, tell him I’ll call back when I am through here. Thanks, man.”

  He put the phone back on the desk while returning the knife to his pocket. He went back to the couch, where Eleanor was writing in a notebook. When she was finished she looked at Bosch and Bosch knew without any sign that now the interview would shift into a new direction.

  “Mr. Binh,” she said. “Are you sure that is all you had in the box?”

  “Yes, sure, why do you ask me so much?”

  “Mr. Binh, we know who you are and the circumstances of your coming to this country. We know you were a police officer.”

  “Yes, so? What’s it mean?”

  “We also know other things —”

  “We know,” Bosch cut in, “you were very highly paid as a police officer in Saigon, Mr. Binh. We know that for some of your work you were paid in diamonds.”

  “What does this mean, what he says?” Binh said, looking at Eleanor and gesturing with his hand to Bosch. He was lapsing into the defense of language barrier. He seemed to know less English as the interview went on.

  “It means what he says,” she answered. “We know about the diamonds you brought here from Vietnam, Captain Binh. We know you kept them in the safe-deposit box. We believe the diamonds were the motivation for the vault break-in.”

  The news didn’t shake him, he may have already considered as much. He did not move. He said, “This not true.”

  “Mr. Binh, we’ve got your package,” Bosch said. “We know all about you. We know what you were in Saigon, what you did. We know what you took with you when you came here. I don’t know what you are into now — it all looks legit, but we don’t really care. What we do care about is who ripped off that bank. And they ripped it off because of you. They took the collateral for all this and everything else you’ve got. Now, I don’t think we are telling you something that you probably haven’t figured out or thought about on your own. In fact, you might have even thought your old partner Nguyen Tran was behind it because he knew what you had and maybe where it was. Not a bad guess, but we don’t think so. In fact, we think he is next on the list.”

  Not a crack formed on the stone that was Binh’s face.

  “Mr. Binh, we want to talk to Tran,” Bosch said. “Where is he?”

  Binh looked down through the coffee table in front of him to the three-headed dragon on the rug beneath it. He put his hands together on his lap, shook his head and said, “Who is this Tran?”

  Eleanor glared at Bosch and tried to salvage what rapport she had had with the man before he butted in.

  “Captain Binh, we’re not interested in taking any action against you. We simply want to stop another vault break-in before it happens. Can you help us, please?”

  Binh didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands.

  “Look, Binh, I don’t know what you’ve got going on this,” Bosch said. “You might have people out there trying to find the same people we are, I don’t know. But I’m telling you right now, you are out of it. So tell us where Tran is.”

  “I don’t know this man.”

  “We are your only hope. We have to get to Tran. The people that ripped you off, they are in the tunnels again. Right now. If we don’t get to Tran this weekend, there won’t be anything left for you or him.”

  Binh remained a stone, as Bosch expected. Eleanor stood up.

  “Think about it, Mr. Binh,” she said.

  “We’re running out of time, and so is your old partner,” Bosch said as they headed for the door.

  • • •

  After walking through the showroom door Bosch looked both ways for traffic and ran across Vermont to the car. Eleanor walked it, anger making her strides stiff and jerky. Bosch got in and reached to the floor behind the front seat for the Nagra. He turned it on and set the recording speed at its fastest level. He didn’t think the wait would be long. He hoped all the electronic equipment in the store would not skew the reception. Eleanor got in the passenger side and started to complain.

  “That was magnificent,” she said. “We’ll never get anything out of that guy now. He’s just going to call up Tran and — what the hell is that?”

  “Something I picked up from the shooflies. They dropped a bug in my phone. Oldest trick in the IAD book.”

  “And you just put it in…” She pointed across the street and Bosch nodded.

  “Bosch, do you realize what could happen to us, what this means? I’m going back in there and getting —”

&nbs
p; She opened the car door but he reached across and pulled it closed.

  “You don’t want to do that. This is our only way to get to Tran. Binh wasn’t going to tell us, no matter how we handled the interview, and deep down behind those angry eyes you know it. So it’s this or nothing. Binh warns Tran and we never know where he is, or we use this to maybe find him. Maybe. We’ll probably know soon enough.”

  Eleanor looked straight forward and shook her head.

  “Bosch, this could mean our jobs. How could you do this without consulting me?”

  “For that reason. It could mean my job. You didn’t know.”

  “I’d never prove it. The whole thing looks like a setup. I keep him occupied while you do your little charade on the phone.”

  “It was a setup, only you didn’t know. Besides, Binh and Tran are not the targets of our investigation. We are not gathering evidence against them, just from them. This will never go in a report. And if he finds the bug, he can’t prove I put it there. There was no register number. I looked. The suits weren’t stupid enough to make it traceable. We’re clear. You’re clear. Don’t worry.”

  “Harry, that is hardly reassur —”

  The red light on the Nagra flicked on. Someone was using Binh’s phone. Bosch checked to make sure the tape was rolling.

  “Eleanor, you make the call,” Bosch said, holding the recorder up on the palm of his hand. “Turn it off if you want. Your choice.”

  She turned and looked at the recorder, then at Bosch. Just then the dialing stopped and it was silent in the car. A phone began to ring at the other end of Binh’s call. She turned away. Someone answered the phone. A few words were exchanged in Vietnamese and then more silence. Then a new voice was on the line and a conversation began, also in Vietnamese. Bosch could tell one of the voices belonged to Binh. The other sounded like a man about Binh’s age. It was Binh and Tran, together again. Eleanor shook her head and forced a short laugh.

  “Brilliant, Harry, now who do we get to translate? We aren’t letting anyone else know about this. We can’t risk it.”

  “I don’t want to translate it.” He turned the receiver off and rewound the tape. “Get out your little pad and pen.”

  Bosch adjusted the recorder to its slowest speed and hit the play button. When the dialing started, it was slow enough that Bosch could count the clicks. Bosch called the numbers out to Eleanor, who wrote them down. They had the number Binh had dialed.

  The phone number was a 714 area code. Orange County. Bosch switched the receiver on; the telephone conversation between Binh and the unknown man was continuing. He turned it off and picked up the radio microphone. He gave a dispatcher the phone number and asked for the name and address that went with it. It would take a few minutes while someone looked it up in a reverse directory. Meantime, Bosch started the car and headed south toward Interstate 10. He had already connected with the 5 and was heading into Orange County when the dispatcher got back to him.

  The phone number belonged to a business called the Tan Phu Pagoda in Westminster. Bosch looked over at Eleanor, who looked away.

  “Little Saigon,” he said.

  • • •

  Bosch and Wish got to the Tan Phu Pagoda from Binh’s business in an hour. The pagoda was a shopping plaza on Bolsa Avenue where no sign was printed in English. The building was off-white stucco with glass fronts on the half-dozen shops that lined the parking lot. Each was a small establishment that sold mostly unneeded junk like electronic equipment or T-shirts. There were competing Vietnamese restaurants on either end. Next to one of the restaurants was a glass door that led to an office or business without a front display window. Though neither Bosch nor Wish could decipher the words on the door, they immediately figured it was the entrance to the shopping center office.

  “We need to get in there and confirm that’s Tran’s place, see if he’s there and if there are other exits,” Bosch said.

  “We don’t even know what he looks like,” Wish reminded him.

  He thought a moment. If Tran wasn’t using his real name, it would tip him off to go in asking for him.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Wish said. “Find a pay phone. Then I’ll go in the office. You dial the number you got off the tape and when I’m in there I’ll see if it rings. If I hear a phone we have the right place. I’ll also try to scope out Tran and the exits.”

  “Phones might be ringing in there every ten seconds,” Bosch said. “It might be a boiler room or a sweatshop. How will you know it’s me?”

  She was silent a moment.

  “Chances are they don’t speak English, or at least not well,” she said. “So you ask whoever answers to speak English or get someone who can. When you get someone who understands, say something that will get a reaction I’ll be able to see.”

  “You mean if the phone rings in a place where you will see.”

  She shrugged, her eyes showing him she was tired of his shooting down every suggestion she made. “Look, it’s the only thing we can do. Come on, there’s a phone, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  He drove out of the parking lot and a quarter block down to a pay phone out front of a liquor store. Wish walked back to the Tan Phu Pagoda and Bosch watched until she reached the door of the office. He dropped a quarter in the phone and dialed the number he had written on his pad in front of Binh’s. The line was busy. He looked back at the office door. Wish was gone from view. He dropped the quarter and dialed again. Busy. He did it in quick succession two more times before he got a ring. He was thinking that he had probably dialed the wrong number, when the call was answered.

  “Tan Phu,” a male voice said. Young, Asian, probably early twenties, Bosch thought. Not Tran.

  “Tan Phu?” Bosch asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Bosch could not think of what to do. He whistled into the phone. The comeback was a staccato verbal attack of which Bosch could not understand a single word or sound. Then the phone at the other end was slammed down. Bosch walked back to the car and drove back toward the shopping plaza and into the narrow parking lot. He was cruising through it slowly when Wish appeared at the glass door with a man. An Asian. Like Binh, he had gray hair and had the aura; unspoken power, unflexed muscle. He held the door open for Eleanor and nodded to her as she said thanks. He watched her walk off and then disappeared inside again.

  “Harry,” she said as she got in the car, “what did you say to the guy on the phone?”

  “Not a word. So it was that office?”

  “Yeah. I think that was our Mr. Tran who held the door for me. Nice guy.”

  “So what did you do to become such great pals?”

  “I told him I was a real estate lady. When I went in I asked to see the boss. Then Mr. Gray Hair came out of a back office. He said his name was Jimmie Bok. I said I represented Japanese investors and asked if he was interested in taking an offer on the shopping center. He said no. He said, in very fine English, ‘I buy, I don’t sell.’ Then he escorted me out. But I think that was Tran. Something about him.”

  “Yeah, I saw it,” Bosch said. Then he picked up the radio and asked dispatch to run the name Jimmie Bok on the NCIC and DMV computers.

  Eleanor described the inside of the office. A central reception area, a hallway running behind it with four doors, including one at the rear that looked like an exit, judging by the double lock. No women. At least four men other than Bok. Two of them looked like hired muscle. They stood up from the reception room couch when Bok walked out of the middle door in the hallway.

  Bosch drove out of the lot and around the block. He cut up the alley that ran behind the shopping plaza. He stopped when he had driven far enough to see a gold stretch Mercedes parked next to a rear door to the complex. There was a double lock on the door.

  “That’s got to be his wheels,” Wish said.

  They decided they would watch the car. Bosch drove on by it to the end of the alley and parked behind a Dumpster. Then he realized it was full of garbage from
the restaurant. He backed out and drove out of the alley completely. He parked on the side street so that by looking out the passenger side of the car, they both could see the rear end of the Mercedes. Bosch could also look at Eleanor at the same time.

  “So, I guess we wait,” she said.

  “Guess so. No way of telling whether he’ll do anything after Binh’s warning. Maybe he did something after Binh got ripped off last year and we’re just spinning our wheels.”

  Bosch got a radio callback from the dispatcher: Jimmie Bok had a clean driving record. He lived in Beverly Hills and he had no criminal record. Nothing else.

  “I’m going back to the phone,” Eleanor announced. Bosch looked at her. “I have to check in. I’ll tell Rourke we’re set up on this guy and see if he can’t shake someone loose to maybe call some banks and run his name. To see if he is a customer. I’d also like to run him on the property computer. He said, ‘I buy, I don’t sell.’ I’d like to know what he buys.”

  “Fire a shot if you need me,” Bosch said, and she smiled as she opened the door.

  “You want something to eat?” she asked. “I’m thinking about getting take-out for lunch from one of those restaurants up front.”

  “Just coffee,” he said. He hadn’t eaten Vietnamese food in twenty years. He watched her walk around to the front of the center.

  About ten minutes after she was gone, as Bosch watched the Mercedes, he saw a car pass by the other end of the alley. He immediately made it as a police sedan. A white Ford LTD without wheel covers, just the cheap hub-caps that revealed the matching white wheels. It had been too far away for him to see who was in it. He alternately looked at the Mercedes and then at the rearview mirror to see if the LTD was coming around the block. But in five minutes, he never saw it.

  Wish was back ten minutes after that. She was carrying a grease-stained brown bag from which she pulled one coffee and two goldfish cartons. Steamed rice and crab boh, she said. He passed on her offer and rolled his window down. He sipped the coffee she handed to him and grimaced.