He expected to find a message from Lewis and Clarke on his phone tape when he got home. He wasn’t wrong, but the message was not what he expected.
“I know you’re there, so listen,” said a voice Bosch recognized as Clarke’s. “They can change their mind but they can’t change ours. We’ll see you around.”
There were no other messages. He played Clarke’s message over three times. Something had gone wrong for them. They must have been called off. Could his lame threat to the FBI to go to the media have worked? Even as he thought the question, he doubted the answer was yes. So then, what happened? He sat down in the watch chair and began drinking the beers, the Mexicans first, and looking through the war scrapbook he had forgotten to put away. When he had opened it Sunday night he had opened a dark memory. He now found himself entranced by it, the distance of time having faded the threat as well as the photos. Sometime after dark the phone rang and Harry picked it up before the tape machine.
“Well,” said Lieutenant Harvey Pounds, “the FBI now thinks they might have been too harsh. They’ve reassessed and want you back in. You are to aid their investigation in any way they request. That comes down from administration, Parker Center.”
Pounds’s voice betrayed his astonishment at the reversal.
“What about IAD?” Bosch asked.
“Nothing filed on you. Like I said, the FBI is backing away, so is IAD. For now.”
“So I am back in.”
“You’re back in. Not my choice. Just so you know, they went over me, because I told them to blow it out their collective asses. Something about this stinks, but I guess that will have to wait for later. For now, you are on detached assignment. You are working with them until further notice.”
“What about Edgar?”
“Don’t worry about Edgar. He’s not your concern anymore.”
“Pounds, you act like you did me a favor putting me on the homicide table when they kicked me out from Parker Center. I did you the favor, man. So if you’re looking for apologies from me, you aren’t getting any.”
“Bosch, I’m not looking for anything from you. You fucked yourself. Only problem with that is that you may have fucked me in the process. If it was up to me, you wouldn’t be near this case. You’d be checking pawnshop lists.”
“But it isn’t up to you, is it?”
He hung up before Pounds could reply. He stood there thinking for a few moments and his hand was still on the phone when it rang again.
“What?”
“Rough day, right?” Eleanor Wish said.
“I thought it was somebody else.”
“Well, I guess you’ve heard.”
“I heard.”
“You’ll be working with me.”
“How come you called off the dogs?”
“Simple, we want to keep the investigation out of the papers.”
“There’s more to it.”
She didn’t say anything but she didn’t hang up. Finally, he thought of something to say.
“Tomorrow, what do I do?”
“Come see me in the morning. We’ll go from there.”
Bosch hung up. He thought about her, and about how he didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t walk away now. He went into the kitchen and took the bottle of Old Nick from the refrigerator.
Lewis stood with his back to the passing traffic, using his wide body to block the sound from intruding into the pay phone.
“He starts with the FBI — er, the bureau, tomorrow morning,” Lewis said. “What do you want us to do?”
Irving didn’t answer at first. Lewis envisioned him on the other end of the line, jaw worked into a clench. Popeye face, Lewis thought and smirked. Clarke walked over from the car then and whispered, “What’s so funny? What did he say?”
Lewis batted him away and made a don’t-bother-me face at his partner.
“Who was that?” Irving asked.
“It was Clarke, sir. He’s just anxious to know our assignment.”
“Did Lieutenant Pounds talk to the subject?”
“Yes sir,” Lewis said, wondering if Irving was taping the call. “The lieutenant said the, uh, subject has been told he is to work with the F — the bureau. They are consolidating the murder and the bank investigations. He is working with Special Agent Eleanor Wish.”
“What’s his scam . . . ?” Irving said, though no reply was expected, or offered by Lewis. There was silence on the phone line for a while because Lewis knew better than to interrupt Irving’s thoughts. He saw Clarke approaching the phone booth again and he waved him away and shook his head as if he were dealing with an impetuous child. The doorless phone booth was at the bottom of Woodrow Wilson Drive, next to the Barham Boulevard crossing over the Hollywood Freeway. Lewis heard the sound of a semi thunder by on the freeway and felt warm air blow into the booth. He looked up at the lights of the houses on the hillside and tried to pinpoint which one came from Bosch’s stilt house. It was impossible to tell. The hill looked like a giant, fat Christmas tree with too many lights.
“He must have some kind of leverage on them,” Irving finally said. “He’s muscled his way into it. I’ll tell you what your assignment is. You two stay on him. Not so he knows. But stay with him. He is up to something. Find out what. And build your one point eighty-one case along the way. The Federal Bureau of Investigation may have withdrawn its complaint, but we will not back off.”
“What about Pounds, you still want him copied?”
“That is Lieutenant Pounds, Detective Lewis. And yes, copy him your daily surveillance log. That will be enough for him.”
Irving hung up without another word.
“Very good, sir,” Lewis said to the dead phone. He didn’t want Clarke to know he had been slighted. “We’ll stay with it. Thank you, sir. Good night.”
Then he, too, hung up, privately embarrassed that his commander had not deemed it necessary to say good night to him. Clarke quickly walked up.
“So?”
“So we pick him up again tomorrow morning. Bring your piss bottle.”
“That’s it? Just surveillance?”
“At this time.”
“Shit. I want to search that fucker’s house. Break some stuff. He’s probably got the shit from that heist sitting up there.”
“If he was involved, I doubt he would be so stupid. We sit back for now. If he’s dirty on this, we’ll see.”
“Oh, he’s dirty. Don’t worry.”
“We’ll see.”
Sharkey sat on the concrete block wall that fronted a parking lot on Santa Monica Boulevard. He closely watched the lighted front of the 7-Eleven across the street, checking out who was coming and who was going. Mostly tourist trade and couples. No singles yet. None that fit the bill. The boy called Arson sauntered over and said, “This ain’t going nowhere, budro.”
Arson’s hair was red and waxed into spiky flames. He wore black jeans and a dirty black T-shirt. He was smoking a Salem. He wasn’t stoned but he was hungry. Sharkey looked at him and then past him to where the third boy, the one known as Mojo, sat on the ground near the bikes. Mojo was shorter and wider, with his black hair slicked back in a knob behind his head. Acne scars marked his face forever as sullen.
“Give it a few more minutes,” Sharkey said.
“I want to eat, man,” Arson said.
“Well, what do you think I’m trying to do? We all want to eat.”
“Maybe we could see how Bettijane’s doing,” Mojo said. “She’ll have made enough for us to eat.”
Sharkey looked over at him and said, “You two go ahead. I’m staying till I score. I’m gonna eat.”
As he said this he watched a maroon Jaguar XJ6 pull into the convenience store’s lot.
“How about the guy in the pipe?” Arson asked. “You think they found him yet? We could go up there and check him out, see if there is any bread. I don’t know why you didn’t have the balls to do it last night, Shark.”
“Hey, y
ou go up there by yourself and check it out if you want,” Sharkey said. “See who has balls then.”
He hadn’t told them that he had called 911 about the body. That would be harder for them to forgive than his fear of going into the pipe. A lone man got out of the Jaguar. He looked like late thirties, brush cut, baggy white slacks and shirt, sweater draped around his shoulders. Sharkey saw no one waiting in the car.
“Hey, check out the Jag,” he said. The other two looked over at the store. “This is it. I’m going.”
“We’ll be here,” Arson said.
Sharkey got off the wall and trotted across the boulevard. He watched the Jag’s owner through the windows of the store. He had an ice cream in his hand and was looking at the magazine rack. His eyes were constantly on the prowl as he looked at the other men in the store. Sharkey was encouraged as he saw the man head toward the counter to pay for the ice cream. He squatted against the front of the store, the grille of the Jag four feet away.
When the man came out, Sharkey waited for their eyes to lock and the man to smile before he spoke up.
“Hey, mister?” he said as he got up. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”
The man looked around the parking lot before answering.
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Well, I was wondering if you might go in and get me a beer. I’ll give you the money and all. I just want a beer. To relax, you know?”
The man hesitated. “I don’t know . . . that would be illegal, wouldn’t it? You’re not twenty-one. I could get in trouble.”
“Well,” Sharkey said with a smile, “do you have any beer at home? Then you wouldn’t have to be buying it. Just giving somebody a beer ain’t no crime.”
“Well. . . .”
“I wouldn’t stay long. We could probably relax each other a little bit, you know?”
The man took another look around the parking lot. No one was watching. Sharkey thought he had him now.
“Okay,” he said. “I can take you back here later if you want.”
“Sure. That’d be cool.”
They drove east on Santa Monica to Flores and then south a couple of blocks to a townhouse development. Sharkey never turned around or tried to look in the mirrors. They would be back there. He knew it. There was a security gate on the outside of the property which the man had a key for and pulled closed behind them. Then they went into his townhouse.
“My name is Jack,” the man said. “What can I get you?”
“I’m Phil. Do you have any food? I’m kind of hungry, too.” Sharkey looked around for the security intercom, and the button that would unlatch the gate. The apartment was mostly light-colored furniture on an off-white deep pile carpet. “Nice place.”
“Thanks. Let me see what I have. If you want to wash your clothes, we can get that done, too, while you are here. I don’t do this very often, you know. But when I can help someone I try.”
Sharkey followed him into the kitchen. The security console was on the wall next to the phone. When Jack opened the refrigerator and bent down to look in, Sharkey pushed the button that opened the gate outside. Jack didn’t notice.
“I have tuna fish. And I can make a salad. How long have you been on the street? I’m not going to call you Phil. If you don’t want to tell me your real name, that’s fine.”
“Um, tuna fish would be good. Not too long.”
“Are you clean?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m okay.”
“We’ll take precautions.”
It was time. Sharkey stepped backward into the hall. Jack looked up from the refrigerator, a plastic bowl in his hand, his mouth slightly ajar. Sharkey thought there was a look of recognition in his face, like he knew what was about to happen. Sharkey twisted the dead bolt and opened the door. Arson and Mojo walked in.
“Hey, what is this?” Jack said, though there was no confidence in his voice. He rushed into the hall and Arson, who was the biggest of all four of them, hit him with a fist on the bridge of his nose. There was a sound like a pencil breaking, and the plastic bowl of tuna fish clumped to the ground. Then there was a lot of blood on the off-white carpet.
PART III
TUESDAY, MAY 22
Eleanor Wish called again Tuesday morning while Harry Bosch was fiddling with his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. She said she wanted to meet at a coffee shop in Westwood before taking him into the bureau. He had already had two cups of coffee but said he’d be there. He hung up, fastened the top button on his white shirt and pulled the tie snugly to his neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he had paid such attention to the details of his appearance.
When he got there, she was in one of the booths along the front windows. She had both hands on the water glass in front of her and looked content. There was a plate pushed off to the side that had the paper wrapping from a muffin on it. She gave him a short courtesy smile as he slid in and waved a hand at a waitress.
“Just coffee,” Bosch said.
“You already ate?” Wish said when the waitress went away.
“Uh, no. But I’m fine.”
“You don’t eat much, I can tell.”
Said more like a mother than a detective.
“So, who’s going to tell me about it? You or Rourke?”
“Me.”
The waitress put down a cup of coffee. Bosch could hear four salesmen in the next booth dickering over the table’s breakfast bill. He took a small swallow of hot coffee.
“I would like the FBI’s request for my help put on paper, signed by the senior special agent in charge of the Los Angeles office.”
She hesitated a moment, put her glass down and looked directly at him for the first time. Her eyes were so dark they betrayed nothing about her. At their corners, he saw just the beginning of a gentle web of lines in the tan skin. At the line of her chin there was a small, white crescent scar, very old and almost unnoticeable. He wondered if the scar and the lines bothered her, as he believed they would most women. Her face seemed to him to have a slight sadness cast in it, as if a mystery carried inside had worked its way outside. Perhaps it was fatigue, he thought. Nevertheless, she was an attractive woman. He figured her age for early thirties.
“I think that can be arranged,” she said. “Any other demands before we get to work?”
He smiled and shook his head no.
“You know, Bosch, I got your murder book yesterday and read through it last night. For what you had there, and for one day’s work, it was very good work. Most other detectives, that body’d still be in the waiting line at the morgue and listed as probable accidental OD.”
He said nothing.
“Where should we begin on it today?” she asked.
“I’ve got some things working that weren’t in the book yet. Why don’t you tell me about the bank burglary first? I need the background. All I know is what you put out to the papers and on the BOLOs. You bring me up, then I’ll take it from there, tell you about Meadows.”
The waitress came and checked his cup and her glass. Then Eleanor Wish told the story of the bank heist. Bosch thought of questions as she went along, but he tried to note them in his head to ask afterward. He sensed that she marveled at the story, the planning and execution of the caper. Whoever they were, the tunnelers, they had her respect. He found himself almost jealous.
“Beneath the streets of L.A.,” she said, “there are more than four hundred miles of storm lines that are wide enough and tall enough to drive a car through. After that, you’ve got even more tributary lines. Eleven hundred more miles that you could walk or at least crawl through.
“This means anybody can go under and, if they know the way, get close to any building they want to in the city. And it is not that difficult to find the way. The plans for the whole network are public record, on file with the county recorder’s office. Anyway, these guys used the drainage system to get to WestLand National.”
He had already figured as much but didn’t bother to say. She
said the FBI believed there were at least three underground men and then at least one on top to act as lookout, provide other necessary functions. The topsider probably communicated with them by radio, except possibly near the end because of the danger that radio waves might set off the explosive detonators.
The underground men made their way through the drainage system on Honda all-terrain vehicles. There was a drive-in entrance to the storm sewer system at a wash in the Los Angeles River basin northeast of downtown. They drove in there, probably under cover of darkness, and following recorder’s maps, made their way through the tunnel network to a spot under Wilshire Boulevard in downtown, about 30 feet below and 150 yards west of WestLand National. It was a two-mile trip.
An industrial drill with a twenty-four-inch circle bit, probably diamond-tipped, was attached to a generator on one of the ATVs and used to cut a hole through the six-inch concrete wall of the stormwater tunnel. From there the underground men began to dig.
“The actual break-in to the vault occurred on Labor Day weekend,” Wish said. “We think they must have begun the tunnel three or four weeks earlier. They’d only work nights. Go in, dig some and be back out by dawn. The DWP has inspectors that routinely go through the system looking for cracks and other problems. They work days, so the perps probably didn’t risk it.”
“What about the hole they cut in the side, wouldn’t the water and power people have seen that?” asked Bosch, who immediately became annoyed with himself for asking a question before she was done.
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