The Black Echo

by Michael Connelly

  “Then the fourth and fifth breakouts are matching lists from the first three. D is anybody who rented a box in the previous three months and also reported no loss. E is anybody on the dead-end list who was also on the three-month list. Understand?”

  He did. The FBI’s thinking had been that the vault had to have been cased by the thieves before the break-in and that was most likely accomplished by simply going into the bank and renting a box. That way they had legitimate access; the guy who rented the box could go inside the vault anytime he wanted during business hours and have a look around. So the list including anybody who rented a box within three months of the robbery stood a good chance of also including the scout.

  Second, it was likely that this scout would not want to draw attention to himself after the robbery, so he might report nothing stolen from his box. So that would put him on the D list. But if he made no report at all or had given untraceable information on his box rental card, then his name would be on the E list.

  There were only seven names on the D list and five on the E list. One of the E names was circled. Frederic B. Isley of Park La Brea, the name of the man who had bought three Honda ATVs in Tustin. The other names had check marks next to them.

  “Remember?” Eleanor said. “I said that name would come up again.”

  Harry nodded.

  “Isley,” she said. “We think he was the scout. Rented the box nine weeks before the burglary. The bank records show he made a total of four visits to the vault during the next seven weeks. But after the break-in, he never came back, whoever he was. Never filed a report. And when we tried to contact him we found the address was phony.”

  “Get a description?”

  “Not one that would do us any good. Small, dark and maybe handsome was about as good as the vault clerks could do. We thought this guy was the scout even before we found out about the ATVs. When a boxholder wants to see his box, the clerk takes him in, unlocks the little door and then escorts him to one of the viewing rooms. When he’s done, they both take the box back and the customer initials his box card. Kind of like at a library. So, when we looked at this guy’s card we saw the initials — FBI. You’re a man who doesn’t like coincidences. Neither did we. We think somebody was having fun with us. Later, it was confirmed when we tracked the ATVs to Tustin.”

  Harry sipped his coffee.

  “Not much good it did us,” she said. “Never found him. In the debris of the vault after the burglary we were able to find his box. We printed it and the door. Nothing. We showed the vault clerks some mugs — Meadows was in there — and they couldn’t make anybody.”

  “We could go back to them now with Franklin and Delgado, see if one of them was this Isley.”

  “Yeah. We will. I’ll be right back.”

  She got up and left and Bosch went back to drinking coffee and studying the list. He read every name and address on the list, but nothing jogged his memory aside from the handful of names of celebrities, politicians and the like that had safe-deposit boxes. Bosch was going over the list a second time when Eleanor came back. She was carrying a piece of paper, which she slid onto his desk.

  “I checked Rourke’s office. He already sent most of the paperwork I turned in over to records. But the hypnosis memo was still in his in box, so he must not have seen it yet. I took it back. It’s useless now and it might be better if he didn’t see it.”

  Harry glanced at the memo and then folded the page and put it in his pocket.

  “Frankly,” she said, “I don’t think any of the paper was out in the open long enough . . . I mean, I just don’t see it. And Rourke . . . he’s a technocrat, not a killer. Like they said about you at behavioral sciences, he wouldn’t cross the line for money.”

  Bosch looked at her and found himself wanting to say something to please her, to get her back on his side. He could think of nothing and could not understand this new coldness in her manner.

  “Forget it,” he said, and then, looking down at the lists, he added, “How far did you people check out these people who reported no losses?”

  She looked down at the printouts where Bosch had circled list B. There were nineteen names on the list.

  “We ran each name for criminal records,” she began. “We did a telephone interview and later a face-to-face. If an agent got weird vibes or somebody’s story didn’t play well, then another agent would come by unannounced to do a follow-up interview. Kind of get another opinion. I was not part of that. We had a second crew who handled most of the field interviews. If there is a particular name there that you are interested in, I could pull the interview summaries.”

  “What about the Vietnamese names on the lists? I count thirty-four boxholders with Vietnamese names, four are on the no-loss list, one on the dead-end list.”

  “What about the Vietnamese? There is also probably a breakout, if you look for it, on Chinese, Korean, whites, blacks and Latinos. These were equal opportunity bandits.”

  “Yeah, but you came up with a connection to Vietnam in Meadows. Now we have Franklin and Delgado, possibly involved. All three were MPs in Vietnam. We’ve got Charlie Company, which may or may not have a part in this. So, after Meadows became a suspect and you started pulling military records of tunnel rats, did you do any further checking with the Vietnamese on this list?”

  “No — well, yes. On the foreign nationals we ran their names through INS to see how long they’d been here, whether they were legal. But that was about it.” She was quiet a moment. “I can see what you are getting at. It’s a flaw in the way we handled it. See, we didn’t develop Meadows as a possible suspect until a few weeks after the robbery. By then most of these people had already been interviewed. After we started looking at Meadows, I don’t think we went back to see if any of the names on the list fit in with him. You think one of the Vietnamese could have somehow been part of this?”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking. Just looking for connections. Coincidences that aren’t coincidences.”

  Bosch took a notebook out of his coat pocket and started making a list of the names, DOBs and addresses of the Vietnamese boxholders. He put the four who reported no loss and the name from the dead-end list at the top of his own list. He had just finished the list and closed the notebook when Rourke walked into the squad room, his hair still wet from his morning shower. He was carrying a coffee mug that said Boss on the side of it. He saw Bosch and Wish and then looked at his watch.

  “Getting an early start?”

  “Our witness, he turned up dead,” Wish said, no expression on her face.

  “Jesus. Where? They get somebody?”

  Wish shook her head and looked at Bosch with a face that warned him not to start anything. Rourke looked at him also.

  “Does it relate to this?” he said. “Any evidence of that?”

  “We think so,” Bosch said.

  “Jesus!”

  “You said that,” Bosch said.

  “Should we take the case from LAPD, add it to the Meadows investigation?” He said this looking directly at Wish. Bosch was not part of the decision-making team here. She didn’t answer, so Rourke added, “Should we have offered him protection?”

  Bosch couldn’t resist. “From who?”

  A strand of wet hair dropped out of place and across Rourke’s forehead. His face flushed deeply red.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “How’d you know LAPD had the case?”

  “What?”

  “You just asked if we should take the case from LAPD. How’d you know they had it? We didn’t say.”

  “I just assumed. Bosch, I resent what that implies and I resent the hell out of you. Are you implying that I or someone — If you are saying there is a law enforcement leak on this case, then I will request an internal review today. But I’ll tell you right now that if there was a leak it wasn’t from the bureau.”

  “Then where the hell else could it have been? What happened to the reports we filed with you?
Who saw them?”

  Rourke shook his head.

  “Harry, don’t be ridiculous. I understand your feelings, but let’s calm down and think for a minute. The witness was snatched off the street and interviewed at Hollywood Station, then dropped off at a public youth shelter.

  “And, lastly, you’re being followed around by your own department, Detective. I’m sorry, but even your own people apparently don’t trust you.”

  Bosch’s face grew dark. He felt betrayed in a sense. Rourke could only have known about the tail through Wish. She had made Lewis and Clarke. Why hadn’t she said anything to him instead of Rourke? Bosch looked over at her but she was looking down at her desk. He looked back at Rourke, who was nodding his head as if it were on a spring.

  “Yes, she made the tail on you the first day.” Rourke looked around the empty squad room, obviously wishing he had a larger audience. He was moving his weight from one foot to the other now, like a boxer in his corner impatiently waiting for the next round to begin so he could deliver the knockout punch on a fading opponent. Wish continued to sit silently at her desk. And in that moment it seemed to Bosch to be a million years ago that they had held each other in her bed. Rourke said, “Maybe you should look at yourself and your own department before running around making reckless accusations.”

  Bosch said nothing. He just stood up and headed to the door.

  “Harry, where are you going?” Eleanor called from her desk.

  He turned around and looked at her a moment, then he kept walking.

  Lewis and Clarke picked up Bosch’s Caprice as soon as it came out of the federal garage. Clarke was driving. Lewis dutifully noted the time on the surveillance log.

  He said, “He’s got a bug up his ass, better move up on him some.”

  Bosch had turned west on Wilshire and was heading for the 405. Clarke increased his speed to stay with him in the morning rush hour traffic.

  “I’d have a bug somewhere if I’d just lost my only witness,” Clarke said. “If I’d gotten him killed.”

  “How you figure?”

  “You saw it. He stuffed the kid in that shelter and went his merry way. I don’t know what that kid saw or what he told them, but it was important enough for him to have to be eliminated. Bosch shoulda taken better care. Kept him under lock and key.”

  They went south on the 405. Bosch was ten cars ahead, now staying in the slow lane. The freeway was thick with a stinking, polluting mass of moving steel.

  “I think he’s going for the 10,” Clarke said. “He’s going into Santa Monica. Maybe back to her place, probably forgot his toothbrush. Or she’s coming back to meet him for a nooner. You know what I say? I say we let him go and we go back to talk to Irving. I think we can build something on this witness thing. Maybe dereliction of duty. There is enough to get an administrative hearing. He’d at least get bounced out of homicide, and if Harry Bosch ain’t allowed to be on the homicide table then he’ll pick up and leave. One more notch on our barrel.”

  Lewis thought about his partner’s idea. It wasn’t bad. It could work. But he didn’t want to pull off the surveillance without Irving’s say-so.

  “Keep with him,” he said. “When he stops somewhere, I’ll drop a quarter and see what Irving wants to do. When he buzzed me this morning about the kid, he seemed pretty stoked. Like things were getting good. So I don’t want to pull off without his say-so.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, how’d Irving know about the kid getting snuffed so fast?”

  “I don’t know. Watch it here. He’s taking the 10.”

  They followed the gray Caprice onto the Santa Monica Freeway. They were now going away from the working city, against the grain, and were in lighter traffic. But Bosch no longer was speeding. And he went past the Clover Field and Lincoln exits to Eleanor Wish’s home, staying on the freeway until it curved through the tunnel and came out below the beach cliffs as the Pacific Coast Highway. He headed north along the coast, with the sun bright overhead and the Malibu mountains just opaque whispers ahead in the haze.

  “Now what?” Clarke said.

  “I don’t know. Hang back some.”

  There wasn’t much traffic on the PCH and they were having trouble keeping at least one car between them and Bosch’s car at all times. Though Lewis still believed that most cops never bothered to check if they were being followed, today he was making an exception to that theory with Bosch. His witness had been murdered; he might instinctively think someone had been following him, or still was.

  “Yeah, just hang back. We got all day and so does he.”

  Bosch’s pace held steady for the next four miles, until he turned into a parking lot next to Alice’s and the Malibu pier. Lewis and Clarke cruised by. After a half mile Clarke made an illegal U-turn and headed back. When they pulled into the parking lot, Bosch’s car was still there but they didn’t see him.

  “The restaurant again?” Clarke said. “He must love the place.”

  “It’s not even open this early.”

  They both began looking around in all directions. There were four other cars at the end of the lot, and the racks on top of them said they belonged to the cluster of surfers rising and falling on the seas south of the pier. Finally, Lewis saw Bosch and pointed. He was halfway to the end of the pier, walking, with his head down and his hair blowing a hundred different ways. Lewis looked around for the camera and realized it was still in the trunk. He took a pair of binoculars out of the glove compartment and trained them on Bosch’s diminishing figure. He watched until Bosch reached the end of the wooden planking and leaned his elbows on the railing.

  “What’s he doing?” Clarke asked. “Let me see.”

  “You’re driving. I’m watching. He’s not doing anything anyway. Just leaning there.”

  “He’s got to be doing something.”

  “He’s thinking. Okay? . . . There. He’s lighting a cigarette. Happy? He’s doing something. . . . Wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “Shit. We should’ve had the camera ready.”

  “What’s this ‘we’ shit? That’s your job today. I’m driving. What’s he doing?”

  “He dropped something. Into the water.”

  Through the field glasses Lewis saw Bosch’s body leaning limply on the railing. He was looking down into the water below. There was no one else on the pier as far as Lewis could see.

  “What did he drop? Can you see?”

  “How the fuck do I know what he dropped? I can’t see the surface from here. Do you want for me to go out there and get one of the surfer boys to paddle over and see for us? I don’t know what he dropped.”

  “Cool your jets. I was just asking. Now, can you remember the color of this object he dropped?”

  “It looked white, like a ball. But it sort of floated.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t see the surface.”

  “I meant it floated down. I think it was a tissue or some kind of paper.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Just standing there at the railing. He’s looking down into the water.”

  “Crisis of conscience time. Maybe he’ll jump and we can forget this whole damned thing.”

  Clarke giggled at his feeble joke. Lewis didn’t.

  “Yeah, right. I’m sure that’s going to happen.”

  “Give me the glasses and go call in. See what Irving wants to do.”

  Lewis handed over the binoculars and got out. First, he went to the trunk, opened it and got out the Nikon. He attached a long lens and then took it around to the driver’s window and handed it to Clarke.

  “Get a picture of him out there, so we’ll have something to show Irving.”

  Then Lewis trotted over to the restaurant to find a phone. He was back in less than three minutes. Bosch was still leaning on the rail at the end of the pier.

  “Chief says under no circumstances are we to break off the tail,” Lewis said. “He also said our reports sucked ass. He wants more detail, and
more pictures. Did you get him?”

  Clarke was too busy watching through the camera to answer. Lewis picked up the binoculars and looked. Bosch remained unmoving. Lewis couldn’t figure it. What is he doing? Thinking? Why come all the way out here to think?

  “Fucking Irving, that figures,” Clarke suddenly said, dropping the camera into his lap to look at his partner. “And yeah, I got a few pictures of him. Enough to make Irving happy. But he’s not doing anything. Just leaning there.”

  “Not anymore,” Lewis said, still looking through the binoculars. “Start her up. It’s showtime.”

  Bosch walked off the pier after dropping the crumpled hypnotism memo into the water. Like a flower cast on a spoiled sea, it held its own on the surface for a few brief moments and then sank out of sight. His resolve to find Meadows’s killer was now stronger: now he sought justice for Sharkey as well. As he made his way on the old planking of the pier he saw the Plymouth that had been following him pull out of the restaurant lot. It’s them, he thought. But no matter. He didn’t care what they had seen, or thought they had seen. There were new rules now, and Bosch had plans for Lewis and Clarke.

  He drove east on the 10 into downtown. He never bothered to check his mirror for the black car because he knew it would be there. He wanted it to be there.

  When he got to Los Angeles Street, he parked in a no-parking zone in front of the U.S. Administration Building. On the third floor Bosch walked through one of the crowded waiting rooms of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. The place smelled like a jail — sweat, fear and desperation. A bored woman was sitting behind a sliding glass window working on the Times crossword. The window was closed. On the sill was a plastic paper-ticket dispenser like they use at a meat-market counter. After a few moments she looked up at Bosch. He was holding his badge up.

  “Do you know a six-letter word for a man of constant sorrow and loneliness?” she asked after sliding the window open and then checking her nail for damage.