Two Kinds of Truth

by Michael Connelly

  “Sorry I’m late,” Bosch said. “I didn’t know it was going to be all hands on deck.”

  “We were eating while waiting,” Lourdes said. “Harry, this is Agent Hovan from the DEA.”

  16

  The man with the tight sleeves stood up and reached across the table to shake Bosch’s hand. As he did so, he assessed Bosch the way an art critic might look the first time at a sculpture, or a college football coach at a high school cornerback.

  After freeing his hand from Hovan’s grip, Bosch pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat down. Lourdes picked up the tray of breakfast burritos and offered to pass it down but Bosch put up his hand and shook his head.

  “So,” he said. “Agent Hovan, what brings you here first thing this morning?”

  “You called, I wanted to respond,” Hovan said. “Since it was Jerry who referred me to you, I spoke with him yesterday about you and the case and thought it would be best if we all met in person.”

  “To brief us all on Santos?” Bosch asked.

  Before Hovan answered, the chief spoke up.

  “Agent Hovan came in to see me first thing this morning,” he said. “He’s going to brief us all, but he also has a couple ideas about our investigation.”

  “Our investigation,” Bosch said.

  “Harry, don’t get ruffled,” Valdez said. “It’s not what you think. Just hear the man out.”

  “I think Harry’s right,” Sisto said. “When the feds come in, they come in to take things over. This is our case.”

  “Could we just give him a chance to talk?” the chief insisted.

  Bosch made a gesture, giving Hovan the go-ahead, but he admired Sisto for standing up.

  “Okay, I think I got the lay of the land from your chief and Jerry,” Hovan said. “You got the two-bagger and you’ve zeroed in on the clinic over in Pacoima. Today you were probably going to come in here, put your heads together, and decide to go small to get big. Am I right?”

  “What does that mean?” Lourdes asked.

  “You were going to pick off a pill shill or a capper and start trading up, right?” Hovan said. “It’s how it usually works.”

  “And that’s a problem?” Lourdes asked. “It’s usually the way it works because it’s what works.”

  She glanced at Bosch to back her up.

  “Yes, that was the plan,” Bosch said. “But I suppose the DEA has an alternate suggestion.”

  “Correct,” Hovan said. “If you want to get the man who ordered the hit on that pharmacy, then you’re talking about Santos, and there ain’t nobody in the world who knows Santos and his operation like I do. And I can tell you, catching small fish to go after the big fish is not going to work.”

  “Why is that?” Lourdes asked.

  “Because the big fish is too insulated,” Hovan said. “Based on what I’ve been told about this case, I would say you have it right. Those two hitters were sent by Santos, but you’ll never make that connection. For all we know, those two are already dead and buried in the desert. Santos doesn’t take chances.”

  “So then how do we get him?” Lourdes ask.

  The tone of her voice revealed her dislike of the idea of the big-shot fed dropping in to school them on their own case.

  “You need somebody inside,” Hovan said.

  “That’s your idea?” Lourdes asked.

  “That’s it,” he said. “You have an opportunity here. A way in.”

  “Me,” Sisto said. “I’ll go undercover.”

  Everyone turned to look at Sisto. His eagerness to assume a key role in the case was outweighing his inexperience and the danger of undercover work.

  “No, not you,” Hovan said.

  He pointed across the table at Bosch.

  “Him,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?” Lourdes asked.

  “How old are you, Detective Bosch?” Hovan asked. “Over sixty-five, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes,” Bosch said.

  Hovan gestured as if presenting Bosch to the others at the table.

  “We take Detective Bosch, make him look a little older, a little more worn, and a little more hungry. We give him a new ID and Medicare card. We change his clothes, take away his razor and soap for a few days. What we do is follow the clinic’s van and arrest a few of the shills at a pharmacy, make it look like a random enforcement operation. Jerry and I take care of that. Then, when the capper gets back to the clinic and is a few bodies short and looking at being a few thousand pills short by the end of the month, in walks the perfect recruit.”

  Hovan used his hands again to offer Bosch to the group.

  “The ‘perfect recruit’?” Luzon said.

  “He’s the right age and just what they’ll be looking for,” Hovan said. “You ever work undercover, Detective?”

  All eyes went to Bosch.

  “Not really,” he said. “A few times here and there on cases. Nothing serious. Just how close would I be able to get to Santos if I’m being run around the state to pharmacies all day?”

  “Put it this way: closer than anybody else in law enforcement,” Hovan said. “Santos is a phantom. He’s the Howard Hughes of hillbilly heroin. Nobody’s seen him in nearly a year. Our intel photos of him are even older. But here’s the thing.”

  Hovan opened a thin manila file that had been on the table in front of him. It contained a two-page document stapled together. He held it up for all to see.

  “This is a John Doe arrest warrant for Santos. It’s a RICO case and it’s solid, and this warrant was issued more than a year ago. We have not executed it because we can’t identify or find the guy. But you might be able to. You get recruited and you might get close enough to signal us in. We’ll set you up with all you need. You see Santos, you call us in and we take him down. You take down the man who ordered the hit on that pharmacy. Maybe we even get the shooters.”

  Hovan had spun the plan with an urgent tone in his voice. It was met with a long silence as it was considered. Bosch held his hand out for the file containing the warrant, and Hovan passed it over. Harry took a quick glance at it to make sure it hadn’t been a prop. It looked legit. John Doe AKA “Santos” charged under the federal Racketeering Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. It was the catchall law used by the feds to go after mobsters for almost fifty years.

  It was Lourdes who broke the silence.

  “We heard your last inside man took a plane ride and never came back,” she said.

  “Yeah, but he wasn’t a cop,” Hovan said. “He was an amateur and made an amateur mistake. That wouldn’t happen with Bosch. He’d be prepped and pretty—that’s what we call being totally ready to go under. I mean, this is a perfect opportunity here.”

  Hovan looked directly at Bosch to make his final pitch.

  “I gotta admit, when I checked you out with Jerry and heard you were an old guy, my mind started working overtime. We don’t get guys your age doing UC work. I mean, none. You’re the perfect way in.”

  Bosch was beginning to bristle.

  “Yeah, enough with the ‘old guy’ stuff,” he said. “I get your point.”

  Chief Valdez cleared his throat and stepped into the conversation before anybody else could respond.

  “If Harry gets on a plane, he could end up anywhere,” he said. “I don’t like that.”

  “Most likely he’d be taken down to Slab City,” Hovan said.

  “And what exactly is Slab City?”

  “A retired military base down near the bottom of the Salton Sea. When they closed the base, they pulled everything out of there except the hard surfaces. That’s the landing strips and the slabs they built the Quonsets on. Squatters came in and took over, built their own places. Then the Santos operation came in, uses the airstrips, and built a tent city for his operation.”

  “Why don’t you just go in and shut it all down?” Lourdes asked.

  “Because we want Santos,” Hovan said. “We don’t care about the addicts he runs as
shills. They’re a dime a dozen. We want the head of the snake, and that’s why we need somebody inside to send out the signal when he’s there.”

  “Okay, we need to think about this,” Valdez said. “Detective Bosch also needs to decide if this is something he would even be willing to do. He is a reserve officer in the department and I’m not going to order him to do anything with a risk factor like you’re talking about here. So give us a day or two and we’ll get back to you with an answer.”

  Hovan raised his palms in a hands-off manner.

  “Hey, roger that,” Hovan said. “I just wanted to come up here and make my pitch. I’ll let you people get back to work. You call me with your decision.”

  He stood up to leave but Bosch stopped him with three words.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  Hovan looked at him, and a smile started to spread on his face.

  “Harry, wait a minute,” Valdez said. “I think we should take our time and consider other options.”

  “Harry, are you sure?” Lourdes added. “This is a dangerous—”

  “Give me a couple days to get ready,” Bosch said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Okay, okay,” Hovan said. “Don’t shave and don’t bathe. Body odor is a tell. If you don’t stink, you ain’t a user.”

  “Good to know,” Bosch said.

  “I can hook you up with a user if you want to research it,” the agent offered.

  “No,” Bosch said. “I think I know somebody I can talk to. When do we do this?”

  Bosch looked at the faces surrounding the table. The looks of concern far outweighed the look of excitement on Hovan’s face.

  “How about we go Friday?” Hovan said. “That’ll give us time to work out logistics and request a shadow team. Maybe get you some time with our UC trainers.”

  “I’ll want full coverage on him,” Valdez said. “I don’t have the people to do it but I don’t want Harry out there with his ass in the breeze.”

  “He won’t be,” Hovan said. “We’ll have him covered.”

  “What about when he’s on that plane?” Lourdes asked.

  “We’ll have air support,” Hovan said. “We won’t lose him. We’ll be so high above that plane, they won’t even know we’re there.”

  “And when he lands?” Edgar asked.

  “I’m not going to candy-coat it. When he gets to Slab City, he’s on his own. But we’ll be nearby and ready for the signal.”

  That ended the questions from Lourdes. Hovan looked at the chief.

  “You have a photo of Bosch we can use to make a dummy DL?”

  Valdez nodded.

  “We have the shot we made his police ID with,” he said. “Captain Trevino can take you into the op center to get that.”

  Trevino got up to lead Hovan out. The DEA agent said he would be in touch and would come back Friday morning ready to go with the undercover operation.

  After he was gone, all eyes returned to Bosch.

  “What?” he said.

  “I still want you to think about this,” Valdez said. “Any second thoughts and we pull out.”

  Bosch thought about José Jr. and his naive bravery.

  “No,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  “Why, Harry?” Lourdes asked. “You’ve done your part for years and years. Why are you doing this?”

  Bosch shrugged. He didn’t like all the attention on him.

  “I think about that kid going to college to learn how to do what his father did,” he said. “Then he graduates and gets into the business and finds the corruption of it. He goes through all of that and—big surprise—he does the right thing and it gets him killed. People can call him stupid or naive. I call him a hero and that’s why I’m all in. I want Santos more than Agent Hovan does.”

  He had their rapt attention now.

  “What they did to José Esquivel shouldn’t just go by,” Bosch added. “If this is the best shot we have at Santos, then I want to take it.”

  Valdez nodded.

  “Okay, Harry, we get it,” he said. “And we’re with you one hundred percent.”

  Bosch nodded his thanks and looked across the table at his old partner Edgar. He nodded too. He was on board.

  17

  Haller set up the Legal Siegel interview for that afternoon. The former defense attorney presumed dead by many, including Lance Cronyn and his client Preston Borders, was living in a nursing home in the Fairfax area. Bosch met Haller in the parking lot at two p.m. It was one of the rare occasions Bosch saw Haller emerge from the front seat of his Lincoln and the lawyer explained that he was between drivers at the moment. They proceeded inside. Haller held a briefcase that he told Bosch he was using to carry a video camera and to smuggle in a French dip sandwich from Cole’s in downtown.

  “This is a kosher joint,” Haller explained. “No food allowed in from the outside.”

  “What happens if they catch you?” Bosch asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I get banned for life.”

  “So he’s cool with doing the interview?”

  “Said he was. Once he eats, he’ll want to talk.”

  In the lobby, they signed in as David Siegel’s lawyer and investigator. They then took an elevator up to the third floor. Signing in as Haller’s investigator reminded Bosch of something.

  “How’s Cisco doing?” he asked.

  Dennis “Cisco” Wojciechowski was Haller’s longtime investigator. Two years earlier he and his Harley were taken down on Ventura Boulevard in an intentional hit-and-run. He went through three surgeries on his left knee and came out with a Vicodin addiction that took him six months to recognize before he treated it cold turkey.

  “He’s good,” Haller said. “Real good. He’s back and busy.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Not a problem. Can I tell him what it’s about?”

  “Got a friend I think is addicted to hillbilly heroin. I want to ask him what to look for and what to do.”

  “Then he’s your man. I’ll call him for you as soon as we get out of here.”

  They exited the elevator on the third floor and Haller informed the woman posted at the nursing station that he was visiting his client David Siegel and should not be disturbed. They proceeded down the hallway to Siegel’s private room. Haller pulled a doorknob hanger out of the inside pocket of his suit coat. It said “Legal Conference: Do Not Disturb.” He winked at Bosch as he hung it on the knob and closed the door.

  The wall-mounted TV was blaring a CNN report on a congressional investigation into Russia’s meddling with the presidential election the year before. An old man propped up on a hospital bed was watching it. He looked like he didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, and he had wispy white hair that surrounded his head on the pillow like a halo. He wore an old golf shirt with the Wilshire Country Club crest. His arms were skinny, the skin wrinkled and mottled with age spots. His hands looked lifeless and were folded on top of the blanket that was tucked up neatly under his arms and over his chest.

  Haller moved around the bed and waved to get the bedridden man’s attention.

  “Uncle David,” Haller said loudly. “Hi. I’m going to turn this down.”

  Haller took the TV remote off a side table and killed the sound from the TV.

  “Damn Russians,” Siegel muttered. “I hope I live long enough to see that guy impeached.”

  “Spoken like a true lefty,” Haller said. “But I doubt that’s gonna happen.”

  He turned back to the man in the bed.

  “So how are you?” Haller said. “This is Harry Bosch, my half brother. I’ve told you about him.”

  Siegel put his watery eyes on Bosch and studied him.

  “You’re the one,” he said. “Mickey told me about you. He said you came to the house one time.”

  Bosch knew he was talking about Michael Haller Sr., his father. Bosch had met him only the one time, in his Beverly Hills mansion. He was sick and soon to die. Bosch was fresh bac
k from war in Southeast Asia. When he entered the house he saw a boy of about five or six standing with a housekeeper. He knew then that he had a half brother. A month later he stood on a hillside and watched as their father was put into the ground.

  “Yes,” Bosch said. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Well,” Siegel said. “For me everything was a long time ago. The longer you live, the more you can’t believe how things change.”

  He gestured weakly toward the silent TV screen.

  “I brought you something that hasn’t changed in a hundred years,” Haller said. “Dropped by Cole’s on my way over and got you a French dip.”

  “Cole’s is good,” Siegel said. “I didn’t eat at lunch because I knew you were coming. Raise me up.”

  Haller grabbed another remote off the table and tossed it to Bosch. While Haller opened his briefcase to get out the sandwich, Bosch raised the upper portion of the bed until Siegel was in an almost seated position.

  “We’ve met before,” Bosch said. “Sort of met. You cross-examined me on the stand in the case we are going to talk about today.”

  “Of course,” Siegel said. “I remember. You were very thorough. A good witness for the prosecution.”

  Bosch nodded his thanks as Haller tucked a napkin into the open collar of the old man’s shirt. He then slid the over-bed table across his lap and unwrapped the sandwich in front of him. He opened up a Styrofoam sidecar of jus and put it down on the table as well. Siegel immediately picked up one half of the sandwich, dipped the edge into the juice, and started eating it, taking small bites and savoring each one of them.

  While Siegel ate his sandwich and thought about the old days, Haller took the mini-camcorder out of his briefcase and set it up on a mini-tripod on the over-bed table. He adjusted the table while looking at the framing of the shot, and then they were ready.

  It took Legal Siegel thirty-five minutes to eat his French dip sandwich.