Two Kinds of Truth

by Michael Connelly

  “You cleaned up nice,” she said.

  “Yeah, ready to take up golf for the cause,” he said. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the nasty job.”

  “Lot of blood.”

  “Yeah, I went for his bleeders.”

  She looked up at him. Her face told him that she understood how close he had come to being killed.

  “So you still have the key I gave you to the old jail.”

  “Yeah, in my top drawer. You taking off?”

  “Yeah, I want to call my lawyer and my daughter and then I want to sleep for about twenty hours.”

  “We have follow-up on all of this tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I was just kidding about the twenty hours. I just need to get some sleep.”

  “Okay, then I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

  “Right, see you.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks, Bella.”

  Bosch crossed the street, ducked through the Public Works yard, and entered the old jail. When he got to his makeshift desk, he saw that someone—probably Lourdes—had used the key to enter the cell and drop off a stamped letter addressed to him at the police department. Bosch decided to get to it later. He folded it and was about to put it in his back pocket when he realized that his jail pants had no pockets. He tucked it into the waistband, then gathered his things and headed back out, locking the doors behind him.

  His phone screen said he had seventeen messages. He waited until he got on the freeway heading south and then played them over the phone’s speaker as he drove.

  Friday, 1:38 p.m.: Just wanted you to know that we are locked and loaded. Request-to-be-heard motion filed, salvos fired. And word to the wise, my brother? Be prepared; there could be some major pushback on this. Okay, later, talk next week. Oh, and by the way, this is your attorney and it’s Friday afternoon. I know you are off doin’ secret cop stuff somewhere. Give a call if you need to over the weekend.

  Friday, 3:16 p.m.: Harry, it’s Lucy, call me back. It’s important.

  Friday, 4:22 p.m.: Detective Bosch, Alex Kennedy. I need you to give me a call as soon as possible. Thank you.

  Friday, 4:38 p.m.: Harry, Lucy again, what the fuck did you do? I was trying to watch out for you and now you do this? You just—Kennedy is out for blood now. Call me back.

  Friday, 5:51 p.m.: Shit, Harry, this is your old partner, remember me? I had your back and you had mine. Kennedy wants to blow you out of the water. I’m trying to contain this but I’m not sure he’s listening to me. You gotta call me back and you have to tell me what you have. I want the truth just as much as you do.

  Friday, 7:02 p.m.: Hello, Detective Bosch, this is David Ramsey at the Los Angeles Times. Sorry to call you on your personal line but I am working on a story for this weekend about the Preston Borders case. I would love to have your response to some of the things that have come up in court documents. I’ll be at this number all night. Thank you.

  Saturday, 8:01 a.m.: You don’t miss a trick, do you? I thought if I called from a strange number, you might pick up and talk to your old partner. I don’t understand you, Harry. But my hands are tied now. The Times is running with this. Supposedly it’s hitting the website today and in the paper tomorrow. I didn’t want this and if you had just talked to me, I think it could have been avoided. Just remember, I tried.

  Saturday, 10:04 a.m.: Detective Bosch, this is David Ramsey from the Times again. I really want to get your side of things on this story. Court documents allege that you planted key evidence that tied Preston Borders to the murder of Danielle Skyler in nineteen eighty-seven. I really need you to respond to that. It’s in documents filed by the D.A.’s Office so it’s fair game to report but I would want your side of it. I’m at this number all day.

  Saturday, 11:35 a.m.: Hey, Dad, just wanted to say hi and see what you’re up to this weekend. I was thinking of coming up today. Okay, love you.

  Saturday, 2:12 p.m.: Dad, oh Dad, hello, this is your daughter. Remember me? Are you there? My window for coming up is closing. Call me back.

  Saturday, 3:00 p.m.: David Ramsey again. We aren’t holding the story any longer, Detective Bosch. I’ve been to your house, I’ve called all your numbers. No response. It’s been almost twenty-four hours. If I don’t hear back from you in the next couple of hours, then my editors say we go with the story without your response. We will, however, out of fairness, document our many efforts to reach you. Thank you. I hope you will call back.

  Saturday, 7:49 p.m.: Haller here. Have you seen the fucking Times online? I knew there would be pushback but this is beyond the pale. They didn’t even call me. They make no mention of our petition or our side of it. This is what you call a hit job. This asshole Kennedy is trying to stack the deck. Well, he just poked the wrong fucking beehive. I’m going to eat his lunch. Call me, bro, so we can put our heads together on this.

  Saturday, 9:58 p.m.: Dad, now I’m getting worried. You’re not answering either phone and I’m getting scared. I called Uncle Mickey and Lucy and both said they’ve been trying to get you, too. Mickey said you told him you were going off the grid. I don’t know what’s going on but call me back. Please, Dad.

  Sunday, 9:16 a.m.: Dad, I’m really scared. I’m coming up there.

  Sunday, 11:11 a.m.: Call me as soon as you get this, my brudder. We need an attorney-client meeting. I have a few ideas about how to bolster our case and go right at these fucks. Call me.

  Sunday, 12:42 p.m.: Dad, I saw the paper and I know what’s going on. Nothing is that bad. It doesn’t mean a thing. You have to come home. Right now. I’m here. Come home.

  Sunday, 2:13 p.m.: Call your attorney. I’m waiting.

  Bosch was overcome by the emotion he heard in his daughter’s voice. She was holding back tears, being strong for him. She thought the worst. That the professional humiliation and suspicion promulgated by the Times story had caused him to disappear or worse. In that moment, he vowed to make those behind the story pay for their crime against his daughter.

  His first call was to her.

  “Dad! Where are you?”

  “I’m so sorry, baby. I haven’t had my phone. I’ve been working and—”

  “How could you not get all those messages? Oh my god, I thought you were—I don’t know, I thought you did something.”

  “No, they’re wrong. The paper’s wrong and the D.A.’s wrong and your uncle and I are going to show it in court this week. I promise you I did nothing wrong, and no matter what, I would not do anything to myself. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. My mind just went crazy when I couldn’t reach you.”

  “I went undercover for a couple days on a case and I—”

  “What? You went undercover? That’s crazy.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you ahead of time because you’d worry. But I didn’t have my phone. I couldn’t carry it. Anyway, where are you? Are you still at the house?”

  “Yes, I’m here. There was a business card in the door from the reporter who wrote that story.”

  “Yeah, he was trying to call me too. He got used. I’ll deal with that later. I’m on my way home. Will you wait for me?”

  “Of course. I’m here.”

  “Okay. I gotta go and make some other calls. I’ll be there in less than thirty.”

  “Okay, Dad. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Bosch disconnected. He took a deep breath and then hit the heel of his palm hard on the steering wheel. The sins of the father, he thought. His life and his world had once again clobbered his daughter. If he vowed to make those who did this pay, didn’t that include himself?

  He called Haller back next.

  “Bosch! Where you been, man?”

  “Out of the loop, obviously. I was without a phone. And of course the shit hit the fan.”

  “I’ll say. I think the whole thing is actionable. Careless, reckless, you name it.”

  “You talking about the newspaper?”
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  “Yeah, the Times. Let’s go at them. Defamation of character.”

  “Forget it. That guy Ramsey was used. I want Kennedy and Cronyn. Maddie couldn’t reach me either. She thought I rolled up in a ball somewhere and killed myself.”

  “I know. She called me. I didn’t know what to tell her. You didn’t tell me.”

  “Cronyn and Kennedy are going to pay for this. Somehow, some way.”

  “Wednesday, baby. We take them down Wednesday.”

  “I’m not so sure about relying on a judge to do the right thing.”

  “Well, we gotta meet. What are you doing right now?”

  “I’m heading home and I have to spend some time with my daughter.”

  “Okay, call me. I’m free tonight if you want to get together. Otherwise, what’s your schedule tomorrow?”

  “I can meet in the morning.”

  “Why don’t we just do that? You take Maddie to dinner and we meet tomorrow. Du-par’s at eight?”

  “Which one?”

  “You pick.”

  Haller lived just off the edge of Laurel Canyon, which put him within striking distance of the Du-par’s locations in Studio City and the farmers’ market in Hollywood.

  “Let’s do Studio City in case they need me up at the PD tomorrow morning for follow-ups.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Listen, before you go. I got calls from you, Maddie, Kennedy, and the reporter. I also heard from Lucy Soto. Sounded to me like she saw the bullshit in what Kennedy was doing and isn’t happy about it. I think she could be on our side on this. If we show her what we’ve got, we could have somebody on the inside working for us.”

  There was silence.

  “You there, Haller?”

  “I’m here. I’m just thinking. Let’s wait on that till tomorrow. We’ll figure it out over pancakes.”

  “All right.”

  Bosch disconnected. He started to even out, now that he had spoken to his daughter and his lawyer. There was a good short-term plan in place. He thought about Lucy Soto and whether he should reach out to her on his own and under the radar. They had only been partners for a brief period during his last year on the job for the LAPD, but unlike in his partnership with Edgar, they had gotten to the point of deep trust. He could blow through an intersection on her “clear” without hesitation. Any day.

  His gut told him that hadn’t changed.

  31

  Maddie came charging out of her room as soon as she heard the front door close. She grabbed Bosch in a desperate embrace that made him feel like he was on top and at the bottom of the world at the same time.

  “Everything’s all right,” he said.

  He held her head against his heart, then he let her go. She stepped back and appraised him while he did the same to her. He could see dried tracks from tears on her face. She also somehow seemed more grown-up since the last time he had seen her. Bosch didn’t know if that had come in the past twenty-four hours or was just the natural course of things. It had been a month since they had been together and she looked taller and thinner and had changed her sandy-blond hair into a shorter, layered cut. There was something professional about it.

  “OMG, what are you wearing?” she exclaimed.

  Bosch looked down at himself. The jail pants and paper slippers were indeed shocking.

  “Uh, yeah, well, it’s a long story,” he said. “They had to take my clothes for evidence and this is all they had.”

  “Why would your clothes be evidence?” she asked.

  “Well, that’s the part that’s a long story. What are you doing about dinner? You staying up here or do you have to go back? I know you’ve got your trip to IB, right?”

  “We’re not leaving till tomorrow but it’s my Sunday to cook.”

  Bosch knew that his daughter and her three roommates had a Sunday-evening tradition of rotating cooking duties—the only night of the week they had promised to always eat together. Maddie was up and couldn’t let the others down.

  “But I want to hear the story, Dad,” she said. “I’ve been waiting here all day and deserve to hear it.”

  Bosch nodded. She was right.

  “Okay, give me five minutes to change into my own stuff,” he said. “I don’t like looking like a prisoner.”

  He headed down the hall to his room, calling back to her a request that she water the plants. Throughout her high school years, she had insisted on buying several potted plants for the back deck. She had dutifully maintained them with a watering cycle but then went off to college, and Bosch was left holding the responsibility, which proved difficult for a man with his schedule.

  “Already did,” she called back down the hall to him. “I was so nervous I did it twice!”

  “Good!” he called down the hall. “I won’t have to worry about it for a week.”

  It felt good to get out of the jail pants and slippers. As he did so, the envelope that had been mailed to him at the police station fell to the floor. Bosch put it on the bed table to open and read later. Before putting on his own clothes, he slipped into the bathroom and shaved five days of stubble off his face. He pulled on blue jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a pair of black running shoes. On his way back up the hall, he stopped in the kitchen to put the jail pants and slippers in the trash can under the sink.

  He then went to the refrigerator for a beer. But there was none and his leaning down to look into the far recesses of the box didn’t change that.

  He straightened up and looked at the bottle of bourbon on top of the refrigerator. He decided against it, even though he could have used something to help chill things out. Seeing the bottle, however, made him think that he should give what remained of the precious brand to Edgar to thank him for his warning about the plane ride over the Salton Sea.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  He went out to the living room to tell the story. There was no one in the world Bosch trusted more than his daughter. He told her everything, more detail than he had even told the collective in the mobile command post. He felt the details would mean more to her, and at the same time, he knew he was telling her about the dark side of the world. It was a place she had to know about, he believed, no matter where she went with her life. He ended the story with an apology.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe you didn’t need to know all of that.”

  “No, I did,” she said. “I can’t believe you volunteered for it. You were so lucky. What if you had gotten killed by those guys. I would have been all alone.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I figured you’d be all right. You’re strong. You’re on your own now. I know you have roommates but you’re independent. I thought…”

  “Thanks a lot, Dad.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. But I wanted to catch these guys. What that kid did, the son, it was noble. When this all comes out, people will probably say he was stupid and naive and didn’t know what he was doing. But they won’t know the truth. He was being noble. And there isn’t a lot of that out there in the world anymore. People lie, the president lies, corporations lie and cheat.…The world is ugly and not many people are willing to stand up to it anymore. I didn’t want what this kid did to go by without…I didn’t want them to get away with it, I guess.”

  “I understand. Just think of me next time, okay? You’re all I have.”

  “Right. I will. You’re all I have too.”

  “So now tell me the other story. About what’s in the paper today.”

  She held up the business card from David Ramsey she had found left at the front door. It reminded Bosch that he had not read the full Times story. He now told her about the Danielle Skyler case and the move by Preston Borders to get off death row and frame Bosch for planting evidence in the process. This story ran right up until she felt pressed for time, having to drive all the way back to Orange County. She had already decided to pick up dinner on the way instead of cooking it late.

  She gave Bosch another long embr
ace and he walked her out to her car.

  “Dad, I want to come up for the hearing on Wednesday,” she said.

  Normally Bosch didn’t like her to go to hearings on his cases. But this one would be different because it would feel like he was on trial. He could use all the moral support he could get.

  “What about Imperial Beach?” he asked.

  “I’ll just come back early,” she said. “I’ll take the train up.”

  She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and opened an app.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s the Metrolink app. You keep saying you’re going to take the train down to see me. You gotta get the app. There’s a six thirty I could take up, gets to Union Station at eight twenty.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, it says it right—”

  “No, I mean about you coming up.”

  “Of course. I want to be there for you.”

  Bosch hugged her again.

  “Okay, I’ll text you the details. I don’t think court starts till about ten. Maybe we do breakfast before—unless I have to meet with your uncle.”

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  “What are you going to pick up for dinner?”

  “I want to get Zankou and bring it down, but then my car will smell like garlic for about a month.”

  “That might be worth it.”

  Zankou Chicken was a local chain of Armenian fast-food restaurants that had been a favorite takeout source for them over the years.

  “Bye, Dad.”

  He stayed on the curb until he watched her car make the turn and disappear down the hill. Back in the house, he looked at the business card she’d left on the table and thought about calling Ramsey to set him straight. He decided against it. Ramsey wasn’t his opponent and it would be better not to use the newspaper to let his real opponents know what was coming. The Times reporter would undoubtedly be in court Wednesday and would get the full story then. Bosch just had to nut it out for three days under the shadow the newspaper story had shrouded his life in.