“You been here since this morning?” he asked.
She said she hadn’t. She told him that she had taken the mugs of Franklin and Delgado to the vault clerks at WestLand National and one of the women positively identified Franklin as Frederic B. Isley, the holder of a box in the vault. The scout.
“It’s enough for a warrant, but Franklin isn’t around,” she said. “Rourke sent a couple crews to the addresses DMV had on both him and Delgado. Called back in a little while ago. Either they’ve moved on or never lived in the places in the first place. Looks like they’re in the wind.”
“So, what’s next?”
“I don’t know. Rourke’s talking about closing shop on it until we catch them. You’ll probably get to go back to your homicide table. When we catch one of them, we’ll bring you down to work on him about the Meadows murder.”
“Sharkey’s murder, too. Don’t forget that.”
“That, too.”
Bosch nodded. It was over. The bureau was going to close it down.
“By the way, you got a message,” she said. “Someone called for you, said his name was Hector. That was all.”
Bosch sat down at the desk next to hers and dialed Hector Villabona’s direct line. He picked up after two rings.
“It’s Bosch.”
“Hey, what’re you doing with the bureau?” he asked. “I called the number you gave and somebody said it was the FBI.”
“Yeah, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Did you come up with anything?”
“Not much, Harry, and I’m not going to, either. I can’t get the file. This guy Binh, whoever he is, he has got some connections. Like we figured. His file is still classified. I called a guy I know out there and asked him to send it out. He called me back and said no can do.”
“Why would it still be classified?”
“Who knows, Harry? That’s why it’s still classified. So people won’t find this shit out.”
“Well, thanks. It’s not looking that important anymore.”
“If you have a source at State, somebody with access, they might have better luck than me. I’m just the token beaner in the bean-counting department. But, listen, there is one thing this guy I know kind of let slip.”
“What?”
“Well, see, I gave him Binh’s name, you know, and when he calls back he says, ‘Sorry, Captain Binh’s file is classified.’ Just like that is how he said it. Captain, he called him. So this guy musta been a military guy. That’s probably why they got him out of there and over here so fast. If he was military, they saved his ass for sure.”
“Yeah,” Bosch said, then he thanked Hector and hung up.
He turned to Eleanor and asked if she had any contacts in the State Department. She shook her head no. “Military intelligence, CIA, anything like that?” Bosch said. “Somebody with access to computer files.”
She thought a moment and said, “Well, there is a guy on the State floor. I sort of know him from D.C. But what’s going on, Harry?”
“Can you call him and tell him you need a favor?”
“He doesn’t talk on the phone, not about business. We’ll just have to go down there.”
He stood up. Outside the office, while they waited for the elevator, Bosch told her about Binh, his rank, and the fact that he left Vietnam on the same day as Meadows. The elevator opened and they got on and she pushed seven. They were alone.
“You knew all along, that I was being tailed,” Bosch said. “Internal Affairs.”
“I saw them.”
“But you knew before you saw them, didn’t you?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“I think it does. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She took a while. The elevator stopped.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t at first, and then when I wanted to tell you I couldn’t. I thought it would spoil everything. I guess it did, anyway.”
“Why didn’t you at first, Eleanor? Because there was still a question about me?”
She looked into the stainless steel corner of the elevator. “In the beginning, yes, we weren’t sure about you. I won’t lie about that.”
“What about after the beginning?”
The door opened on the seventh floor. Eleanor moved through it, saying, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
Bosch stepped out after her. He took hold of her arm and stopped her. They stood there as two men in almost matching gray suits charged through the open elevator door.
“Yes, I’m still here, but you didn’t tell me about them.”
“Harry, can we talk about this later?”
“The thing is, they saw us with Sharkey.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“Well, why didn’t you say anything when I was talking about the inside man, when I was asking about who you told about the kid?”
“I don’t know.”
Bosch looked down at his feet. He felt like the only man on the planet who didn’t understand what was going on.
“I talked to them,” he said. “They claim they just watched us with the kid. They never followed up to see what it was about. Said they didn’t have his ID. Sharkey’s name wasn’t in their reports.”
“And do you believe them?”
“Never have before. But I don’t see them involved in this. It just doesn’t fit. They’re just after me and they’ll do anything to get me. But not take out a witness. That’s crazy.”
“Maybe they’re feeding information to someone who is involved and they just don’t realize it.”
Bosch thought about Irving and Pounds again.
“A possibility. The point is, there is an inside man. Somewhere. We know this. And it might be from my side. It might be yours. So we have to be very careful, about who we talk to and what we’re doing.”
After a moment he looked straight into her eyes and said, “Do you believe me?”
It took her a long time, but she finally nodded her head. She said, “I can’t think of any other way to explain what’s happening.”
Eleanor went up to a receptionist while Bosch hung back a bit. After a few minutes a young woman came out from a closed door and showed them down a couple of hallways and into a small office. No one was sitting behind the desk. They sat in two chairs facing the desk and waited.
“Who is this we’re seeing?” Bosch whispered.
“I’ll introduce you, and he can tell you what he wants you to know about him,” she said.
Bosch was about to ask her what that meant when the door opened and a man strode in. He looked to be about fifty, with silvery hair that was carefully groomed and a strong build beneath the blue blazer. The man’s gray eyes were as dull as day-old barbecue coals. He sat down and did not look at Bosch. He kept his eyes exclusively on Eleanor Wish.
“Ellie, good to see you again,” he said. “How are you doing?”
She said she was doing fine, exchanged a few pleasantries and then got around to introducing Bosch. The man got up and reached across the desk to shake hands.
“Bob Ernst, assistant deputy, trade and development, nice to meet you. So this is an official visit then, not just dropping by to see an old friend?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Bob, but we are working on something and need some help.”
“Whatever I can do, Ellie,” Ernst said. He was annoying Bosch, and Bosch had only known him a minute.
“Bob, we need to background somebody whose name has come up on a case we are working,” Wish said. “I think you are in a position that you could get that information for us without a great deal of inconvenience or time.”
“That’s our problem,” Bosch added. “It’s a homicide case. We don’t have a lot of time to go through normal channels. To wait for things from Washington.”
“Foreign national?”
“Vietnamese,” Bosch said.
“Came here when?”
“May 4, 1975.”
“Ah, right after the fall. I see. T
ell me, what kind of homicide would the FBI and the LAPD be working on together that involves such ancient history, and history in another country as well?”
“Bob,” Eleanor began, “I think—”
“No, don’t answer that,” Ernst yelped. “I think you are right. It would be best if we compartmentalized the information.”
Ernst went through the motions of straightening his blotter and the knickknacks on his desk. Nothing was really out of order to begin with.
“How soon you need the information?” he finally said.
“Now,” Eleanor said.
“We’ll wait,” Harry said.
“You realize, of course, I may not come up with anything, especially on short notice?”
“Of course,” Eleanor said.
“Give me the name.”
Ernst slid a piece of paper across his blotter. Eleanor wrote Binh’s name on it and slid it back. Ernst looked at it a moment and got up without ever touching the paper.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said and left the room.
Bosch looked at Eleanor.
“‘Ellie’?”
“Please, I don’t allow anybody to call me that. That’s why I don’t take his calls and don’t return them.”
“You mean until now. You’ll owe him now.”
“If he finds something. And so will you.”
“I guess I’ll have to let him call me Ellie.”
She didn’t smile.
“How’d you meet this guy, anyway?”
She didn’t answer.
Bosch said, “He’s probably listening to us right now.”
He looked around the room, though obviously any listening devices would be hidden. He took out his cigarettes when he saw a black ashtray on the desk.
“Please, don’t smoke,” Eleanor said.
“Just a half.”
“I met him once when we were both in Washington. I don’t even remember what for now. He was assistant something-or-other with State back then, too. We had a couple of drinks. That’s all. Sometime after that, he transferred out here. When he saw me in the elevator here and found out I was transferred, he started calling.”
“CIA all the way, right? Or something close.”
“More or less. I think. It doesn’t matter if he gets what we need.”
“More or less. I knew shitheads like him in the war. No matter how much he tells us today, there will be something more. Guys like that, information is their currency. They never give up everything. Like he said, they compartmentalize everything. They’ll get you killed before they tell it all.”
“Can we stop talking now?”
“Sure . . . Ellie.”
Bosch passed the time smoking and looking at the empty walls. The guy didn’t make much of an effort to make it look like a real office. No flag in the corner. Not even a picture of the president. Ernst was back in twenty minutes, and by then Bosch was on his second half-cigarette. As the assistant deputy for trade and development strode to his desk empty-handed, he said, “Detective, would you mind not smoking? I find it very bothersome in a closed room like this.”
Bosch stubbed the butt out in the small black bowl on the corner of his desk.
“Sorry,” he said. “I saw the ashtray. I thought—”
“It’s not an ashtray, Detective,” Ernst said in a somber tone. “That is a rice bowl, three centuries old. I brought it home with me after my stationing in Vietnam.”
“You were working on trade and development then, too?”
“Excuse me, Bob, did you find anything?” Eleanor interjected. “On the name?”
It took Ernst a long moment to break his stare away from Bosch.
“I found very little, but what I did find may be useful. This man, Binh, is a former Saigon police officer. A captain. . . . Bosch, are you a veteran of the altercation?”
“You mean the war? Yes.”
“Of course you are,” Ernst said. “Then tell me, does this information mean anything to you?”
“Not a lot. I was in-country most of my time. Didn’t see much of Saigon except the Yankee bars and tattoo parlors. The guy was a police captain, should it mean something to me?”
“I suppose not. So let me tell you. As a captain, Binh ran the police department’s vice unit.”
Bosch thought about that and said, “Okay, he was probably as corrupt as everything else that went with that war.”
“I don’t suppose, coming from in-country, you know much about the system, the way things worked in Saigon?” Ernst asked.
“Why don’t you tell us about it? Sounds like that was your department. Mine was just trying to keep alive.”
Ernst ignored the shot. He chose to ignore Bosch as well. He looked only at Eleanor as he spoke.
“It operated quite simply, really,” he said. “If you dealt in substances, in flesh, gambling, anything on the black market, you were required to pay a local tariff, a tithe to the house, so to speak. That payment kept the local police away. It practically guaranteed your business would not be interrupted—within certain bounds. Your only worry then was the U.S. military police. Of course, they could be paid off as well, I suppose. There was always that rumor. Anyway, this system went on for years, from the very beginning until after the American withdrawal, until, I imagine, April 30, 1975, the day Saigon fell.”
Eleanor nodded and waited for him to go on.
“The major American military involvement lasted longer than a decade, before that there was the French. We are talking many, many years of foreign intervention.”
“Millions,” Bosch said.
“What’s that?”
“You are talking about millions of dollars in payoffs.”
“Yes, absolutely. Tens of millions when added up over the years.”
“And where does Captain Binh fit in?” Eleanor asked.
“You see,” Ernst said, “our information at the time was that the corruption within the Saigon police department was orchestrated or controlled by a triad called the Devil’s Three. You paid them or you did not do business. It was that simple.
“Coincidentally, or rather not coincidentally, the Saigon police had three captains whose domain corresponded, so to speak, quite nicely with the domain of the triad. One captain in charge of vice. One narcotics. One for patrol. Our information is that these three captains were, in fact, the triad.”
“You keep saying ‘Our information.’ Is that trade and development’s information? Where are you getting this?”
Ernst made a movement to straighten things on the top of his desk again and then stared coldly at Bosch. “Detective, you come to me for information. If you want to know where the source is, then you have made a mistake. You’ve come to the wrong person. You can believe what I tell you or not. It is of no consequence to me.”
The two men locked eyes but said nothing else.
“What happened to them?” Eleanor asked. “The members of the triad.”
Ernst pulled his eyes away from Bosch and said, “What happened is that after the United States pulled military forces in 1973 the triad’s source of revenue was largely gone. But like any responsible business entity they saw it coming and looked to replace it. And our intelligence at the time was that they shifted their position considerably. In the early seventies they moved from the role of providing protection to narcotics operations in Saigon to actually becoming part of those operations. Through political and military contacts and, of course, police enforcement they solidified themselves as the brokers for all brown heroin that came out of the highlands and was moved to the United States.”
“But it didn’t last,” Bosch said.
“Oh, no. Of course not. When Saigon fell in April 1975, they had to get out. They had made millions, an estimated fifteen to eighteen million American dollars each. It would mean nothing in the new Ho Chi Minh City and they wouldn’t be alive to enjoy it anyway. The triad had to get out or they’d face the firing squads of the North Army. And they had to get o
ut with their money. . . .”
The Black Echo (1992) Page 28