There were references to Anneke’s editor in the reports and news stories, so Bosch knew he had a starting point. But he asked Henrik anyway.
“Do you happen to know the name of her editor from back then?”
“Yes, it was Jannik Frej. He spoke at her memorial service. Very kind man.”
Bosch asked him to spell both names and if he happened to have a contact number for Frej.
“No, I never had a number. I am sorry.”
“That’s okay. I can get it. Now, can you tell me when you last spoke to your sister?”
“Yes, that was the day before she left for America. I saw her.”
“And she didn’t say anything about the story she was on?”
“I did not ask and she did not offer.”
“But you knew she was coming over here, right? You were there to say good-bye.”
“Yes, and to give her the hotel information.”
“What information was that?”
“I work now thirty years in the hotel business. At the time I made Anneke’s hotel bookings for her when she did her travel.”
“Not the newspaper?”
“No, she was freelance and she could get better through me. I always arranged her travel. Even with the wars. We did not have Internet back then, you see. It was more difficult to find the places to stay. She needed me to do it.”
“I see. Do you happen to remember where she stayed in the United States? She was here for several days before the riots. Where was she besides New York and San Francisco?”
“I would have to see if I know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I will have to go to my storage room for records. I kept many things from that time . . . because of what happened. I will look. I can remember that she did not go to New York.”
“She only landed there?”
“Yes, and flew on connection to Atlanta.”
“What was in Atlanta?”
“This I don’t know.”
“Okay. When do you think you will be able to go to your storage room, Henrik?”
Bosch wanted to push him but not that hard.
“I am not sure. It is far from here. I will have to take time from work.”
“I understand, Henrik. But it could be very helpful. Will you email me or call me back as soon as you look?”
“Yes, of course.”
Bosch stared at his pad as he tried to think of other questions to ask.
“Henrik, where was your sister before she came to the United States?”
“She was here in Copenhagen.”
“I mean, what was the last trip she was on before going to the United States?”
“She was in Germany for a time, and before that, Kuwait City for the war.”
Bosch knew he meant Desert Storm. He knew Anneke had been there from the news stories about her. He wrote down Germany. That was something new to him.
“Where in Germany, do you know?”
“She was in Stuttgart. I remember that.”
Bosch noted this on his pad. He thought he had all he was going to get from Henrik until he could go to his storage room and look for travel records.
“Did she tell you why she went to Germany? Was there a story?”
“She did not tell me. She asked me to get a hotel that would be close to the U.S. military base. I remember that.”
“She didn’t tell you anything else?”
“That was all. I don’t understand why it matters when she was killed in Los Angeles.”
“It probably doesn’t, Henrik. But sometimes it’s good to cast a big net.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means, if you ask a lot of questions, you get a lot of information. Not all of it is useful, but sometimes you get lucky. I appreciate your patience and your talking with me.”
“Will you solve the case now, Detective?”
Bosch paused before answering.
“I’m giving it my best shot, Henrik. And I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
The call with Henrik energized Bosch, even though he had not gotten all there was to get. He could not put his finger on what was happening with the case, but things had shifted. Little more than a day earlier he believed the investigation was going nowhere and that he would soon be repacking the archive boxes and sending Anneke Jespersen back to the depths of the warehouse of unsolved cases and forgotten victims. But now there was a spark. There were mysteries and irons in the fire. There were questions to be answered and Bosch was still in the game.
His next move was to make contact with Anneke’s editor at the BT. Bosch checked the name Henrik had given him, Jannik Frej, against the news reports and records in the murder book. The names didn’t match. The stories that ran in the wake of the riots quoted an editor named Arne Haagan. The investigators’ chronology also listed Haagan as the editor the RCTF detectives spoke with about Jespersen.
Bosch could not explain the discrepancy. He Googled a phone number for the newsroom of BT and made the call. He guessed that someone would have to be in the newsroom despite the late hour.
“Redaktionen, goddag.”
Bosch had forgotten about the language difficulty he might encounter. He didn’t know if the woman who had answered was saying her name or a Danish word.
“Nyhedsredaktionen, kan jeg hjœlpe?”
“Uh, hello? Do you speak English?”
“A little. How do I help you?”
Bosch referred to his notes.
“I am looking for Arne Haagan or Jannik Frej, please.”
There was a slight pause before the woman on the other end of the line spoke.
“Mr. Haagan is dead, yes?”
“He’s dead? Uh, what about Mr. Frej?”
“No one here.”
“Uh, when did Mr. Haagan pass away?”
“Mmm, hold on the line, please.”
Bosch waited for what seemed to be five minutes. He looked around the squad room as he waited and soon saw Lieutenant O’Toole staring at him through the window of his office. O’Toole fired an imaginary gun and then gave the thumbs-up signal with his eyebrows raised in a question. Bosch knew he was asking if he had qualified at the academy. Bosch gave him a thumbs-up and then looked away. Finally, a male voice came on the line. This speaker’s English was excellent and with only the slightest accent.
“This is Mikkel Bonn. How can I help you?”
“Yes, I wanted to speak with Arne Haagan, but the woman before you said he passed away. Is that true?”
“Yes, Arne Haagan died four years ago. Can I ask why you are calling?”
“My name is Harry Bosch. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m investigating the death twenty years ago of Anneke Jespersen. Are you familiar with the case?”
“I know who Anneke Jespersen was. We are very familiar here. Arne Haagan was the editor of the newspaper at that time. But he retired and then he died.”
“What about an editor named Jannik Frej? Is he still there?”
“Jannik Frej . . . no, Jannik is not.”
“When did he leave? Is he still alive?”
“A few years ago he retired also. He is alive as far as I know.”
“Okay, do you know how I can reach him? I need to talk to him.”
“I can see if someone has contact information. Some of the copyeditors may still be in touch with him. Can you tell me if there is activity on the case? I am a reporter and would want to—”
“The case is active. I’m investigating but there is nothing other than that. I’m just starting.”
“I see. Can I get back to you with contact information for Jannik Frej?”
“I’d rather hold while you get it for me now.”
There was a pause.
“I see. Very well, I will try to be quick.”
Bosch was put on hold again. This time he didn’t look toward the lieutenant’s office. He turned and looked behind him and saw that Chu was gone, probably having ste
pped out for lunch.
“Detective Bosch?”
It was Bonn back on the line.
“Yes.”
“I have an email for Jannik Frej.”
“What about a phone number?”
“We don’t have that available at the moment. I will keep looking and will get it to you. But for now, do you want the email address?”
“Yes, I do.”
He copied Frej’s email address down and then gave Bonn his own email and phone number.
“Good luck, Detective,” Bonn said.
“Thank you.”
“You know, I wasn’t here back then, when it happened. But ten years ago I was here and I remember we did a big story on Anneke and the case. Would you like to see it?”
Bosch hesitated.
“It would be in Danish, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but there are several translation sites on the Internet that you could use.”
Bosch wasn’t sure what he meant but invited Bonn to send him a link to the story. He thanked him again and then disconnected.
9
Bosch realized he was famished. He took the elevator down to the lobby, went out the main entrance, and crossed the front plaza. The plan was to walk over to Philippe’s for a roast beef sandwich but his cell buzzed before he even got across First Street. It was Jordy Gant.
“Harry, we already got your guy.”
“Two Small?”
“That’s right. I just got the call from one of my guys. They picked him up coming out of a McDonald’s on Normandie. One of the guys I got to in roll call this morning had his picture on the visor. Sure enough, it was Two Small.”
“Where’d they take him?”
“Seventy-seventh. He’s being booked as we speak, and right now they’re only holding him on the bench warrant. I figure if you move now, you can get there before he can get to a lawyer.”
“I’m on my way.”
“How ’bout I meet you and sit in?”
“See you there.”
It took him only twenty minutes in midday traffic to get to 77th Street Station. The whole way he thought about how to play Washburn. Bosch had nothing on 2 Small but a hunch based on proximity. No evidence of anything and nothing for sure. It seemed to him that his one shot was a play. To convince Washburn that he had something and to use the lie to draw out an admission. It was the weakest way to go, especially with a suspect that had been around the block a few times with the police. But it was all he had.
At 77th, Gant was already in the watch office waiting for him.
“I had him moved down to the D bureau. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Bosch saw a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on a counter behind the patrol lieutenant’s desk. It was open and there were only two doughnuts left, probably sitting there since the morning’s roll call.
“Hey, does anybody mind?”
He pointed toward the doughnuts.
“Knock yourself out,” Gant said.
Bosch took a glazed doughnut and ate it in four bites while he followed Gant down the back hallway of the station to the detective bureau.
They entered the sprawling squad room of desks, file cabinets, and piles of paperwork. Most of the desks were empty and Bosch figured the detectives were out working cases or on lunch break. He saw a tissue box on one of the empty desks and pulled out three tissues to wipe the sugar off his fingers.
A patrol officer was sitting outside the door of one of the two interrogation rooms. He stood up as Gant and Bosch approached. Gant introduced him as Chris Mercer, the patrolman who had spotted 2 Small Washburn.
“Nice work,” Bosch said, shaking his hand. “Did you read him the words?”
Meaning his constitutional rights and protections.
“I did.”
“Great.”
“Thank you, Chris,” Gant said. “We’ll take it from here.”
The officer gave a mock salute and headed out. Gant looked at Bosch.
“Any particular way you want to do this?”
“We have anything on him besides the warrant?”
“A little. He had a half ounce of weed on him.”
Bosch frowned. It wasn’t much.
“He also had six hundred dollars cash.”
Bosch nodded. That made things a little better. He might be able to work with the money, depending on how smart Washburn was about current drug laws.
“I’m going to run a game on him, see if I can get him to hurt himself. I think it’s our best shot. Put him in a corner so he has to talk his way out.”
“Okay, I’ll play along if you need it.”
On the wall between the doors to the two interrogation rooms was a documents file. Bosch pulled a standard rights-waiver form, folded it, and put it in his inside coat pocket.
“Open it and let me go in first,” he said.
Gant did so and Bosch walked into the interrogation room with a dark look on his face. Washburn was sitting at a small table, his wrists bound by snap ties to the back of his chair. As advertised, he was a small man who wore baggy clothes to help disguise how little he was. On the table was a plastic evidence bag containing the items found in his clothing at the time of his arrest. Bosch took the chair directly across from him. Gant pulled the third chair back to the door and sat down as if guarding it. He was a few feet behind Bosch’s left shoulder.
Bosch lifted the evidence bag and looked through it. A wallet, cell phone, set of keys, the money roll, and the plastic bag containing the half ounce of marijuana.
“Charles Washburn,” he said. “They call you Two Small, right? With a number two. That’s clever. Was that you who came up with that?”
He looked up from the bag to Washburn, who didn’t reply. Bosch looked back down at the evidence bag and shook his head.
“Well, we’ve got a problem here, Two Small. You know what the problem is?”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Well, you know what I’m not seeing in this bag?”
“Don’t matter to me.”
“I’m not seeing a pipe or even any papers. And then you got this big wad of cash in here with the reefer. You know what all that adds up to now, don’t you?”
“It adds up to you letting me call my lawyer. And don’t bother talking to me ’cause I got nothin’ to say to your ass. Just bring me the phone and I call my guy up.”
Through the bag Bosch pushed the main button on 2 Small’s phone, and the screen came to life. As he expected, the phone was password protected.
“Oops, you need a password.”
Bosch held it up for Washburn to see.
“Give it to me and I’ll call your lawyer for you.”
“No, that’s okay. Put me back in the tank and I’ll use the pay phone in there.”
“Why not this one? You probably have your guy on speed dial, don’t you?”
“’Cause that ain’t my phone and I don’t know the password.”
Bosch knew the phone probably had call information and contact lists that could lead to further trouble for Washburn. Two Small had no choice but to deny ownership, even if it was laughable.
“Really? That’s sort of strange, since this came out of your pocket. Along with the weed and the money.”
“You people put that shit on me. I want to call a lawyer.”
Bosch nodded and turned to Gant and addressed him. He was strolling along a very thin constitutional line here.
“You know what that means, Jordy?”
“Tell me.”
“It means this guy had a controlled substance in one pocket and a wad of cash in the other. See, not carrying a pipe was a mistake. Because without carrying a means of personal consumption, the law views that as possession with intent to sell. And that bumps it up to a felony. His lawyer will probably tell him all of that.”
“What are you talking about, man?” Washburn protested. “That idn’t even half a lid. I ain’t selling it and you fucking know it.”
/> Bosch looked back at him.
“Are you talking to me?” he asked. “Because you just told me you wanted a lawyer, and when you say that, I gotta shut it down. You want to talk to me now?”
“All I’m sayin’ is I wasn’t sellin’ shit.”
“Do you want to talk to me?”
“Yeah, I’ll talk to you if it gets this bullshit taken care of.”
“Well, then, we gotta do it right.”
Bosch pulled the rights waiver out of his jacket pocket and had Washburn sign it. Bosch doubted his play would stand up to Supreme Court scrutiny but he didn’t think it would ever come to that.
“Okay, Two Small, let’s talk,” he said. “All I know here is what’s in the bag. It says you’re a drug dealer, and that’s how we have to charge you.”
Bosch saw Washburn flex the muscles in his thin shoulders and hang his head down. Bosch checked his watch.
“But don’t get all anxious about that, Two Small. Because the weed is the least of my worries. It’s just something I’m going to be able to hold you with, because my guess is that a guy who doesn’t pay his child support isn’t going to have enough dough to put up a twenty-five-grand bond.”
Bosch raised the bag containing the weed again.
“This will keep you inside while I work out this other thing I’ve got on my plate.”
Washburn looked up.
“Yeah, bullshit. I’ll be out. I got people.”
“Yeah, well, people seem to disappear when it’s time to put up money.”
Bosch turned and looked at Gant.
“You ever notice that, Jordy?”
“I have. People seem to scatter, especially when they know a brother is going down. They think, why bother putting up a bond if he ain’t goin’ nowhere but the slam?”
Bosch nodded as he looked back at Washburn.
“What is this bullshit?” Washburn said. “Why you on me, man? What I do?”
Bosch drummed the fingers of one hand on the table.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Two Small. I work in downtown and I wouldn’t come all the way down here just to bust somebody’s chops on a dime bag. See, I work homicide. I work cold cases. You know what that means? I work old cases. Years old. Sometimes twenty years old.”
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