The Black Box hb-18

by Michael Connelly

29

  Bosch spent the morning in his room, leaving only briefly to walk across the parking lot to the liquor store to buy a carton of milk and some doughnuts for breakfast. He left the “Do Not Disturb” sign hooked on the knob and chose to make the bed and hang the towels himself. He called his daughter before she left for school and talked to Hannah as well. Both conversations were quick and of the have-a-great-day variety. He then got down to work, spending the next two hours on his laptop, updating in full detail the ongoing summary of the investigation. Once finished, he returned the computer and all the documents he’d used to his backpack.

  Before leaving, he prepared his room, sliding the bed against one wall to create an open center space under the ceiling light. He then moved the table from the kitchenette under the light. His last move was to take the shades off the two bedside lamps and position the lights so they would shine toward the face of the individual who sat on the left side of the table.

  At the door he reached into the back pocket of his pants to make sure he still had the room key. He felt the plastic fob attached to the key and something else. He pulled out Detective Mendenhall’s business card and realized it had been in his pants since he found it waiting for him on his desk.

  The card prompted him to think about calling Mendenhall to see if she had gone to San Quentin yesterday as she had told Hannah she would. He dismissed the idea, deciding to stay focused on the wave of momentum the call from Charlotte Jackson had provided. He pocketed the card again and opened the door. He made sure the “Do Not Disturb” sign remained in place and pulled the door closed.

  It was an investigative standard. The best and fastest way to break a conspiracy was to identify the weakest link in the chain and find a way to exploit it. When one link was broken, the chain would come loose.

  Most often the weakest link was a person. Bosch believed he was looking at a twenty-year-old conspiracy that involved at least four people, possibly five. One was dead, two were wrapped in the protections of power, money, and the law. That left John Francis Dowler and Reginald Banks.

  Dowler was out of town and Bosch didn’t want to wait for him to come back. He had speed and he wanted to keep it. That left Banks, not only by default but because Bosch believed it had been Banks who had made the call ten years ago to check on the case. That was an indication to Bosch of worry. Of fear. And those were signs of weakness that Bosch could exploit.

  After an early lunch at the In-N-Out Burger on Yosemite Avenue and then a stop at a nearby Starbucks, Bosch drove back to Crows Landing Road and found the same spot at the curb from which he could watch Reginald Banks at work.

  At first he didn’t see Banks at the desk that he had occupied the day before. The other salesman was in place at his desk but no Banks. But Bosch waited patiently, and twenty minutes later Banks appeared, coming from a back room in the dealership and carrying a cup of coffee. He sat down, tapped the space bar on his keyboard and started making a series of phone calls, each time after running a finger across his computer screen. Bosch guessed he was cold-calling former customers, seeing if they were ready to trade that old tractor in.

  Bosch watched for another half hour, working on his story as he watched. When the other salesman got busy with a live customer, Bosch made his move. He got out of his car and walked across the street to the dealership. He stepped into the showroom and moved to the all-terrain vehicle closest to where Banks sat at his desk talking on the phone.

  Harry started circling the machine, which was a two-seat four-wheeler with a small flatbed and a roll bar. The price tag was on a molded plastic stand right next to it. As Bosch expected, Banks soon hung up his phone.

  “You looking for a Gator?” he called from his desk.

  Bosch turned and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time.

  “I might be,” he said. “You don’t have a used one of these, do you?”

  Banks got up and came over. He was wearing a sport coat and a tie pulled loose at the collar. He stood next to Bosch and looked at the ATV as if assessing it for the first time.

  “This is the top-of-the-line XUV model. You got all-wheel drive, fuel injection, four-stroke engine so it’s nice and quiet . . . and let’s see, adjustable shocks, disc brakes, and the best damn warranty you’ll ever get on one of these bad boys. I mean everything you need’s right there. It’s as unstoppable as a tank but you get John Deere comfort and reliability. By the way, I’m Reggie Banks.”

  He put his hand out and Bosch shook it.

  “Harry.”

  “Okay, Harry, nice to meet you. You want to write it up?”

  Bosch chuckled like a nervous buyer.

  “I know it’s got what I want. I just don’t know if I need it to be brand-new. I didn’t realize these things cost so much. I could almost buy a car.”

  “Worth every penny, though. Plus we got a rebate program that’ll take some of the sting off.”

  “Yeah, how much of the sting?”

  “Five hundred cash back and two fifty in service coupons. I could talk to my manager about knocking a dollar or two off the sticker. But he won’t go much. We sell a lot of these things.”

  “Yeah, but why do I need service coupons when you say the thing runs like a tank?”

  “Maintenance and upkeep, my man. Those coupons will cover you at least a couple years, get what’m saying?”

  Bosch nodded and stared at the vehicle as if contemplating things.

  “So you don’t have anything used?” he finally asked.

  “We could go look out back.”

  “Let’s do that. I gotta at least be able to tell my old lady I checked the inventory.”

  “Good deal. Let me grab some keys.”

  Banks went into the manager’s office along the back wall of the showroom and soon came out with a large ring of keys. He led Bosch down a hallway to the rear of the building. They went out a doorway into the fenced lot, where the used tractors and ATVs were stored. A row of ATVs lined the rear wall of the dealership.

  “What I got is over here,” Banks said, leading the way. “Recreation or commercial?”

  Bosch wasn’t sure what he meant, so he didn’t answer. He acted like he didn’t hear the question because he was mesmerized by the shiny row of vehicles.

  “You got a farm or a ranch, or are you just going mud jumping?” Banks asked, making it clearer to Bosch.

  “I just bought a vineyard up near Lodi. I want something that can fit between the rows and get me out there fast. I’m too old to be walking that far.”

  Banks nodded like he knew the story.

  “A gentleman farmer, huh?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “Everybody’s buying up vineyards because it’s cool to be in the wine biz. My boss here—the owner—owns lots of grapes up in Lodi. You know the Cosgrove Vineyard?”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Hard to miss it. But I don’t know them. I’m small-time compared to that.”

  “Yeah, well, you gotta start somewhere, get what’m saying? Maybe we can work out something here. What do you like?”

  He gestured toward the six flatbed ATVs that all looked the same to Bosch. All of them were green, and the only differences he could perceive were whether they had roll bars or complete cages and how badly beaten-up and scratched the beds were. There was no fancy plastic stand with price tags.

  “They only come in green, huh?” Bosch asked.

  “Only green on our used line right now,” Banks replied. “This is John Deere. We’re proud to be green. But if you want to talk about something new, we can order you one in camo.”

  Bosch nodded thoughtfully.

  “I want a cage,” he said.

  “All right, safety first,” Banks said. “Good choice there.”

  “Yeah,” Bosch said. “Always safety first. Let’s go take a look at that one inside again.”

  “No problem.”

  An hour later Bosch returned to his car, seemingly having come close
to buying the ATV in the showroom but ultimately backing away, saying he needed to think about it. Banks was left frustrated by coming so close to a sale, but he tried to salvage things for another day. He gave Bosch his card and encouraged him to call back. He said he’d go over the manager’s head and ask the big boss to discount the new ATV further than the rebates and coupons. He told Bosch that he and the big boss were tight and that the relationship went back twenty-five years.

  There had been no purpose to the encounter other than for Bosch to get close to Banks and try to take his measure, maybe move him a little bit out of his comfort zone. The real move would come later, when part two of his plan began.

  Bosch started the rental car and pulled away from the curb, just in case Banks was watching him go. He then drove two blocks up Crows Landing, made a U-turn, and came back down to the dealership. He parked half a block short of it and on the other side of the street this time, but still with a view of Banks at his desk.

  Banks never got another live customer the rest of the day. He worked the phones and computer sporadically, but it didn’t look to Bosch as though he had much success. He fidgeted nervously in his seat, repeatedly drumming his fingers on the desk and getting up and down to refill his coffee cup from the back. Twice Bosch saw him sneak a pour out of a pint bottle taken from a desk drawer into his coffee.

  At 6 P.M. Banks and the rest of the staff closed shop and left the dealership en masse. Bosch knew that Banks lived north of Modesto in Manteca, so he pulled away from the curb, drove past the dealership, and then turned around so he would be in position to follow him home.

  Banks pulled out in a silver Toyota and started north as expected. But then he surprised Bosch by taking a left on Hatch Road and vectoring away from the 99. At first Bosch thought Banks was following a shortcut, but soon it became apparent that was not the case. He’d have been home already if he’d just jumped on the freeway.

  Bosch followed him into a neighborhood that was a mixture of industrial and residential. On one side were lower-income and middle-class homes jammed together as tight as teeth, while on the other side, there was a steady procession of junkyards and auto-crushing operations.

  Bosch had to fall back on Banks for fear he would be noticed. He lost sight of him when Hatch Road started bending along with the shape of the nearby Tuolumne River.

  He sped up and came around a bend but the Toyota was gone. He kept going, increasing his speed, and realized too late that he had just driven by a VFW post. On a hunch he slowed down and turned around. He drove back to the VFW and pulled into the lot. He immediately saw the silver Toyota parked around behind the building, as if hidden. Bosch guessed that Banks was stopping for a drink on his way home and didn’t want anyone to know it.

  It was dimly lit when Bosch walked into the bar. He stood still for a moment while his eyes adjusted so he could look for Banks. He didn’t have to.

  “Well, look who it is.”

  Bosch turned to his left and there was Banks, sitting by himself on a barstool, his sport coat off and his tie long gone. A young bartender leaned over as she put a fresh drink down in front of him. Bosch acted surprised.

  “Hey, what are you—I just came in for a quick one before heading north.”

  Banks signaled him over to the stool next to him.

  “Join the club.”

  Bosch came over, pulling out his wallet.

  “I’m already in the club.”

  He pulled out his VA card and tossed it on the bar. Before the bartender could check it, Banks snatched it off the scarred bar top and looked at it.

  “I thought you said your name was Harry.”

  “It is. People call me Harry.”

  “Hi—er . . . how do you say this crazy name?”

  “Hieronymus. It’s the name of a painter from a long time ago.”

  “I don’t blame you for going with Harry.”

  Banks handed the ID card to the bartender.

  “I can vouch for this guy, Lori. He’s good people.”

  Lori didn’t give the card much of a look before passing it back to Bosch.

  “Harry, meet the Triple-L,” Banks said. “Lori Lynn Lukas, the best bartender in the business.”

  Bosch nodded his greeting and slid onto the stool next to Banks. It seemed to him that he had pulled it off. Banks was not suspicious of the coincidence. And if he kept drinking, any suspicions would move even farther away.

  “Lori, put him on my tab,” Banks declared.

  Bosch said thanks and ordered a beer. Soon an ice-cold bottle was in front of him, and Banks brought his glass up to toast.

  “To us warriors.”

  Banks clinked his glass off Bosch’s bottle and slurped down a third of what looked like a Scotch rocks. When Banks had extended his glass, Bosch saw that he wore a big military watch with multiple dials and a timing bezel. It made him wonder how that fit in with selling tractors.

  Banks looked at Bosch with squinted eyes.

  “Let me guess. Vietnam.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “And you?”

  “Desert Storm, baby. The first Gulf War.”

  They clinked bottle to glass once again.

  “Desert Storm,” Bosch said appreciatively. “That’s one I don’t have.”

  Banks narrowed his eyes.

  “One you don’t have of what?” he asked.

  Bosch shrugged.

  “I’m sort of a collector. Something from every war, that sort of thing. Mostly enemy weapons. My wife thinks I’m a nut.”

  Banks didn’t say anything, so Bosch kept the riff going.

  “My prize piece is a tanto taken off the body of a dead Jap in a cave on Iwo Jima. He had used it.”

  “What, is that a gun?”

  “No, a blade.”

  Bosch pantomimed dragging a knife left to right across his stomach. Lori Lynn made a sound of disgust and moved toward the other end of the bar.

  “I paid two grand for it,” Bosch said. “It would’ve been less if, you know, it hadn’t been used. Did you bring back anything interesting from Iraq?”

  “Never was there, actually. I was based in S-A and made a few runs into Kuwait. I was in transport.”

  He finished his drink as Bosch nodded.

  “So no real action, huh?”

  Banks rapped his empty glass on the bar.

  “Lori, you workin’ t’night or what?”

  He then looked directly at Bosch.

  “Hell, man, we had plenty action. Our whole unit almost got smoked by a SCUD. We kicked some ass, too. And like I said, I was in transpo. We had access to everything and knew how to get it back stateside.”

  Bosch turned to him like he was suddenly interested. But he waited until Lori Lynn was finished freshening Banks’s drink and moved away again. Bosch spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial tone.

  “What I want is something from the Republican Guard. You know anybody with that stuff? This is the reason I stop at the VFW every time I’m in a new town. This is where I find this stuff. I got the tanto off an old guy I met in the post bar over in Tempe. That was like twenty years ago.”

  Banks nodded, trying to follow the words through his growing alcoholic fog.

  “Well . . . I know guys. They got all kinds of stuff back here. Guns, uniforms, whatever you want. But you gotta pay and you can start by buyin’ the fuckin’ Gator you spent all day lookin’ at.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “I hear ya. We can talk about that. I’ll come on back by the dealership tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “Now you’re talking, partner.”

  30

  Bosch managed to get out of the VFW without buying Banks a drink and apparently without Banks noticing that Bosch drank less than half of his beer. Once back in his car, Bosch drove to the far end of the parking lot, where there was a boat ramp providing access to the river. He parked next to a line of pickup trucks with empty boat trailers attached. He waited another twenty minutes before Banks finally came ou
t of the bar and got into his car.

  Bosch had seen him put down three drinks in the bar. He assumed there had been one before he got there and at least one after. His concern was that if Banks showed obvious evidence of driving impairment, Bosch would have to pull him over too soon to stop him from possibly hurting himself and others.

  But Banks was a skilled drunk driver. He pulled out and started east on Hatch, back the way he had come. Bosch followed from a distance but kept his eyes on the taillights in front of him. He saw no swerving, speeding, or unexplained braking. Banks appeared to have control of his car.

  Nevertheless, it was a tense ten minutes as Bosch followed Banks to the entrance ramp to the 99 freeway, where he headed north. Once they were on the freeway, Bosch narrowed the gap and pulled up right behind Banks. Five minutes later, they passed the Hammett Road exit and then came to the sign that welcomed travelers to San Joaquin County. Bosch put the strobe light on the dashboard and turned it on. He closed the space between the two cars even more and flicked on the bright lights, illuminating the interior of Banks’s car. Bosch had no siren but there was no way Banks could miss the light show behind him. After a few seconds, Banks put on his right-turn signal.

  Bosch was counting on Banks not pulling off onto the freeway shoulder, and he was right. The first exit to Ripon was a half mile away. Banks slowed down and exited, then pulled to a stop in the gravel lot of a closed fruit stand. He killed the engine. It was dark and deserted. That made it perfect for Bosch.

  Banks didn’t get out of his car, unlike many protesting drunks. He didn’t lower his window either. Bosch walked up, his large Mag-Lite held on his shoulder so that it would be too bright should Banks try to look up at his face. He rapped his knuckles on the window and Banks grudgingly lowered it.

  “You had no cause to pull me over, man,” he said before Bosch could speak.

  “Sir, you’ve been swerving the whole time I’ve been behind you. Have you been drinking?”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Sir, step out of the car.”

  “Here.”

  He handed his driver’s license out the window. Bosch took it and held it up into the light as if he were looking at it. But he never took his eyes off Banks.