The Wrong Side of Goodbye (Harry Bosch Series)

by Michael Connelly

  Bosch realized he was still in the car with Boyd driving and was playing to him, selling the decoy drop of DNA samples.

  “You see any sign of surveillance?” Bosch asked.

  “Not yet,” Haller said. “Tell me about the interview.”

  Bosch recounted the conversation with Forsythe and said he would write up a summary for her to sign the next day.

  “You have a notary you like to use?” he asked.

  “Yes, I can set you up, or I can witness it myself,” Haller said.

  Bosch said he would be in touch and disconnected. He got to the SFPD station shortly before 4 p.m. He expected the detective bureau to be deserted this late in the day but he saw the light was on in the captain’s office and the door was closed. He leaned his head to the doorjamb to hear if Trevino was on the phone but heard nothing. He knocked on the door, waited, and Trevino suddenly opened it.

  “Harry. What’s up?”

  “Just wanted to let you know I filed on Dockweiler today. One twenty to one sixty years in total if he goes down on all charges.”

  “That’s excellent news. What did they think about our case?”

  “Said we’re solid. The deputy gave me a list of things he wants me to put together before the prelim and I thought I’d get started.”

  “Good. Good. So it was already assigned?”

  “Yes, Dante Corvalis was in it from the start. He’s one of the best. He’s never lost a case.”

  “Fantastic. Well, carry on. I’ll be heading home in a few.”

  “How’s Bella? You go to the hospital today?”

  “I didn’t go by today but I heard she’s doing okay. They said they were going to try to send her home tomorrow and she’s happy about that.”

  “It will be good for her to be with Taryn and their kid.”

  “Yeah.”

  They were both still standing at the door to Trevino’s office. Bosch sensed that the captain had more to say but an awkward silence grew between them.

  “Well, I’ve got some stuff to write up,” Bosch said.

  He turned toward his desk.

  “Uh, Harry?” Trevino said. “You got a minute to come in?”

  “Sure,” Bosch said.

  The captain stepped back into his office and moved behind his desk. He told Bosch to sit down and Harry took the one seat available.

  “This about me using the DMV computer on my private case?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” Trevino said. “Far from it. That’s water under the bridge.”

  He gestured to the paperwork on his desk.

  “I’m working on the deployment schedule here,” he said. “I do the whole department. In patrol we’re fine but in detectives we’re not. We are obviously down one with Bella out and there’s no telling at this point when or if she’s coming back.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Until that unknown is known, we need to keep her position open,” Trevino said. “So I talked to the chief about this today and he’s going to go to the city council with a temporary funding request. We’d like to bring you on full-time. What do you think?”

  Bosch thought a moment before answering. He wasn’t expecting the offer, especially coming from Trevino, who had never been sold on Bosch in the first place.

  “You mean I wouldn’t be a reserve? I’d get paid?”

  “Yes, sir. Standard level-three salary. I know you made more with L.A. but it’s what we pay.”

  “And I’d handle all the CAPs cases?”

  “Well, for the most part I think you’d be doing prep on Dockweiler, and we don’t want to forget about cold cases. But, yes, when things come up you’d handle crimes against persons. You’d work with Sisto on those, when you need to go into the field.”

  Bosch nodded. It was good to be wanted but he wasn’t sure he was ready to commit to a full schedule in San Fernando. He assumed the Vance case and his role as executor of his will would take up a lot of time in the near future, especially with a possible probate battle brewing.

  Trevino took his silence for something else.

  “Look,” he said. “I know you and Sisto had that flare-up in the Public Works office, but I think that was just a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing. By the time you two were finding and rescuing Bella, it seemed like you were working together well. Am I wrong?”

  “Sisto’s all right,” Bosch said. “He wants to be a good detective and that’s half the battle right there. What about you? Was wanting to fire me that night a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing, too?”

  Trevino raised his hand in a show of surrender.

  “Harry, you know I’ve had trouble with this arrangement from the start,” he said. “But I’ll say it: I was wrong. Look at this case— the Screen Cutter. We got him all because of your work and I appreciate that. You and I are fine, as far as I’m concerned. And just so you know, this wasn’t the chief’s idea. I went to him and said I wanted to bring you on full-time.”

  “I appreciate that. So it would mean no more private work, right?”

  “We can talk to the chief if you think you need to keep the private ticket going. What do you say?”

  “Well, what about the Sheriff’s investigation of the shooting? Don’t we need to wait until we get an official decision on that and it goes to the D.A.?”

  “Come on. We know it was a good shooting. We may get dinged on tactics but as far as the shoot or don’t-shoot question, nobody’s going to bat a fucking eye. On top of that, everyone understands that Bella’s being out puts us in a personnel squeeze and it’s the chief’s call.”

  Bosch nodded. He had a feeling that he could keep asking questions and Trevino would say yes to anything.

  “Cap, can I take the night to think about it and get back to you tomorrow?”

  “Sure, Harry, no problem. Just let me know.”

  “Roger that.”

  Bosch left the captain’s office, closing the door behind him, and moved into his cubicle. His real reason for coming to the station was to use the printer once he had written up the Forsythe affidavit. But he didn’t want to start that document with the possibility that Trevino would come out of his office and see what he was doing. So he passed the time until Trevino left by going over the to-do list he had written during the morning’s meeting with Dante Corvalis.

  Among other requests, the prosecutor wanted updated and signed statements from all of Dockweiler’s known victims. He added specific questions he needed answered in the statements. These would be entered into the record at the preliminary hearing of the case against Dockweiler and would allow the victims to avoid having to testify. All that was required in a preliminary hearing was for the prosecutor to present a prima facie case that supported the charges. Proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt was a measure held for trial. The burden of delivering the case at preliminary hearing would rest primarily on Bosch, as he would testify about the investigation that led to Dockweiler. Corvalis said he wanted to avoid unless absolutely necessary having to put victims of rape on the witness stand to publicly relive the horror of what happened to them. He only wanted that to happen once, and that was when it counted. At trial.

  Bosch was halfway through creating a template of questions to submit to the victims when Trevino left and locked his office after snapping the light off.

  “Okay, Harry, I’m out of here.”

  “Have a good night and get some rest.”

  “You in tomorrow?”

  “Not sure yet. I’ll either be here or I’ll call you with my answer.”

  “Great.”

  Bosch watched over the cubicle wall as Trevino went to the attendance board and signed himself out. The captain didn’t say a thing about Bosch having not signed it when he came in.

  Soon the captain was gone and Bosch was alone in the bureau. He saved his work on the witness template and opened a new blank document. He then typed out an affidavit beginning with the words “I, Ida Townes Forsythe…”

  It took him less than an hou
r to complete a scant two pages of basic facts, because he knew from years of dealing with witnesses, affidavits, and lawyers that the fewer facts he put into the document, the fewer angles of assault there would be for attorneys from the opposition.

  He printed two copies for Forsythe to sign, one to file with the court and one to keep in a file containing copies of all the important case documents.

  While he was at the printing station, he saw a sign-up sheet on the unit bulletin board for sponsors of a bowl-a-thon designed to raise funds for a fellow officer on injury leave. The officer was referred to as 11-David, which Bosch knew was the radio call sign used by Bella Lourdes. The flyer explained that while she would be receiving full pay while on leave, she was expected to incur a variety of extra expenses not covered by workmen’s comp and the department’s recently trimmed-back medical plan. Bosch guessed that those expenses most likely related to psychotherapy sessions no longer covered by department-provided insurance. Beginning Friday evening, the bowl-a-thon would go for as long as possible and the suggested sponsorship was for one dollar a game—an estimated four dollars an hour.

  Bosch saw that Sisto was listed on one of the teams. He took a pen out of his pocket and signed his name below Trevino’s name on the sponsorship list. The captain had put himself down for five dollars a game and Bosch matched that.

  Once he returned to his desk Bosch called Haller. As usual, the lawyer was in the back of his Lincoln, being driven somewhere in the city.

  “I have the affidavit ready and can go back any time you hook me up with a notary,” he said.

  “Good,” Haller said. “I’d like to meet Ida, so maybe we all go. What’s your ten o’clock look like tomorrow?”

  Bosch realized he had failed to ask Forsythe for a phone number. He had no way of contacting her to set up the appointment. He doubted she was listed, considering her job had been working for one of the most reclusive men in the world.

  “It works for me,” he said. “We should meet at her house. I’ll get there early and make sure she’s home. You bring the notary.”

  “Deal,” Haller said. “E-mail me the address.”

  “Will do. And one other thing. The original docs from the package I received? Do you need them tomorrow or when we go into court?”

  “No, keep them wherever you have them, as long as they’re safe.”

  “They are.”

  “Good. We don’t produce originals until a court orders us to.”

  “Got it.”

  They ended the call. His business finished, Bosch collected the copies of the Forsythe affidavit from the printer tray and left the station. He headed toward the airport over in Burbank, deciding it might be best to make one more change of transportation as he headed into what appeared to be some critical final steps of the Vance case.

  He pulled into the Hertz return lane, gathered his belongings, including the GPS jammer, and left the Cherokee there. He decided to change things up a little further by going to the Avis counter in the terminal to rent a replacement. While he waited in line to rent, he thought about Forsythe and her accounting of what had transpired in the days following his visit with Whitney Vance. She had a unique view and knowledge of the goings-on inside the mansion on San Rafael. He decided he would prepare more questions for the intended meeting the next day.

  It was dark by the time he got to Woodrow Wilson Drive. As he rounded the last curve he saw a car parked at the curb in front of his house and his headlights illuminated two figures sitting inside it, waiting. Bosch drove by while he tried to figure out who it might be and why they would park directly in front of his house, giving their position away. He quickly came to a conclusion and spoke it out loud.

  “Cops.”

  He guessed they were Sheriff’s detectives with follow-up questions concerning the Dockweiler shooting. He turned around at the intersection at Mulholland Drive, drove back down to his house, and pulled his rented Ford Taurus into his carport without hesitation. After locking the car he walked out toward the street to check the mailbox—and to get a look at the sedan’s license plate. The two men were already getting out of the car.

  Bosch checked the mailbox and found it empty.

  “Harry Bosch?”

  Bosch turned to the street. He didn’t recognize either of the men as part of the Sheriff’s OIS team that had worked the Dockweiler scene the other night.

  “That’s right. What’s up, fellas?”

  In unison the men produced gold badges that caught the reflection from the street lamp above them. They were both white, midforties, and wearing obvious cop suits, meaning off the rack at a two-for-one store.

  Bosch noticed that one of them carried a black binder under his arm. It was a little thing, but Bosch knew the standard-issue binders used by the Sheriff’s Department were green. LAPD used blue.

  “Pasadena Police Department,” one of them said. “I’m Detective Poydras and he’s Detective Franks.”

  “Pasadena?” Bosch said.

  “Yes, sir,” Poydras said. “We are working a homicide case and would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Inside, if you don’t mind,” Franks added.

  Homicide. The surprises kept coming. A vision of Ida Townes Forsythe’s fearful look when she said she was being watched crossed Bosch’s mind. He stopped moving and looked at his two visitors.

  “Who was murdered?” he asked.

  “Whitney Vance,” Poydras said.

  40

  Bosch sat the two Pasadena detectives down at the dining room table and took the chair across from them. He didn’t offer them water, coffee, or anything else. Franks had been carrying the binder. He placed it to the side of the table.

  While the two detectives looked to be about the same age, it remained to be seen who had the juice—which one had seniority in the partnership, which one was the alpha dog.

  Bosch was betting it was Poydras. He was the one who spoke first and had been behind the wheel of the car. Franks may have been carrying the binder but those first two facts were clear signs that he was playing second to Poydras. Another was Franks’s two-tone face. His forehead was as white as a vampire’s but there was a clear line of demarcation where the lower half of his face was a ruddy tan. It told Bosch that it was likely he frequently played either softball or golf. Since Franks was in his forties Bosch guessed it was golf. It was a popular pastime among homicide detectives because it fit with the obsessive qualities needed for the job. But sometimes, Bosch had noticed, golf became a greater obsession than the homicide work. You ended up with guys with two-tone faces playing second string to an alpha dog because they were always thinking about the next round, and who could get them onto the next course.

  Years ago, Bosch had had a partner named Jerry Edgar. He turned Bosch into a golf widow because of his obsession with the game. Once they were working a case and had to go to Chicago to find and arrest a murder suspect. When Bosch got to LAX for the flight, he saw Edgar checking his golf clubs at the luggage counter. Edgar said he was planning to stay an extra day in Chicago because he knew a guy who could get him onto Medinah. Bosch assumed that was a golf course. The next two days, while looking for their murder suspect, they drove around with a set of golf clubs in the trunk of their rental.

  Sitting across the table from the two men from Pasadena, Bosch decided it was Poydras who was the dog. He kept his eyes on him.

  Bosch started with a question before they could.

  “How was Vance killed?” he asked.

  Poydras put an uneasy smile on his face.

  “We’re not going to do it that way,” he said. “We’re here to ask you questions. Not the other way around.”

  Franks held up a notebook he had taken from his pocket as if to show he was there to write information down.

  “But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Bosch replied. “If you want answers from me, then I want answers from you. We trade.”

  Bosch waved a hand back and forth between them to signa
l equal and free trade.

  “Uh, no, we don’t trade,” Franks said. “One call to Sacramento and we lift your PI license for unprofessional conduct. That’s what we do. How would that be?”

  Bosch reached down to his belt and pulled his San Fernando badge off it. He tossed it down on the table in front of Franks.

  “It would be okay,” he said. “I’ve got another job.”

  Franks leaned forward and looked down at the badge, then smirked.

  “You’re a reserve officer,” he said. “You take that and a dollar to Starbucks and they might give you a cup of coffee.”

  “I was just offered full-time today,” Bosch said. “I’ll be getting the new badge tomorrow. Not that what it says on a badge matters.”

  “I’m real happy for you,” Franks said.

  “Go ahead and call Sacramento,” Bosch said. “See what you can get done.”

  “Look, how about we stop the pissing match right here?” Poydras said. “We know all about you, Bosch. We know about your LAPD history, we know about what happened in Santa Clarita the other night. And we also know you spent an hour with Whitney Vance last week, and we’re here to find out what that was about. The man was old and he was terminal but somebody sent him to Valhalla a little early and we’re going to figure out who and why.”

  Bosch paused and looked at Poydras. He had just confirmed that he had the juice in the partnership. He called the shots.

  “Am I a suspect?” Bosch asked.

  Franks leaned back in frustration and shook his head.

  “There he goes with the questions again,” he said.

  “You know the drill, Bosch,” Poydras said. “Everybody’s a suspect until they’re not.”

  “I could call my lawyer right now and that would be the end of this,” Bosch said.

  “Yeah, you could,” Poydras said. “If you wanted. If you had something to hide.”

  He then stared at Bosch and waited. Bosch knew Poydras was counting on his loyalty to the mission. He had spent years doing what these two were doing and he knew what they faced.

  “I signed a confidentiality agreement with Vance,” Bosch said.