The Drop hb-17

by Michael Connelly

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. I’m not lying to you.”

  “You said you talked about it for several nights. He did not accept your decision?”

  “Of course not. He said he wouldn’t let me go. I told him he didn’t have a choice. I was leaving. I was prepared. It wasn’t a rash decision. I’ve been in a loveless marriage for quite a long time, Detective. The day Chad got the acceptance letter from USF, that was the day I started planning.”

  “Did you have a place you were going to go?”

  “A place, a car, a job—everything.”

  “Where?”

  “San Francisco. Close to Chad.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all of this from the start? What’s the point of hiding it?”

  “My son. His father was dead and it wasn’t clear how. He didn’t need to know that his parents’ marriage had been coming to an end. I didn’t want to put that on him.”

  Bosch shook his head. She apparently didn’t care that her deception had almost resulted in McQuillen’s being accused of murder.

  There was a noise from somewhere in the house and Deborah became alert.

  “That’s the back door. Chad is home. Do not tell him this. I beg you.”

  “He’s going to find out. I should talk to him. His father must’ve told him something when he told him he needed to fly home.”

  “No, he didn’t. I was in the room when he called. He just told him we needed him to come home for a few days because of a family emergency. George assured him that everybody was fine healthwise but that he needed to come home. Do not tell him about this. I will tell him.”

  “Mom?”

  It was Chad calling from somewhere in the house.

  “In the living room, Chad,” his mother called back.

  Then she looked at Bosch with beseeching eyes.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Chad Irving entered the living room. He was dressed in blue jeans and a golf shirt. His hair was unkempt and it looked startlingly different from the carefully combed look he’d had at the funeral.

  “Chad,” Bosch said. “How are you doing?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Fine. What are you doing here? Did you arrest someone for killing my father?”

  “No, Chad,” his mother said quickly. “Detective Bosch was just doing some follow-up on your father. I had to answer a few questions about the business. That’s all and, in fact, Detective Bosch was just about to leave.”

  The time was rare that Bosch would allow someone to speak for him and lie and even push him out the door. But Bosch played along. He even stood up.

  “Yes, I think I have what I need for now. I do want to talk a little more with you, Chad, but that can wait until tomorrow. You are still around tomorrow, right?”

  Bosch looked at Deborah the whole time he spoke. The message was clear. If you want to be the one who tells him, then tell him tonight. Otherwise, Bosch would be back in the morning.

  “Yes, I’m staying until Sunday.”

  Bosch nodded. He moved out of the seating area.

  “Mrs. Irving, you have my number. Call me if anything else comes up. I’ll show myself out.”

  With that, Bosch headed through the living room and then out of the house. He went off the front walkway and crossed the lawn diagonally to his car.

  He received a text as he walked. It was from his daughter, of course. No one else ever texted him.

  Going to read in bed. Night, Dad.

  He stood next to his car and answered her right away.

  On my way home now . . . O?

  Her response was quick.

  Ocean.

  It was a game they played, though a game with a higher purpose. He had taught her the LAPD’s phonetic alphabet and often tested her in texts. Or while out driving together, he’d point out a license plate and have her call it out in phonetic code.

  He texted her back.

  TMG

  That’s my girl.

  Once he was in the car, he lowered the window and looked up at the Irving house. The lights had been turned off now in the downstairs rooms. But the family—what was left of it—was still awake upstairs, dealing with the debris George Irving had left behind.

  Bosch started his car and headed toward Ventura Boulevard. He opened his phone and called Chu’s cell. He checked the dash clock and saw it was only nine thirty-eight. There was plenty of time. The Times deadline for the morning print edition was eleven.

  “Harry? Everything all right?”

  “Chu, I want you to call your girlfriend at the Times. Give—”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, Harry. I made a mistake and I resent how you keep sticking the knife in and turning it.”

  “Well, I resent you, Chu. But I need you to do this. Call her and give her the story. No names, it’s got to come from ‘informed sources.’ The LAPD—”

  “Harry, she won’t trust me. I killed the story before by threatening to ruin her. She won’t even talk to me anymore.”

  “Yes, she will. If she wants the story. Send her an e-mail first that says you want to make it up to her and give her a story. Then call her. Just no names. Informed sources. The LAPD will announce tomorrow that the George Irving case has been closed. His death has been ruled a suicide. Make sure you say to her that a week’s investigation has determined that Irving was facing marital issues and tremendous job pressures and difficulties. You got that? I want it said that way.”

  “Then why don’t you call her?”

  Bosch turned onto Ventura and headed toward the Cahuenga Pass.

  “Because she’s yours, Chu. Now call her or text her or send her an e-mail and give it to her exactly the way I said.”

  “She’ll want more. This is generic. She’ll want what she calls the telling details.”

  Bosch thought for a moment.

  “Tell her that the room Irving jumped from had been his honeymoon suite twenty years ago.”

  “Okay, that’s good. She’ll like that. What else?”

  “Nothing else. That’s enough.”

  “Why now? Why not in the morning?”

  “Because if it’s in tomorrow’s print edition, it’s going to be hard to change. And that’s what I’m guarding against. High jingo, Chu. This isn’t the conclusion that’s going to make the city councilman happy. That in turn won’t make the chief happy.”

  “But it’s the truth?”

  “Yeah, it’s the truth. And the truth gets out. Tell GoGo that if she does this right, there’s going to be a follow-up she’ll want to get a piece of.”

  “What follow-up?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Just get this going. She has a deadline.”

  “Is this how it’s always going to be, Harry? You just tell me what to do and when to do it. I never get a say?”

  “You’ll have a say, Chu. With your next partner.”

  Bosch closed the phone. As he drove the rest of the way home, he thought about the things he was setting in motion. With the newspaper, with Irving and with Chu.

  He was making risky moves and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was because he had been led so far astray on the investigation. Was he punishing himself or those who had led him astray?

  Just as he started climbing Woodrow Wilson toward his home he got another call. He expected it to be Chu, confirming that he had made the call and that the story would be in the morning print edition of the Times. But it wasn’t Chu.

  “Hannah, I’m working.”

  “Oh, I thought maybe we could talk.”

  “Well, I’m alone now and have a few minutes but like I said, I’m working.”

  “Is it a crime scene?”

  “No, an interview, you could call it. What’s up, Hannah?”

  “Well, two things. Is there any update on the case involving Clayton Pell? Clayton asks me about it every time I see him. I wish there was something to tell him.”

  “Well, there really is
n’t. It kind of got back-burnered while I work on this other thing. But that is ending now and I’ll be back on the Pell case pretty quick. You can tell Clayton that. We’ll find Chilton Hardy. I guarantee it.”

  “Okay, that’s good, Harry.”

  “What’s the other thing you wanted to talk about?”

  He knew what it was but it was her call. She had to ask it.

  “Us . . . Harry, I know I messed things up with my issues about my son. I am sorry about that and I hope it didn’t completely spoil things. I like you a lot and I hope we can see each other again.”

  Bosch pulled to a stop in front of his house. His daughter had left the porch light on. He stayed in the car.

  “Hannah . . . the truth is, all I’ve been doing is working. I’ve got two cases here and I’m trying to work them both. Why don’t we see how we feel over the weekend or early next week? I’ll call you then or you can call me if you want.”

  “Okay, Harry. We’ll talk next week.”

  “Yes, Hannah. Good night and have a good weekend.”

  Bosch opened the car door and practically had to roll out of the car. He was tired. The burden of knowledge was heavy. And all he wanted was to crash into a black dream where nothing could find him.

  31

  Bosch got in to the squad room late Friday morning because his daughter had been late in getting ready for school. By the time he entered and headed toward his cubicle, the rest of the Open-Unsolved Unit was in place. He could tell they were watching him without watching him and this told him that the story he had told David Chu to feed to Emily Gomez-Gonzmart had been published that morning in the Times. As he entered his cubicle, Harry threw a casual glance toward the lieutenant’s office and noted that the door was closed and the blinds were down. She was either late herself or hiding.

  A copy of the Times was waiting for Bosch on his desk, courtesy of his partner.

  “You see it yet?” Chu asked from his seat.

  “No, I don’t get the Times.”

  Bosch sat down, putting his briefcase on the floor next to his chair. He didn’t have to hunt through the newspaper for the story. It was on the bottom left corner of the front page. The headline was all he needed to read.

  LAPD: Councilman’s Son’s Death Ruled Suicide

  He noted that the byline was shared by Emily Gomez-Gonzmart and another reporter, Tad Hemmings, whom Bosch had never heard of. He was about to read the story when his desk phone buzzed. It was Tim Marcia, the squad whip.

  “Harry, you and Chu have a forthwith from the chief’s office. The lieutenant’s already up there and they’re waiting for you.”

  “I was hoping to get a cup of coffee but I guess we’d better go up.”

  “Yeah, I would. Good luck up there. I heard the councilman was in the building.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Bosch stood and turned to Chu, who was on the phone. Bosch pointed toward the ceiling, meaning they were going upstairs. Chu got off his call and stood up, grabbing his sport coat off the back of his chair.

  “The chief’s office?” he asked.

  “Yeah. They’re waiting for us.”

  “How do we play this?”

  “You talk as little as possible. Let me answer the questions. If you don’t agree with something I say, don’t show it or say it. Just agree with it.”

  “Whatever you say, Harry.”

  Bosch noted his partner’s sarcasm.

  “Yeah. Whatever I say.”

  There was no need for further discussion. They took the elevator up in silence and when they entered the OCP, they were immediately whisked into a meeting room where the chief of police waited. It was the fastest Bosch had ever been able to gain an audience with a member of the department’s command staff, let alone the chief himself.

  The boardroom looked like it belonged in a downtown law firm. Long polished table, glass wall of views across the civic center. Seated at the head of the table was the chief of police and to his right was Kiz Rider. The three seats going down one side of the table were taken by Councilman Irvin Irving and two members of his staff.

  Across from them sat Lieutenant Duvall, with her back to the city view, and she signaled Bosch and Chu to the seats next to her. Eight people in a meeting about one suicide, Bosch noted. And nobody in the entire building who gave a shit about Lily Price being dead for twenty years or Chilton Hardy being free for just as long.

  The chief did the talking first.

  “All right, everybody’s here. I’m sure everybody’s seen the Times today or read it online. I think everybody is a bit surprised by the public turn this case has taken and—”

  “More than surprised,” Irving cut in. “I want to know why the L.A. goddamn Times had this information before I did. Before my son’s family did.”

  He stabbed a finger down on the table to hammer home his outrage. Luckily Bosch was seated on a swivel chair. This allowed him to calmly pivot and look at the faces across from him and at the head of the table. He said nothing in response, waiting for the power in the room to tell him to speak. That power was not Irvin Irving, no matter how hard he hit the table with his stubby finger.

  “Detective Bosch,” the chief finally said. “Tell us what you know about this.”

  Bosch nodded and swiveled back so that he was directly facing Irving.

  “First of all, I don’t know anything about the story in the paper. It didn’t come from me but it doesn’t surprise me. This investigation has been leaking like a sieve since day one. Whether it was coming out of the OCP or the city council staff or RHD doesn’t matter, the story is out there and it’s accurate. And I want to correct one thing the city councilman said. The victim’s immediate family was informed of our conclusions. The victim’s wife, in fact, provided the information that was most important to my partner and me in calling the death a suicide.”

  “Deborah?” Irving said. “She told you nothing.”

  “On the first day she told us nothing. That is correct. It was during a subsequent interview that she was more forthcoming about the details of her marriage and her husband’s life and work.”

  Irving leaned back, dragging a balled fist on the table.

  “I was informed by this office just yesterday that this was a homicide investigation, that there was evidence of assault on my son’s body prior to the fatal impact and that it was likely that there was a former or current police officer involved. Now today I pick up the paper and read something completely different. I read that it’s a suicide. You know what this is? This is a payback. And it’s a cover-up and I will formally petition the council for an independent review of your so-called investigation and I will ask the district attorney—whoever that may be after next month’s election—to also review the case and its handling.”

  “Irv,” the chief said. “You asked for Detective Bosch to be put on the case. You said let the chips fall and now you don’t like how they have fallen. So you want to investigate how it was investigated?”

  The chief went back long enough in the department to call the councilman by his first name. No one else in the room would even dare.

  “I chose him because I thought he had the integrity not to be swayed from the truth but what obviously has—”

  “Harry Bosch has more integrity than anybody I’ve ever met. Anybody in this room.”

  It was Chu and the whole room looked at him, shocked by his outburst. Even Bosch was taken aback.

  “We’re not going to get into personal attacks here,” the chief said. “We first want to—”

  “If there is an investigation of the investigation,” Bosch said, daring to cut the chief off, “it will most likely lead to your indictment, Councilman.”

  That stunned the group. But Irving recovered quickly.

  “How dare you!” he said, his eyes full of growing rage. “How dare you say such a thing about me in front of other people. I will have your badge for this! I have served this city for nearly fifty years and no
t once has anyone accused me of any impropriety. I am less than a month from being reelected to my seat for the fourth time and you won’t stop me or the will of the people who want me to represent them.”

  A silence followed, during which one of Irving’s aides opened a leather folder with a legal pad inside. He wrote something down on the pad and Bosch half-imagined it was Take Bosch’s badge.

  “Detective Bosch,” Rider said. “Why don’t you explain your statement?”

  It was said with a tone of shock and maybe even outrage, as if she were joining the defense of Irving’s reputation. But Bosch knew that she was giving him the entrée he needed to say what he wanted.

  “George Irving billed himself as a lobbyist, but he wasn’t really much more than a fixer and a bagman. He sold influence. He used his own connections as a former cop and assistant city attorney but his most notable connection was to his father, the city councilman. You wanted something? He could get it to his father. You wanted a concrete supply contract or a taxi franchise, George was the man to see because he could get it done.”

  Bosch looked directly at Irving when he mentioned the taxi franchise. He saw a slight tremor in one eyelid and took it as a tell. He wasn’t saying anything the old man didn’t already know.

  “This is outrageous!” Irving bellowed. “I want this stopped! This man is using a long-held grudge to tarnish what I have worked for all my life.”

  Bosch stopped and waited. He knew this was the moment when the police chief would choose sides. It was going to be him or Irving.

  “I think we need to hear what Detective Bosch has to say,” the chief said.

  He shared his own hard stare with Irving, and Bosch knew that the chief was taking a major gamble. He was positioning himself against a powerful force in city government. He was banking on Bosch, and Harry knew he had Kiz Rider to thank for that.

  “Go ahead, Detective,” the chief said.

  Bosch leaned forward so he could look directly down the table at the chief.

  “A couple months ago George Irving parted ways with his closest friend. A cop he had known since the police academy. The friendship ended when the cop realized George and his father had been using him without his knowledge to help swing a lucrative taxi franchise toward one of George’s clients. The cop was asked directly by the councilman to start hitting the existing franchise holder with DUI spot checks, knowing that a file full of such stops or arrests would damage their efforts to retain the franchise.”