The Drop hb-17

by Michael Connelly

  “Everybody’s about to head out. I think they’ve seen enough for one day. It’s truly horrible stuff.”

  Bosch nodded. He checked the clock on the wall again. It had been a long day, almost twelve hours for him. Chu was talking about the other detective teams that were assigned to the investigation and had been sifting through videos of torture and murder for the past six hours.

  “I was going to head out with them, Harry, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure. I gotta go home, too.”

  “I think we’re in good shape for tomorrow, don’t you?”

  They had a 9 A.M. appointment at the District Attorney’s Office to present their case and seek murder charges against Hardy in the Lily Price case. Bosch turned sideways to his desk and put his hand on the thick pocket file that contained the reports they would give to the DA. The package.

  “Yeah,” Bosch said. “I think we’re set.”

  “Okay, then, I’m out of here. I’ll see you in the A.M. We meet here and walk over?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chu was a backpack guy. He swung his bag over his shoulder and headed out of the cubicle.

  “Hey, David,” Bosch said. “Before you go . . .”

  Chu turned back and leaned on one of the cubicle’s four-foot walls.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just wanted to say you did good today. We did good as partners.”

  Chu nodded.

  “Thanks, Harry.”

  “So never mind all that stuff from before, okay? We’ll just start from here.”

  “I told you I’d make it up.”

  “Yeah, so go home . . . and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See ya, Harry.”

  Chu went off, a happy man. Bosch saw there had been a moment of expectancy in his face. Maybe a makeup beer or a bite of food would have solidified the partnership further, but Harry needed to get home. He needed to do exactly what Mrs. Price had told him to do.

  The new PAB cost nearly half a billion dollars and had half a million square feet of space in its ten floors of limestone and glass, but it didn’t have a snack bar, and parking was available for only a privileged few of high rank. As a detective three Bosch barely made the grade, but taking advantage of parking in the PAB’s subterranean garage was a costly perk. A fee would’ve been deducted from his paycheck each month. He opted out because he could still park for free in the old “erector set,” the rusting steel parking structure located three blocks away and behind the old police headquarters, Parker Center.

  He didn’t mind the three-block walk to and from work. It was right through the heart of the civic center and a good length for prepping for the day ahead or decompressing after it.

  Bosch was on Main Street, crossing behind City Hall, when he noticed the black Town Car cruise quietly up in the bus lane and stop at the curb twenty feet in front of him.

  Even as he saw the rear window glide down, he acted like he had not noticed and kept walking, his eyes on the sidewalk in front of him.

  “Detective Bosch.”

  Bosch turned to see Irvin Irving’s face framed in the open rear window of the Lincoln.

  “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other, Councilman.”

  He kept walking and soon enough the Town Car pulled forward and started moving next to him, matching his speed. Bosch might not have wanted to talk to Irving but Irving certainly wanted to talk to him.

  “You think you’re bulletproof, Bosch?”

  Bosch waved him off.

  “You think this big case you just scored makes you bulletproof? You’re not bulletproof. Nobody is.”

  Bosch had had enough. He suddenly veered toward the car. Irving pulled back from the window as Bosch put his hands on the sill and leaned in. The car came to a slow stop. Irving was alone in the backseat.

  “I had nothing to do with that story in the paper yesterday, okay? I don’t think I’m bulletproof. I don’t think I’m anything. I was doing my job, that’s all.”

  “You blew it, that’s what you did.”

  “I didn’t blow anything. I told you I had nothing to do with it. You have a problem, go talk to the chief.”

  “I’m not talking about a newspaper article. I don’t give a good goddamn about the L.A. Times. Fuck them. I’m talking about you. You blew it, Bosch. I counted on you and you blew it.”

  Bosch nodded and dropped down to his haunches, still holding on to the car’s windowsill.

  “Actually, I got the case right and you and I both know it. Your son jumped, and more than anybody, you know why. The only mystery left is why you asked for me. You know my history. I don’t lie down on cases.”

  “You fool. I wanted you for exactly that reason. Because I knew that if they got even the slimmest chance, they would turn this into a play on me, and I thought you would have enough integrity to stand up against it. I didn’t realize you had your nose so far up your former partner’s ass that you couldn’t see the setup she was running.”

  Bosch laughed and shook his head as he stood up.

  “You’re good, Councilman. The right outrage, judicious use of off-color language, the planting of seeds of distrust and paranoia. You might be able to convince somebody with all of that. But not me. Your son jumped and that’s all there is to it. I feel bad for you and his wife. But the one I feel most sorry for is his son. He didn’t deserve this.”

  Bosch stared down at Irving and watched the old man attempt to modulate his rage.

  “I have something here for you, Bosch.”

  He turned away to reach across the seat and Bosch had a fleeting thought of Irving turning back and pointing a gun at him. He thought Irving’s ego and arrogance were such that he could actually bring himself to do it and believe he could get away with it.

  But when Irving turned back, he proffered a piece of paper through the window.

  “What is it?” Bosch asked.

  “It’s the truth,” Irving said. “Take it.”

  Bosch snapped the document out of his hand and looked at it. It was a photocopy of a phone message form dated May 24 and addressed at the top to someone named Tony. There was a return number with a 323 area code and a handwritten message that read, Gloria Waldron complained that she got into a B&W cab at Musso-Frank last night and driver was obviously drunk. She had him pull over so she could get out. Could smell alcohol in the cab, etc. Please call for follow up.

  Bosch looked from the photocopy back to Irving.

  “What am I supposed to do with this? You could’ve written it up this morning.

  “I could have but I didn’t.”

  “So what happens if I call this number? This Gloria Waldron swears to me she called in this complaint and then you happened to mention it to Bobby Mason at Chad Irving’s party? It doesn’t wash, Councilman.”

  “I know it doesn’t. It’s a dead line. Now. My community outreach officer Tony Esperante remembers calling her and getting the details. And I passed them on to Mason. But the line is disconnected now and look at the date, Detective.”

  “I did. May twenty-fourth. What’s it mean?”

  “May twenty-fourth was a Tuesday. She said she got into the cab at Musso’s the night before.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Musso’s is closed Mondays,” he said. “The call—if there was a call—was bogus.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you were set up, Councilman? By your own son? That you innocently passed information on to Mason without knowing you were doing your son’s bidding?”

  “Not by my son, but by someone.”

  Bosch held up the photocopy.

  “And this, this is your proof?”

  “I don’t need proof. I know. Now you do, too. I was used by someone I trusted. I admit that. But so were you. Up there on the tenth floor. You gave them the means to take the shot at me. They used you to get to me.”

  “Well, that’s an opinion.”

  “No, it’s the truth. And
someday you’ll know it. You watch, they’ll come to you at some point and you’ll see it. You’ll know.”

  Bosch handed the photocopy back but Irving didn’t take it.

  “You keep it. You’re the detective.”

  Irving turned and said something to his driver and the Town Car started to pull away from the curb. Bosch watched the smoked window glide up into place as the car moved back into the traffic lane. He stood there for a long moment, considering what had been said. He folded the photocopy and put it in his pocket.

  40

  It was almost 11:30 by the time Bosch and Chu got to the Buena Vista apartments on Tuesday morning. Bosch had called ahead and talked to Hannah Stone. She told him Clayton Pell was scheduled to report to work at the market at noon but she agreed to hold him at the facility until the detectives arrived.

  At the front gate they were buzzed through without delay. Stone came to greet them in the entranceway. It was awkward because Bosch was with his partner and it was all business. He extended his hand and they shook. Chu did the same.

  “Okay, we have you set up in one of the interview rooms, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s perfect,” Bosch said.

  He had talked to her on the phone for more than an hour the evening before. It was late, after his daughter had gone to bed. Bosch had been too keyed up from the day’s events to sleep. He had called Hannah and sat on the deck with the phone until close to midnight. They talked about many things but mostly the Hardy case. She was now more informed than anyone who had watched the news or read the Los Angeles Times.

  Stone led Bosch and Chu into a small room with two stuffed chairs and a couch.

  “I’ll go get him,” she said. “Should I sit in again?”

  Bosch nodded.

  “If it will make him more comfortable and get him to sign the document.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  She left them there and Chu looked at Bosch with raised eyebrows.

  “When I interviewed him last week, he would only talk to me if she was in the room,” Bosch said. “He trusts her. He doesn’t trust cops.”

  “Got it. And by the way, Harry, I think she digs you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The way she was looking at you with that smile. I’m just saying. I think it’s there if you want it.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Bosch sat down on the couch and Chu took one of the chairs. They said nothing else as they waited. They had spent two hours that morning delivering the charging package to a filing deputy in the DA’s Office. His name was Oscar Benitez and Bosch had taken cases to him before. He was a good, smart and cautious deputy assigned to major crimes. His job was to make sure the police had a case before filing charges against a suspect. He wasn’t a pushover and that was one of the things Bosch liked about him.

  Their package had been received well by Benitez. He just wanted a few things cleaned up or formalized. One of them was Clayton Pell’s contribution to the prosecution of Chilton Hardy. Bosch and Chu were here to make sure that this part of the case was on solid ground. When Benitez was told of Pell’s pedigree, he became concerned about his role as a key witness and whether he might try to work the prosecution for some sort of payoff, or might work the other side and be willing to change his story. Benitez made a strategic decision to put Pell on paper, meaning they should get him to sign a statement. This was rarely done because a statement not only locks the details of a story into place but also must be turned over to the defense in discovery.

  A few minutes later Stone came in with Clayton Pell. Bosch pointed him to the remaining chair.

  “Clayton, how are you? Why don’t you sit there? You remember my partner, Detective Chu.”

  Chu and Pell exchanged nods. Bosch looked at Stone as if to ask if she was staying or leaving.

  “Clayton would like me to sit in again,” she said.

  “That’s fine. We can share the couch.”

  Once everyone was seated Bosch opened his briefcase on his lap and started talking as he removed a file.

  “Clayton, have you been watching the news since last night?”

  “Sure have. Looks like you got your man.”

  He folded his legs up under himself. He was so small he looked like a child seated in the big stuffed chair.

  “Yesterday we arrested Chilton Hardy for the murder I spoke to you about last week.”

  “Yeah, that’s cool. Did you arrest him for what he did to me?”

  Bosch was anticipating that Pell would ask him exactly that question.

  “Well, we are hoping to bring a number of charges against him. That’s why we’re here, Clayton. We need your help.”

  “And like I said last week, what do I get out of it?”

  “Well, just like I said last week, you get to help us put this man away for good. Your tormentor. You may even get to face him in court if the DA needs you as a witness against him.”

  Bosch opened the file on his briefcase.

  “My partner and I spent the morning at the DA’s Office presenting our case against Hardy in the murder of Lily Price. We have a good, solid case and it’s only going to get better as the investigation continues. The DA plans to file a murder charge before the end of the day. We told him about your role and how it was actually your blood found on the victim and—”

  “What role?” Pell shrieked. “I told you I wasn’t even there and now you’re telling the DA I had a role in it?”

  Bosch dropped the file on his briefcase and held both hands up in a calming gesture.

  “Hold on, Clayton, that’s not what we did at all. That was a poor choice of words but you have to let me finish. What we did was walk him through the case. What we knew, what the evidence is and how we see it all hanging together, all right? We told him your blood was on the victim but you weren’t even there. And not only that but you were just a kid at the time and there’s no way you were involved. So he gets all of that, okay? He knows you were a victim of this guy as well.”

  Pell didn’t respond. He turned sideways on the chair as he had done the week before.

  “Clayton,” Stone said. “Please pay attention. This is important.”

  “I gotta go to work.”

  “You won’t be late if you listen and don’t interrupt. This is very important. Not only for this case but for you, too. Please turn around and listen.”

  Pell reluctantly turned back in his seat so that he was facing Bosch.

  “Okay, okay, I’m listening.”

  “All right, Clayton, I’ll give it to you straight. There is only one crime that doesn’t have a statute of limitations on it. Do you know what that means?”

  “It means they can’t charge you after a certain amount of time’s gone by. Like for sex crimes it’s usually three years.”

  Bosch realized that Pell had more than a passing familiarity with the statute of limitations. While he was in prison he probably gained an understanding of the California statute because of his own crimes. It was a grim reminder that the petulant little man who sat across from him was a dangerous predator and predators always knew the lay of the land they walked.

  The statute of limitations for most sex crimes was three years. But Pell was wrong. There were various exceptions to the statute on the basis of the type of crime committed and the age of the victim. The D.A.’s office would need to render an opinion as to whether Hardy could be prosecuted for the crimes against Pell. Bosch thought that it was probably too late. Pell had been telling this story to prison evaluators for years but nobody ever bothered to push for an investigation. Bosch was sure Hardy’s run as a predator was over and he would pay for at least some of his crimes. But he would likely never pay for what he did to Clayton Pell.

  “That’s generally right,” Bosch said. “It’s usually three years. So then you probably know the answer to your own question. I don’t think Hardy will ever be prosecuted for what he did to
you, Clayton. But that doesn’t matter because you can play an instrumental part in his prosecution for murder. We told the DA that it’s your blood on Lily Price and you will be able to tell a jury how it got there. You will be able to testify about what he did to you—the sexual and physical abuse. You will provide what is called bridge testimony, Clayton. You will help us build a bridge from the DNA found on that girl to Chilton Hardy’s doorstep.”

  Bosch picked up the document again.

  “One of the things the DA needs right now is a signed statement from you that sets forth the facts of your relationship with Hardy. This morning my partner and I wrote this up based on my notes from last week. I want you to read it, and if it is accurate, then sign it and you will be helping make sure Hardy spends the rest of his life on death row.”

  Bosch offered him the document but Pell waved it away.

  “Why don’t you just read it to me out loud?”

  Bosch realized that Pell probably couldn’t read. There was no indication in his record that he had ever attended school with any regularity and he certainly wasn’t encouraged to read or educate himself at home.

  Bosch proceeded to read the one-and-a-half-page document. It purposely followed the adage that less is more. It briefly outlined Pell’s acknowledgment that he lived in Hardy’s home at the time of the Lily Price murder and was abused during the period both sexually and physically. It described the physical abuse in regard to the use of Hardy’s belt and stated that Pell often sustained beatings that led to his bleeding from wounds on his back.

  The statement also described Pell’s recent identification of Hardy in a photographic lineup as well as his accurate recognition of the home he lived in with Hardy in the late 1980s.

  “The undersigned agrees with these facts and believes them to be a true and accurate accounting of his involvement with Chilton Aaron Hardy Junior in nineteen eighty-nine,” Bosch read. “And that’s it.”

  He looked at Pell, who was nodding his head as if in agreement.

  “Is that good?” Bosch prompted.

  “Yeah, it’s good,” Pell said. “But it mentions that Chill took a picture of me copping his joint.”

  “Well, not in those words, but—”