“And you’re the fox.”
“I’m the fox.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, then I deleted it.”
“You deleted the message?”
“Yeah, I didn’t want to risk him reading it while I was there in the office. I had to get out before he found out.”
“Okay, you never told me this, right?”
“Right.”
“And, really, that was all you did?”
Bosch thought about the photographs he had taken with his phone in Manley’s office. He decided to keep those to himself. For now.
“That was it.”
“Good.”
47
On the way back to Hollywood to drop Ballard at her car, Bosch called Reyes on his direct number at RHD and put it on speakerphone.
“Robbery-Homicide, Reyes.”
“Reyes, this is the luckiest call you ever took.”
“Who is—Bosch? Is this Bosch? I’m hanging up.”
“You do and you can read about it in the paper.”
“What the fuck are you talking about now? Am I on a speaker?”
“I’m driving so you’re on the speaker. And I’m talking about the real killer of Judge Montgomery. It’s going to come out soon, and you can look like you were a part of it or you and your partner can look like the ones who flat-out got it wrong—which is not far from the truth, Reyes.”
“Bosch, I’m not playing your games. I—”
“Not a game, Orlando. This is your chance to fix the fuckup. Meet me at the pink benches near the elevators in Grand Park in an hour.”
“No way. In an hour, I’m going home. Beat the traffic.”
“Then remember when the shit hits the fan that I was the one who gave you a shot at being part of this. One hour. Be there or beat the traffic. I don’t really care. I was once in the squad, Reyes, and I wanted to give you a courtesy. Adios.”
Bosch disconnected.
“You think he’ll show?” Ballard asked.
“Yeah, he’ll show,” Bosch said. “When I talked to him before, I think he kind of sensed this was no CBA. I think he was bullied by his partner. That happens.”
“I know.”
Bosch looked over at her and then back to the road.
“You talking about me?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” she said. “Besides, we’re not partners. Officially.”
“We clear this case and it may come out. What we’ve been doing.”
“I don’t know. Olivas put me on the Banks case. I connected it to you and this. I don’t see any blowback. Especially now that I have Olivas on a leash.”
Bosch smiled. Ballard had told him about the conversation she’d had with Olivas in the CIV. She thought the deal she had made and the recording she had as a backup gave her the upper hand.
“You really think you have that guy on a leash, huh?”
“Not really. But you know what I mean. He doesn’t want any waves. He wants a nice flat surface that he can paddle away on in a year. He causes me grief and I’m going to turn it right back on him. He knows that.”
“You’ve got the world wired.”
“For now. But nothing lasts forever.”
She had parked her cruiser on the street near Musso’s and Bosch pulled in behind it.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
“Go to the station, grab a few hours’ sleep in the cot room before going to roll call.”
“Back in the day, when I was at Hollywood Division, we called it the Honeymoon Suite.”
“They still do—at least some of the old-school guys. Some things about the department will never change.”
Bosch thought she was referring to something deeper than the nap room at the station.
“Okay, I’ll hold off calling you after I get with Reyes,” he said. “You call me when you wake up.”
“Will do,” Ballard said.
She got out of the car and he drove on. Thirty minutes later he was sitting on the pink bench second closest to the elevator building in Grand Park. The closest bench was occupied by a vagrant who was lying with his head propped up on a dirty duffel bag and reading a paperback with the cover torn off. Bosch did not know if Reyes knew what he looked like but he doubted that he would be mistaken for the man reading.
Ten minutes past the designated meeting time, Bosch was about to give up on Reyes. He was seated on the bench at an angle that gave him an open view of anyone walking across the park from the direction of the Police Administration Building. But nobody was coming. Bosch leaned forward to push himself up and not put stress on his knee when he heard his name spoken from behind. He didn’t turn. He waited and a man in a suit came around the bench from behind him. Bosch noted the uneven drape of the suit jacket over the hips and knew the man was carrying. He was mid-thirties and completely bald on top, with a monk’s fringe around the sides.
“Reyes?”
“That’s right.”
The man sat down on the bench.
“I almost went to the guy over there with the book,” Reyes said. “But I figured you had a little more dignity than that.”
“That’s funny, Orlando,” Bosch responded.
“So, what can I do for you, Bosch? I have to get out to Duarte and traffic’s going to be a motherfucker.”
Bosch pointed toward the elevator building. They were at an angle similar to that seen from the camera on the courthouse facade behind them. They could not see the place where Judge Montgomery had been fatally stabbed.
“Tell me about the juror,” Bosch said.
“Who?” Reyes said. “What juror?”
“The witness. Laurie Lee Wells. Your name is on the report. You interviewed her.”
“Is that what this is about? Forget it, we’re not going to go over every step of the investigation. She was a waste of time and now you’re wasting my time. I’m going home.”
Reyes stood up to leave.
“Sit down, Orlando,” Bosch said. “She was the killer and you missed it. Sit down and I’ll tell you about it.”
Reyes stayed standing. He pointed down at Bosch.
“Bullshit,” he said. “You’re just looking for absolution. You got the real killer kicked free and now you’re grabbing at straws. That woman didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything. She was listening to Guns N’ Roses, Bosch. Turned up loud.”
“That’s a nice detail,” Bosch said. “It wasn’t in your report. Neither was anything about checking her out.”
“I checked her out. She was clean.”
“You mean you ran her name. But if you had gone to her apartment and knocked on her door, you would have seen that the real Laurie Lee Wells of Dickens Street, Sherman Oaks, was not the Laurie Lee Wells you interviewed. You got duped, Orlando. Sit down and we can exchange information. I’ll tell you about it.”
Reyes was hesitant, even jumpy. It was as if one foot wanted to head toward Duarte and the other wanted to go to the bench. Bosch threw his final argument at him.
“Do you know that the supposed juror you talked to is suspect number one on another RHD case? The crispy critter they picked up the other night. That was a hit disguised as something else. Just like Montgomery.”
Reyes finally sat down.
“Okay, Bosch, let’s hear it. And it better be good.”
“No, it doesn’t work that way. You talk to me first. I want to know about the interview. How you found her, where you talked to her. You talk to me, then I talk to you.”
Reyes shook his head, annoyed that he had to go first. But then he started telling the story.
“Simple. We collected video, then we watched the video. We saw the woman and identified the jury tag. I forget what Gussy was doing but I came over on my own. We didn’t have a name, obviously, so I asked to look around the jury assembly room. Nobody matched her. The jury clerk told me they had sent three groups up to courtrooms for jury selection that day. I checked those out, too, and still di
dn’t see her. I knew she couldn’t already be on a case because she was coming in too early for that. On the tape, I mean. Trials don’t start till ten each day. She’s on the tape before eight.”
“So how’d you find her?”
“The jury clerk told me to check out the cafeteria next to the jury assembly room. I did and there she was. Drinking coffee and reading a book. The blond hair stood out, you know? I knew it was her.”
“So you approach?”
“Yes, I badged her, told her about the murder and that she was on the video. I wanted to take her back to the PAB for the interview but she said she was on a jury panel and wanted to stay at the cafeteria. I talked to her there.”
“You didn’t record it?”
“No, if she turned out to be a witness of value, I would have gone the whole nine yards with her. But she wasn’t. I learned that pretty quick when it was clear she didn’t know what had happened twenty feet behind her. She had on the earbuds, remember?”
“Yes, Guns N’ Roses. Did you check her ID?”
“I didn’t look at her license, if that’s what you mean. But I knew the jury clerk would have all of that if we needed it. Look, Bosch, it’s your turn now. Tell me what you think you have and what you think you know.”
“One more question. Once you spoke to her and got her name, did you go to the jury clerk and confirm that she was a real juror?”
“Why would I do that, Bosch?”
“So the answer is no. You found her sitting in the cafeteria but you didn’t make sure she was legitimately there as a juror.”
“I didn’t have to. She didn’t see anything, she didn’t hear anything, she was of no use to me as a witness. Now, are you going to tell me what you think you know about her, or not?”
“I know the real Laurie Lee Wells who lives at the address you put in the report was never called for jury duty at the time of the murder and was not the woman in the video.”
“Fuck me. And you tie the woman in the video to that lawyer Montgomery had the problem with?”
“Working on that. That lawyer’s firm represents a party who may be involved in an arson-murder, and the same woman is on video in the vicinity of that killing. I think she’s a hitter who works for somebody that law firm represents. There are more connections—mainly through Las Vegas—and we’re working on them as well.”
“Who is ‘we,’ Bosch? Don’t tell me you brought that lawyer Haller into this.”
“No, not him. But you don’t need to know who I’m working with. You need to sit tight until I put all of this together and then we will bring it to you. That okay with you, Orlando?”
“Bosch, you don’t even—”
He was interrupted by a buzzing from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and looked at a text. He was about to type a response when he got a call on the phone and took it. He held a hand up to Bosch to keep him from speaking. He listened to the caller and then asked one question: “When?” He listened some more before saying, “Okay, I’m heading there now. Pick me up out front.”
He disconnected the call and stood up.
“I gotta go, Bosch,” he said. “And it looks like you’re a day late and a dollar short.”
“What are you talking about?” Bosch asked.
“Clayton Manley just took a dive off an office tower in Bunker Hill. He’s splattered all over California Plaza.”
Bosch was momentarily stunned. Then for a quick moment he thought about the crow that had hit the mirrored glass in Manley’s office and then fallen down the side of the building.
“How do they know it was him?” he asked.
“Because he sent an adios e-mail to the whole firm,” Reyes said. “Then he went up and jumped.”
Reyes turned and walked away, heading back to the PAB to catch a ride with his partner.
BALLARD
48
Instead of sleeping, Ballard called the Las Vegas Metro number off the police report Laurie Lee Wells had provided. But she was surprised when the voice that answered said “OCI.”
Every law enforcement agency had its own glossary of acronyms, abbreviations, and shorthand references to specialized units, offices, and locations. Harry Bosch had once joked that the LAPD had a full-time unit dedicated to coming up with acronyms for its various units. But Ballard knew that generally OC meant Organized Crime, and what gave her pause was that the Wells report dealt with the theft of a wallet.
“OCI, can I help you?” the voice repeated.
“Uh, yes, I’m looking for Detective Tom Kenworth?” Ballard said.
“Please hold.”
She waited.
“Kenworth.”
“Detective, this is Detective Renée Ballard, Los Angeles Police Department. I’m calling because I’m wondering if you can help me with some information regarding a homicide case I’m investigating.”
“A homicide in L.A.? How can we help you from over here in Las Vegas?”
“You took a report last year from a woman named Laurie Lee Wells. Do you remember that name?”
“Laurie Lee Wells. Laurie Lee Wells. Uh, no, not really. Is she your victim?”
“No, she’s fine.”
“Your suspect?”
“No, Detective. Her wallet was stolen in Vegas at a place called the Devil’s Den and that resulted in her identity being stolen. Does any of this ring a bell yet?”
There was a long pause before Kenworth responded.
“Can I get your name again?”
“Renée Ballard.”
“And you said Hollywood.”
“Yes, Hollywood Division.”
“Okay, I’m going to call you back in about five minutes, okay?”
“I really need to get some information. This is a homicide.”
“I know that, and I will call you back. Five minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll give you my direct number.”
“No, I don’t want your direct number. If you’re legit, I’ll find you. Talk to you in five.”
He disconnected before Ballard could say anything else.
Ballard put the phone down and started to wait. She understood what Kenworth was doing—making sure he was talking to a real cop on a real case. She reread the Metro police report Laurie Lee Wells had given her. Less than a minute later she heard her name over the station intercom telling her she had a call on line 2. It was Kenworth.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
“You’re working organized crime, I get it,” Ballard said. “So, who stole Laurie Lee Wells’s identity?”
“Well, hold on a second, Detective Ballard. Why don’t we start with you telling me what you’re working on? Who’s dead and how did Laurie Lee Wells’s name come into it?”
Ballard knew that if she went first, Kenworth would control the flow of information going both ways. But it felt as though she had no choice. His callback and cagey manner told her that Kenworth wasn’t going to give until he got.
“We actually have two murders, one last year and the other last week,” she said. “Our victim last year was a superior-court judge who was stabbed while walking to the courthouse. Our victim last week was burned alive. So far, we’ve come up with two connections: the same law firm represented players likely involved in each of these seemingly unrelated cases—and then there’s the woman.”
“The woman?” Kenworth asked.
“We’ve got the same woman on video in the immediate vicinity of each crime scene. She’s wearing different wigs and clothing but it’s the same woman. In the first case, the judge’s murder, she was even corralled as a possible witness and identified herself to police as Laurie Lee Wells, giving the correct address of the Laurie Lee Wells who had her wallet and identity stolen in Las Vegas last year. Problem is, we went to that address and spoke to the real Laurie Lee Wells, and she’s not the woman on the video. She told us about what happened in Vegas and that’s what brings me to you.”
There was silence from
Kenworth.
“You still there?” Ballard prompted.
“I’m here,” Kenworth said. “I was thinking. These videos, you have a clear shot of the woman?”
“Not really. She was clever about that. But we identified her by her walk.”
“Her walk.”
“She’s intoed. You can see it in both videos. Does that mean anything to you?”
“‘Intoed’? Nope. I don’t even know what it means.”
“Okay, then what can you tell me about the Laurie Lee Wells case? Have you identified the woman who took her identity? You work in organized crime. I have to assume her case has been folded into something bigger.”
“Well, we have some organized groups here who engage in identity theft on a large scale, so a lot of that comes through our office. But with the Wells case we took it because it fit with a location we’ve been looking at.”
“The Devil’s Den.”
Kenworth was silent, pointedly not confirming Ballard’s supposition.
“Okay, if you don’t want to talk about the Devil’s Den, then let’s talk about Batman,” Ballard said.
“‘Batman’?”
“Come on, Kenworth. Dominick Butino.”
“That’s the first time you’ve mentioned him. How is he part of this?”
“The law firm that connects all of this also repped Butino on a case over here. They won it. Let me just ask you, Detective, since you’re in OCI—have you ever heard of a woman hitter, maybe working for Butino or the Outfit?”
As was becoming routine, Kenworth didn’t answer right away. He seemed to have to carefully weigh every piece of information he eventually gave Ballard.
“It’s not that hard a question,” Ballard finally said. “You either have or you haven’t. Your hesitation suggests you have.”
“Well, yeah,” Kenworth said. “But it’s more rumor than anything else. We’ve picked up intel here and there about a woman who handles contracts for the Outfit.”
“What are the rumors?”
“We had a guy—a connected guy—come out here from Miami. He ended up dead in his suite at the Cleopatra. The casino surveillance cams showed him going up with a woman. The scene looked like a suicide—he sucked down a bullet. But the more we looked into it, the more we think it was a hit. But that was nine months ago and we haven’t gotten anywhere with it. It’s gone cold.”
The Night Fire Page 30