There was no indication in the Verloren case of evidence theft. It was probably more a case of carelessness, of trying to find a box that had been stored seventeen years ago in an acre-sized room crowded with matching boxes.
"They'll find it," Bosch said. "Maybe you can even get your buddy up on six to put the fear of God into them. Then they'll find it for sure."
"They better. The DNA is no good to us without that gun."
"I don't know about that."
"Harry, it's the chain of evidence. You can't go into trial with the DNA and not be able to show the jury the weapon it came from. We can't even go into the district attorney's office without it. They'll throw us right out on our asses."
"Look, all I'm saying is, right now we're the only ones who know we don't have the gun. We can fake it."
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't you think that this is all going to come down to Mackey and us in a little room? I mean, even if we had the gun in evidence we can't prove beyond a doubt that he left his blood in it during the shooting of Becky Verloren. All we can prove is that the blood is his. So if you ask me, it's going to come down to a confession. We're going to put him in the room, hit him with the DNA and see if he cops to it. That's it. So all I'm saying is, we put together a few props for the interview. We go to the armory and borrow a Colt forty-five and we pull that out of the box when we're in the room with him. We convince him we have the chain and he cops or he doesn't."
"I don't like tricks."
"Tricks are part of the trade. There's nothing illegal about that. The courts have even said so."
"I think we're going to need more than the DNA to turn him anyway."
"Me too. I was thinking we -"
Bosch stopped and waited while the waitress put down two steaming plates. Bosch had ordered shrimp fried rice. Rider ordered pork chops. Without a word he lifted his plate and pushed half of its contents onto her plate. He then used a fork to take three of her six pork chops. He almost smiled while he did this. He was back on the job with her less than a day and they had already dropped back into the easy rhythm of their prior partnership. He was happy.
"Hey, what's Jerry Edgar up to?" he asked.
"I don't know. I haven't talked to him in a while. We never really got over that thing."
Bosch nodded. When Bosch had worked at Hollywood Division with Rider the homicide table had been divided into teams of three. Jerry Edgar had been the third partner. Then Bosch retired and soon after Rider was promoted downtown. It left Edgar still in Hollywood, feeling isolated and passed over. And now that Bosch and Rider were working again and assigned to RHD, there had been only silence from Edgar.
"What were you going to say, Harry, when the food came?"
"Just that you're right. We'll need more. One thing I was thinking was that I heard that since Nine-Eleven and the Patriot Act it's easier for us to get a wiretap."
She ate a piece of shrimp before responding.
"Yes, that's true. It's one of the things I was monitoring for the chief. Our request filings have gone up about three thousand percent. The approvals are way up, too. The word's sort of gotten around that this is a tool we can use now. How is it going to work here?"
"I was thinking we put a tap on Mackey and then we plant a story in the paper. You know, it says we're working the case again, mention the gun, maybe mention the DNA-you know, something new. Not that we have a match but that we could get a match. Then we sit back and watch him and listen to him and see what happens. We could follow up by paying him a visit, see if that stirs things up any."
Rider thought about this while eating a pork chop with her fingers. She seemed uneasy about something and it couldn't be the food.
"What?" Bosch asked.
"Who would he call?"
"I don't know. Whoever he did it with or did it for."
Rider nodded thoughtfully while chewing.
"I don't know, Harry. You're back on the job less than a day after three years in the fun and sun and already you are reading things into a case I don't see. I guess you are still the teacher."
"You're just rusty from sitting up there behind a big desk on six."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Sort of. I think I've waited so long for this that I'm sort of on full alert, I guess."
"Just tell me how you see this, Harry. You don't have to make up excuses for your instincts."
"I actually don't see it yet and that's part of the problem. Roland Mackey's name is nowhere in that book and that's a problem starting out the door. We know he was in the vicinity but we have nothing connecting him to the victim."
"What are you talking about? We have the gun with his DNA in it."
"The blood connects him to the gun, not the girl. You read the book. We can't prove his DNA was deposited at the time of the killing. That single report could blow this whole case out of the water. It's a big hole, Kiz. So big a jury could drive through it. All Mackey has to do at trial is get up there on the stand and say, 'Yeah, I stole the gun during a burglary on Winnetka. I then went up into the hills and shot it a few times, and I was making like Mel Gibson and the next thing I knew the damn thing bit me, took a chunk right out of my hand. I never saw that happen to Mel before. So I got so mad I threw that damn gun into the bushes and went home to get some Band-Aids.' The SID report-our own damn report-backs him up and that is the end of it."
Rider didn't smile during the story at all. He could tell she was seeing his point.
"That's all he has to say, Kiz, and he's got reasonable doubt and we can't prove otherwise. We've got no prints at the scene, we've got no hair, no fiber, we've got nothing. But added to this we do have his profile. And if you looked at his sheet before we were on this and knew about the DNA you would have never pegged this guy as a killer. Maybe spur-of-the-moment or heat of passion. But not something like this, something planned, and certainly not at age eighteen."
Rider shook her head in an almost wistful manner.
"A few hours ago this was given to us as a welcome-aboard present. It was supposed to be a slam dunk . . ."
"The DNA made everybody jump to a conclusion. It's what's wrong with the world. People think technology is an easy ride. They're watching too much TV."
"Is that your weird way of saying you don't think he did this?"
"I don't know what I'm thinking yet."
"So we put a tail on him, tap his phone, spook him somehow and then see who he calls and how he acts."
Bosch nodded.
"That's what I'm thinking," he said.
"We'd need to clear it with Abel first."
"We follow the rules. Just like the chief told me today."
"Holy smoke-the new Harry Bosch."
"You're looking at him."
"Before we go for the tap we have to finish the due diligence. We have to make sure Roland Mackey was not known to any of the players. If that turns out to be the case then I say we go see Pratt about the tap."
"Sounds right to me. What else did you get on the read?"
He wanted to see if she picked up on the undercurrent of race before suggesting it.
"Just what was there," Rider responded. "Was there something I missed?"
"I don't know-nothing obvious."
"Then what?"
"I was thinking about the girl being biracial. Even in 'eighty-eight there would have been people that didn't like the idea of that. Then you add in the burglary the gun came from. The vic was Jewish. He said he was being harassed. That's why he bought the gun."
Rider nodded thoughtfully while she finished a mouthful of rice.
"It's something to look for," she said. "But I don't see enough there to hang a lantern on at the moment."
"There was nothing in the book . . ."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Bosch always thought Chinese Friends had the softest and sweetest shrimp he had ever tasted in fried rice. The pork chops, as thin as the plastic plates they ate off of, were also perf
ect. And Kiz was right, they were best eaten by hand.
"What about Green and Garcia?" Rider finally asked.
"What about them?"
"How would you grade them on this?"
"I don't know. Maybe a C if I was being charitable. They made mistakes, slowed things down. After that they seemed to cover the bases. You?"
"Same thing. They wrote a good murder book but it's got CYA written all through it. Like they knew they were never going to break it but wanted the book to look like they turned over every stone."
Bosch nodded and looked down at his pad on the empty chair to the side. He looked at the list of people to interview.
"We've got to talk to the parents and Garcia and Green. We need to get a photo of Mackey, too. From when he was eighteen."
"I think we hold back on the parents until we talk to everybody else. They might be most important but they should be last. I want to know as much as possible before we hit them with this after seventeen years."
"Fine. Maybe we should start at probation. He only cleared a year ago. He probably was assigned to Van Nuys."
"Right. We could go there and then walk over to talk to Art Garcia."
"You found him? He's still around?"
"Didn't have to look. He's commander of Valley Bureau now."
Bosch nodded. He was not surprised. Garcia had done well. The rank of commander put him just below deputy chief. It meant he was second in command over the Valley's five police divisions, including Devonshire, where years earlier he had worked the Verloren case.
Rider continued.
"In addition to our regular projects in the chief's office, each of the special assistants was assigned as sort of a liaison to one of the four bureaus. My assignment was the Valley. So Commander Garcia and I spoke from time to time. Most often I dealt with his staff, or Deputy Chief Vartan, that sort of thing."
"I know what you're saying-I have a highly connected partner. You were probably telling Vartan and Garcia how to run the Valley."
She shook her head in false annoyance.
"Don't give me shit about all of that. Working on six gave me a good view of the department and how it works."
"Or doesn't. Speaking of which, there's something I should tell you."
"What is it?"
"I ran into Irving when I went down to get coffee. Right after you left."
Rider immediately looked concerned.
"What happened? What did he say?"
"Not a lot. He just called me a retread and mentioned that I was going to crash and burn and that when I did I would take the chief down with me for hiring me back. Then, of course, when the dust settles Mr. Clean would be there to step up."
"Jesus, Harry. One day on the job and you already have Irving biting you on the ass?"
Bosch spread his hands wide, almost hitting the shoulder of a man sitting at the next table.
"I went to get coffee. He was there. He approached me, Kiz. I was just minding my own business. I swear."
She bent her face down to look at her plate. She continued eating without talking to him. She dropped her last pork chop half eaten on the plate.
"I can't eat any more, Harry. Let's get out of here."
"I'm ready."
Bosch left more than enough money on the table and Rider said she would get the next one. Outside they got into Bosch's car, a black Mercedes SUV, and drove back through Chinatown to the entrance of the northbound 101. They made it all the way to the freeway before Rider spoke again about Irving.
"Harry, don't take him lightly," she said. "Be very careful."
"I am always careful, Kiz, and I have never taken that man lightly."
"All I'm saying is, he's been passed over twice for the top spot. He may be getting desperate."
"Yeah, you know what I don't get? Why didn't your guy get rid of him when he came in here? I mean, just clean house. Pushing Irving across the street doesn't put an end to the threat. Anybody knows that."
"He couldn't push him. Irving's got forty-plus years on the job. He has a lot of connections that go outside the department and into City Hall. And he knows where a lot of the bodies are buried. The chief couldn't make a move against him unless he was sure there wouldn't be any blowback from it."
More silence followed. The early afternoon traffic out to the Valley was light. They had KFWB, the all news and traffic channel, on the radio and there were no reports of problems ahead. Bosch checked the gas and saw he had half a tank. That was plenty.
They had decided earlier to alternate use of their personal cars. A department car had been requisitioned and approved for them to share, but they both knew that getting the R&A was the easy part. It would most likely be months if not longer before they would actually get the wheels. The department had neither the spare car nor the money for a new one. Getting the R&A had simply been a paperwork approval needed before they could charge the department for gas and mileage on their personal cars. Bosch knew that over time he would probably put so many miles on his SUV that the expense payout would likely cost the department more than the approved car.
"Look," he finally said, "I know what you're thinking even if you're not saying it. It's not just me you're worried about. You stuck your neck out for me and you convinced the chief to take me back in. Believe me, Kiz, I know it's not just me riding on this-on this retread. You don't have to worry and you can tell the chief he doesn't have to worry. I get it. There won't be a blowout. There won't be any blowback from me."
"Good, Harry. I'm glad to hear that."
He tried to think of something that he could say to convince her further. He knew words were just words.
"You know, I don't know if I ever told you this, but after I quit I really sort of liked it at first. You know, being out of the squad and just sort of doing what I wanted. Then I started to miss it and then I started working cases again. On my own. Anyway, one thing that happened was I started walking with sort of a limp."
"A limp?"
"Just a little thing. Like one of my heels was lower than the other. Like I was uneven."
"Well, did you check your shoes?"
"I didn't need to check my shoes. It wasn't my shoes. It was my gun."
He looked over at her. She was staring straight ahead, her eyebrows set in that deep V she used so much with him. He looked back at the road ahead.
"I carried a gun for so long that when I no longer had it on me it threw off my balance. I was uneven."
"Harry, that's a strange story."
They were going through the Cahuenga Pass. Bosch looked out his window and up the hillside, searching for his house nestled in among the others in the folds of the mountain. He thought he saw a glimpse of the back deck sticking out over the brown brush.
"You want to call Garcia and see if we can drop in and see him after we go by probation?" he asked.
"Yeah, I will-as soon as you get to the point of that story."
He thought for a long moment before answering.
"The point is, I need the gun. I need the badge. Otherwise I'm out of balance. I need all of this. Okay?"
He looked over at Rider. She looked back at him but didn't answer.
"I know what I got with this chance. So fuck Irving and his calling me a retread. I won't fuck up."
8
TWENTY MINUTES LATER they stepped into one of Bosch's least favorite places in the city: the probation and parole office of the state's Department of Corrections in Van Nuys. It was a single-story brick building crowded with people waiting to see probation and parole agents, to give urine samples, to make their court-ordered check-ins, to turn themselves in for incarceration or to plead for one more chance of freedom. It was a place where desperation, humiliation and rage were palpable in the air. It was a place where Bosch tried not to make eye contact with anyone.
The Closers Page 6