Aside from that, there was a lot of content from the call to consider. He didn't read much into Kotchof's angry reaction to supposedly being seen in L.A. right before the murder. After all, Bosch had fabricated the witness and Kotchof's angry response would certainly be justified. But what was notable was how Kotchof's anger zeroed in on Grace Tanaka. Their relationship might be worth exploring further, maybe through Kiz Rider.
He also considered Kotchof's statement about not knowing about Rebecca Verloren's pregnancy. Bosch instinctively believed him. All in all it didn't drop Kotchof from the suspect list, but it at least pushed him to a back burner. He would discuss all of Kotchof's answers with Rider and see if she agreed.
The most interesting information gleaned from the call was in the conflicts between Kotchof's memories and those of Muriel Verloren, the victim's mother. Muriel Verloren had said Kotchof had called her daughter religiously, right up until the time of her death. Kotchof said he had done no such thing. Bosch didn't see any reason for Kotchof to lie about it. If he hadn't, then Muriel Verloren's memory was wrong. Or it was her daughter who had lied about who called her every night before bed. Since the girl was hiding a relationship and the pregnancy that came from it, it seemed likely that the phone calls did come in every night but they were not from Kotchof. They were from someone else, someone Bosch started thinking of as Mr. X.
After looking up Muriel Verloren's number in the murder book Bosch called the house. He apologized for intruding and said he had a few follow-up questions. Muriel said she was not bothered by the call.
"What are your questions?"
"I saw the phone on the table next to your daughter's bed. Was that an extension of the house phone or did she have her own phone number?"
"She had her own number. A private line."
"So when Daniel Kotchof called her at night she would be the one who answered the phone, right?"
"Yes, in her room. It was the only extension."
"So the only way you know that Danny was calling was because she told you."
"No, I heard the phone ring sometimes. He called."
"What I mean, Mrs. Verloren, is that you never answered those calls and you never talked to Danny Kotchof, right?"
"That's right. It was her private line."
"So when that phone rang and she talked to somebody, the only way you would know who it was on the line was if she told you. Is that correct?"
"Uh, yes, I guess that is right. Are you saying it wasn't Danny who called all of those times?"
"I'm not sure yet. But I talked to Danny in Hawaii and he said he stopped calling your daughter long before she was taken. He had a new girlfriend, you see. In Hawaii."
This information was treated with a long pause. Finally, Bosch spoke into the void.
"Do you have any idea who it could have been that she was talking to, Mrs. Verloren?"
After another pause Muriel Verloren weakly offered an answer.
"Maybe one of her girlfriends."
"It's possible," Bosch said. "Anybody else you can think of?"
"I don't like this," she responded quickly. "It's like I'm learning things all over again."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Verloren. I will try not to hit you with these sorts of things unless it is necessary. But I am afraid this is necessary. Did you and your husband ever come to any conclusion about the pregnancy?"
"What do you mean? We didn't know about it until after."
"I understand that. What I mean is, did you think it came out of a hidden relationship or was it simply a mistake she made one day with, you know, someone she was not really in a relationship with?"
"You mean like a one-night stand? Is that what you are saying about my daughter?"
"No, ma'am, I am not saying anything about your daughter. I am simply asking questions. I do not want to upset you but I want to find the person who killed Rebecca. And I need to know all there is to know."
"We could never explain it, Detective," she responded coldly. "She was gone and we decided not to delve into it. We left everything to the police and we just tried to remember the daughter we knew and loved. You said you have a daughter. I hope you understand."
"I think I do. Thank you for your answers. One last question-and there is no pressure on this-but would you be willing to talk to a newspaper reporter about your daughter and the case?"
"Why would I do that? I didn't before. I don't believe in putting it out there for the public."
"I admire that. But this time I want you to do it because it might help us flush out the bird."
"You mean it might make the person who did this come out from cover?"
"Exactly."
"Then I'd do it in a heartbeat."
"Thank you, Mrs. Verloren. I will let you know."
16
ABEL PRATT CAME OUT of his office with his suit jacket on. He noticed Bosch sitting at his desk in the alcove, using two fingers to type up a report on his telephone conversation with Muriel Verloren. The finished reports on the phone interviews with Grace Tanaka and Daniel Kotchof were on the desk.
"Where's Kiz?" Pratt asked.
"She's working on the warrant at home. She can think better there."
"I can't think when I get home. I can only react. I have twin boys."
"Good luck."
"Yeah, I need it. I'm going that way now. I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."
"Okay."
But Pratt didn't walk away. Bosch looked up from the typewriter at him. He thought maybe something was wrong. Maybe it was the typewriter.
"I found this on a desk on the other side," Bosch said. "It didn't look like it was being used by anybody."
"It wasn't. Most people use their computers now. You are definitely an old-school kind of guy, Harry."
"I guess. Kiz usually does the reports, but I have some time to kill."
"Working late?"
"I've got to go over to the Nickel."
"Fifth Street? What do you want over there?"
"Looking for our victim's father."
Pratt shook his head somberly.
"Another one of those. We've seen it before."
Bosch nodded.
"Ripples," he said.
"Yeah, ripples," Pratt agreed.
Bosch was thinking about offering to walk out with Pratt, maybe have a conversation and get to know him better, but his cell phone started to chirp. He pulled it off his belt and saw the name Sam Weiss in the caller ID screen.
"I better take this."
"All right, Harry. Be careful over there."
"Thanks, Boss."
He flipped open the phone.
"Detective Bosch," he said.
"Detective?"
Bosch remembered he had left no information on his message to Weiss.
"Mr. Weiss, my name is Harry Bosch. I am a detective with the LAPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions about an investigation I am conducting."
"I have all the time you need, Detective. Is this about my gun?"
The question caught Bosch off guard.
"Why would you ask that, sir?"
"Well, because I know it was used in a murder that was never solved. And that's the only thing I can think of that the LAPD would want to ask me about."
"Well, yes, sir, it's about the gun. Can I talk to you about it?"
"If it means you are trying to find who killed that girl, then you can ask me anything you want."
"Thank you. I guess the first thing I'd like is for you to tell me how and when you knew or were told that the weapon stolen from you was used in a homicide."
"It was in the papers-the murder was-and I put two and two together. I called the detective assigned to my burglary and asked and got the answer I wish I hadn't."
"Why is that, Mr. Weiss?"
"Because I've had to live with it."
"But you didn't do anything wrong, sir."
"I know that, but it doesn't make a person feel any better. I bought that gun because I was having trouble wit
h a bunch of punks. I wanted protection. Then the gun I bought ended up being the instrument of death for that young girl. Don't think I haven't thought about changing history. I mean, what if I wasn't so stubborn? What if I just pulled up stakes and moved instead of going and buying that damn thing? You see what I mean?"
"Yes, I see."
"Now, that said, what else can I tell you, Detective?"
"I have just a few questions. Calling you was sort of a shot in the dark. I thought it might be easier than trying to find my way back through seventeen years of paperwork and department history. I have the initial report on the burglary and the investigator is listed as John McClellan. Do you remember him?"
"Sure, I remember him."
"Did he ever clear the case?"
"Not as far as I know. At first John thought it might have been connected to the punks who had threatened me."
"And was it?"
"John told me no. But I was never sure. The burglars really tore the place apart. It wasn't like they were really looking for stuff to steal. They were just destroying things-my belongings. I walked in this place and, man, I could feel a lot of anger."
"Why do you say burglars? Did the police think it was more than one?"
"John figured it had to be at least two or three. I was only gone an hour-went to the store. One guy couldn't have done all that damage in that time."
"The report lists the gun, a coin collection and some cash that was taken. Anything else come up missing after?"
"No, that was it. That was enough. At least I got the coins back, and that was the most valuable thing. It was my father's collection from when he was a boy."
"How did you get it back?"
"John McClellan. He brought them back to me a couple weeks later."
"Did he say where he recovered them from?"
"He said a pawnshop in West Hollywood. And then, of course, we know what became of the gun. But that was not given back to me. I wouldn't have taken it anyway."
"I understand, sir. Did Detective McClellan ever tell you who he thought burglarized your home? Did he have any theories?"
"He thought it was just another set of punks, you know. Not the Chatsworth Eights."
The mention of the Chatsworth Eights stirred something in Bosch, but he couldn't place it.
"Mr. Weiss, act like I don't know anything. Who were the Chatsworth Eights?"
"It was a gang out here in the Valley. They were all white kids. Skinheads. And back in nineteen eighty-eight they committed a number of crimes out here. They were hate crimes. That's what they called them in the papers. Back then it was the new term for crimes motivated by race or religion."
"And you were the target of this gang?"
"Yeah, I started getting calls. The typical kill-the-Jew stuff."
"But then the police told you the Eights did not commit the burglary."
"That's right."
"Strange, isn't it? They didn't see any connection."
"That's what I thought at the time but he was the detective, not me."
"What made the Eights target you, Mr. Weiss? I know you are Jewish but what made them pick you out?"
"Simple. One of the little shits was a kid who lived in my neighborhood. Billy Burkhart was four houses away. I put a menorah in my window during Chanukah and that's when it all started."
"What happened to Burkhart?"
"He went to jail. Not for what he did to me, but to others. They got him and the others on other crimes. They burned a cross a few blocks from me. In the front lawn of a black family. And they did other things. Mean things, vandalism. They tried to burn a temple, too."
"But not the burglary at your house."
"That's right. That's what the police told me. You see, there was no graffiti or indication of religious motivation. The place was just torn apart. So they didn't classify the burglary as a hate crime."
Bosch hesitated, wondering if there was anything else to ask. He decided he didn't know enough to ask smart questions.
"Okay, Mr. Weiss, I appreciate your time. And I am sorry to reawaken bad memories."
"Don't worry about it, Detective. Believe me, they weren't asleep."
Bosch closed the phone. He tried to think of whom he could call about all of this. He didn't know John McClellan and the chances of his still being in Devonshire Division seventeen years later were slim. Then it hit him: Jerry Edgar. His old partner at Hollywood Division had previously been assigned to Devonshire detectives. He would have been there in 1988.
Bosch called the Hollywood homicide table but got the machine. Everybody had cut out early. He called the main detective bureau number and asked if Edgar was around. Bosch knew that there was a sign-out chart at the front counter. The clerk who answered the phone said Edgar had signed out for the day.
The third call was to Edgar's cell phone. His old partner answered it promptly.
"You guys go home early in Hollywood," Bosch said.
"Who the hell is-Harry, that you?"
"That me. How's it hanging, Jerry?"
"I was wondering when I'd hear from you. You start again today?"
"The world's oldest boot. And I already got a hot shot. Kiz and I are working a breaking case."
Edgar didn't respond and Bosch knew mentioning Rider had been a mistake. The gulf between them not only still existed but was apparently frozen over.
"Anyway, I need to tap into that big brain of yours. This is going back to Club Dev days."
"Yeah, which day?"
"Nineteen eighty-eight. The Chatsworth Eights. You remember them?"
There was silence while Edgar thought for a moment.
"Yeah, I remember the Eights. They were a bunch of peckerwoods that thought shaved heads and tattoos made them men. They did a lot of shit, then they got stepped on. They didn't last long."
"You remember a guy named Roland Mackey? Would've been about eighteen back then."
After a pause Edgar said he didn't remember the name.
"Who was working the Eights?" Bosch asked.
"Not Club Dev, man. Everything with them went straight down the rabbit hole."
"PDU?"
"You got it."
The Public Disorder Unit. A shadowy downtown squad that gathered data and intelligence on conspiracies but made few cases. Back in 1988 the PDU would have been under the aegis of then commander Irvin Irving. The unit was not in existence anymore. When Irving rose to the level of deputy chief he promptly disbanded the PDU, with many in the department believing it was a measure taken to cover up and distance himself from its activities.
"That's not going to help," Bosch said.
"Sorry about that. What are you working?"
"The murder of a girl up on Oat Mountain."
"The one taken out of her house?"
"Yeah."
"I remember that one, too. I didn't work it-I had just gotten to the homicide table. But I remember that one. You're saying the Eights were in on that one?"
"No. Just that a name came up that might have a connection to the Eights. Might. So does Eights mean what I think?"
"Yeah, man, eight for H. Eighty-eight for H-H. And H-H for Heil -"
"- Hitler. Yeah, I thought so."
Then it struck Bosch that Kiz Rider had been right when she thought the year of the crime might be significant. The murder and the rest of the crimes committed by the Chatsworth Eights had occurred in 1988. It was all part of a confluence of seemingly small things coming together. And now Irvin Irving and the PDU were mixed into the soup as well. A cold hit match of DNA to a loser who drove a tow truck for a living was blossoming into something bigger.
"Jerry, you remember a guy who worked at Devonshire named John McClellan?"
"John McClellan? No, I don't remember. What did he work?"
"I got his name here on a burglary report."
"No, definitely not the burglary table. I worked burglary before going over to homicide. There was no John McClellan on burglary. Who is he?"
&
nbsp; "Like I said, just a name on a report. I'll figure it out."
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