The Closers

by Michael Connelly

  Bosch knew that this meant McClellan was likely in the PDU at the time and the investigation of the burglary of Sam Weiss's home was folded into the investigation of the Chatsworth Eights. He didn't care to discuss all of this with Edgar.

  "Jerry, so you were new on the homicide table back then?"

  "That's right."

  "Did you know Green and Garcia very well?"

  "Not really. I just got to the table and they weren't there that long after. Green pulled the pin and about a year after that Garcia made lieutenant."

  "From what you saw, what was your take on them?"

  "How so?"

  "As homicide men."

  "Well, Harry, I was pretty fresh back then. I mean, what did I know? I was still learning. But the take on them was that Green was the power. Garcia was just the housekeeper. What some people said about Garcia was that he couldn't find shit in his own mustache with a mirror and comb."

  Bosch didn't respond. By labeling Garcia a housekeeper Edgar was saying that Garcia rode his partner's coattails. Green was the real homicide cop and Garcia was the guy who backed him up and kept the murder books tidy and up to date. A lot of partnerships got sanded down into such relationships. An alpha dog and his assistant.

  "I guess he didn't need to," Edgar said.

  "Didn't need to what?"

  "Find shit in his mustache. He was going places, man. He made lieutenant and was out of there. You know he's currently second in command in the Valley, right?"

  "Yeah, I know. In fact, if you see him you might not want to mention that mustache bit."

  "Yeah, probably not."

  Bosch thought some more about what this might have meant to the Verloren investigation. A small crack was moving under the surface of things.

  "That it, Harry?"

  "I heard Green ate his gun not too long after pulling the pin."

  "Yeah, I heard that. I don't remember being surprised. He always looked like a guy carrying a full load of somethin'. You going to take a run at PDU, Harry? You know that was Irving's squad, don't you?"

  "Yeah, Jerry, I know. I doubt I'm going that way."

  "Be careful if you do, my man."

  Bosch wanted to change the subject before hanging up. Edgar had always been a department gossip. Harry didn't want his old partner's loose lips to spread the word that Bosch was taking a run at Irving now that he was back with a badge.

  "So how's things in Hollywood?" he asked.

  "We just got back into the bureau after the earthquake retrofit. You missed all of that. We were stuck upstairs in roll call for like a year."

  "How is it?"

  "It's like an insurance office now. We have pods and sound filters between the desks. All done up in government gray. Nice but not the same."

  "I know what you mean."

  "Then they gave the D-threes double-wides-desks with two sides of drawers. The rest of us get one side."

  Bosch smiled. Little slights like that got magnified in the department and the administrators who made such decisions never learned. Like when most of Internal Affairs moved out of Parker Center and into the old Bradbury Building and the word spread through the ranks that the captain over there had a fireplace in his office.

  "So what are you gonna do, Jerry?"

  "Same old same old, that's what I'm gonna do. Get off my ass and knock on doors."

  "I hear you, man."

  "Watch your six, Harry."

  "Always."

  After hanging up, Bosch sat motionless at his desk for a few moments as he thought through the conversation and the new meanings it brought to the case. If there was a connection between the case and PDU then they had a whole new ball game.

  He looked down at the murder book, still open to the burglary report, and stared at the scrawled signature of John McClellan. He picked up the phone and called the Department of Operations in Parker Center and asked the duty officer for an assignment location for a detective named John McClellan. He read McClellan's badge number off the burglary report. He was put on hold and expected that he would be told that McClellan was long retired. It had been seventeen years.

  But when the duty officer came back on the line he reported that an officer named John McClellan with the badge number Bosch provided was now a lieutenant assigned to the Office of Strategic Planning. The synapse connections in Bosch's brain started tripping. Seventeen years ago McClellan worked for Irving in the PDU. Now the assignment and rank were different but he was still working for him. And Irving just happened to run into Bosch in the Parker Center cafeteria on the day Bosch caught a case with ties to the PDU.

  "High jingo," Bosch whispered to himself as he hung up.

  Like a battleship going into a turn, the case was slowly, surely and unstoppably moving in a new direction. Bosch could feel something building inside his chest. He thought about the coincidence of Irving crossing his path. If it was a coincidence. Bosch wondered if the deputy chief already knew at that moment what case they had pulled the cold hit on and where it was going to lead.

  The department buried secrets every day. It was a given. But who would have thought seventeen years ago that a chemical test run one day in a DOJ lab in Sacramento might put a shovel into the greasy dirt and turn over the past, bringing this secret to light.

  17

  DRIVING HOME Bosch thought about the many different tendrils of the investigation that were wrapping around the body of Rebecca Verloren. He knew he had to keep his eyes on the prize. The evidence was the key. The elements of departmental politics and possible corruption and cover-up all amounted to what was known as high jingo. It could be threatening and distracting from the intended goal. He had to avoid this at the same time that he had to be wary of it.

  Eventually he was able to push thoughts of Irving's shadow over the investigation aside and concentrate on the case. His thoughts somehow led him to Rebecca's bedroom and how her mother had left it unchanged by time. He wondered if it was the loss of the daughter that did it or was it the circumstances of the loss? What if you lost a child by natural causes or accident or circumstances like divorce? Bosch had a daughter he rarely saw. It weighed on him. He knew that near or far his daughter left him completely vulnerable, that he could end up like the mother who preserved a daughter's bedroom like a museum, or the father who was long lost to the world.

  More so than this question, something about the bedroom bothered him. He couldn't quite reach what it was but he knew it was there and it nagged at him. He looked from the elevated freeway out across Hollywood to his left. There was still some light in the sky but the evening was starting. Darkness had waited long enough. Searchlights that he knew could be traced down to the corner of Hollywood and Vine were crisscrossing the horizon. To him it looked nice. To him it looked like home.

  When he got to his house on the hill he checked the mail and the phone for messages and then changed out of the suit he had bought for his return to the job. He carefully hung it in the closet, thinking he could wear it at least once more before having to take it in to the cleaners. He put on blue jeans, black sneakers and a black pullover shirt. He put on a sport coat that was fraying on the right shoulder from his cutting corners too close. He transferred his gun and badge and wallet. Then he got back into his car and headed downtown to the Toy District.

  He decided to park in Japantown in the museum lot so he wouldn't have to worry about the car being broken into or vandalized. From there he walked over to Fifth Street, encountering an increasing density of homeless people as he progressed. The city's primary homeless encampments and the missions that catered to them lined a five-block stretch of Fifth Street south of Los Angeles Street. The sidewalks outside the missions and cheap residence hotels were lined with cardboard boxes and shopping carts filled with the dirty and meager belongings of lost people. It was as if some sort of social disintegration bomb had gone off and the shrapnel of damaged, disenfranchised lives had been hurled everywhere. Up and down the street there were men and women ye
lling, their shouts unintelligible or simply eerie non sequiturs in the night. It felt like a city with its own rule and reason, a hurt city with a wound so deep that the bandages the missions applied could not stop the bleeding.

  As he walked, Bosch noted that he was not asked once for money or cigarettes or any kind of handout. The irony was not lost on him. It appeared that the place with the highest concentration of homeless people in the city was also the place where a citizen was safest from their entreaties, if nothing else.

  The Los Angeles Mission and the Salvation Army had major help centers here. Bosch decided to start with them. He had a twelve-year-old driver's license photo of Robert Verloren and an even older photograph of him at his daughter's funeral. He showed these to the people operating the help centers and the kitchen workers who put free food on hundreds of plates every day. He got little response until a kitchen worker remembered Verloren as a "client" who came through the chow line pretty regularly a few years before.

  "It's been a while," the man said. "Haven't seen him."

  After spending an hour in each center Bosch started working his way down the street, stepping into the smaller missions and flop hotels and showing the photos. He got a few recognitions of Verloren but nothing fresh, nothing to lead him to the man who had completely dropped off the human radar screen so many years before. He worked it until ten-thirty and decided he would return the next day to finish canvassing the street. As he walked back toward Japantown he was depressed by what he had just immersed himself in and by the dwindling hopes of finding Robert Verloren. He walked with his head down, hands in his pockets, and therefore didn't see the two men until they had already seen him. They stepped out of the alcoves of two side-by-side toy stores as Bosch passed. One blocked his path. The other stepped out behind him. Bosch stopped.

  "Hey, missionary man," said the one in front of him.

  In the dim glow from a streetlight half a block away Bosch saw the glint of a blade down at the man's side. He turned slightly to check the man behind him. He was smaller. Bosch wasn't sure but it looked like he was simply holding a chunk of concrete in his hand. A piece of broken curb. Both men were dressed in layers, a common sight in this part of the city. One was black and one was white.

  "The kitchens are all closed up and we're still hungry," said the one with the knife. "You got a few bucks for us? You know, like we could borrow."

  Bosch shook his head.

  "No, not really."

  "Not really? You sure 'bout that, boy? You look like you got a nice fat wallet on you now. Don't be holding back on us."

  A black rage grew in Bosch. In a moment of sharp focus he knew what he could and would do. He would draw his weapon and put bullets into both of these men. In that same instant he knew he would walk away from it after a cursory departmental investigation. The glint of the blade was Bosch's ticket and he knew it. The men on either side of him didn't know what they had just walked into. It was like being in the tunnels so many years before. Everything closed down to a tight space. Nothing but kill or be killed. There was something absolutely pure about it, no gray areas and no room for anything else.

  Then suddenly the moment changed. Bosch saw the one with the knife staring intently at him, reading something in his eyes, one predator taking the measure of another. The knife man seemed to grow smaller by an almost imperceptible measure. He backed off without physically backing off.

  Bosch knew there were people considered to be mind readers. The truth was they were face readers. Their skill was interpreting the myriad muscle constructions of the eyes, the mouth, the eyebrows. From this they decoded intent. Bosch had a level of skill in this. His ex-wife made a living playing poker because she had an even higher skill. The man with the knife had a measure of this skill as well. It had surely saved his life this time.

  "Nah, never mind," said the man.

  He took a step back toward the store's alcove.

  "Have a good night, missionary man," he said as he retreated into the darkness.

  Bosch fully turned and looked at the other man. Without a word, he too stepped back into his crack to hide and wait for the next victim.

  Bosch looked up and down the street. It seemed deserted now. He turned and headed on toward his ride. As he walked he took out his cell phone and called the Central Division patrol office. He told the watch sergeant about the two men he encountered and asked him to send a patrol car.

  "That kind of stuff happens on every block down there in that hellhole," the sergeant said. "What do you want me to do about it?"

  "I want you to send a car and roust them. They'll think twice about doing anything to anybody."

  "Well, why didn't you do anything about it yourself?"

  "Because I'm working a case, Sergeant, and I can't get off it to do your job or your paperwork."

  "Look, buddy, don't be telling me how to do my job. You suits are all the same. You think -"

  "Look, Sergeant, I'm going to check the crime reports in the morning. If I read that somebody got hurt down here and the suspects were a black and white team, then you're going to have more suits around you than at the Men's Warehouse. I guarantee it."

  Bosch closed his phone, cutting off a last protest from the watch sergeant. He picked up his pace, got to his car and started back over to the 101 Freeway. He then headed back up to the Valley.

  18

  FINDING COVER with a visual line on Tampa Towing was difficult. Both strip shopping plazas located on the other corners were closed and their parking lots empty. Bosch would be obvious if he parked in either one. The competing service station on the third corner was still open and thus, unusable for surveillance. After considering the situation Bosch parked on Roscoe a block away and walked back to the intersection. Borrowing an idea from the would-be robbers of less than an hour before, he found a darkened alcove in one of the strip plazas from which he could watch the service station. He knew the problem with his choice of surveillance was getting back to his car fast enough to avoid losing Mackey when he went off shift.

  The ad he had checked earlier in the phone book said Tampa Towing offered twenty-four-hour service. But it was coming up on midnight and Bosch was betting that Mackey, who had come on duty at 4 p.m., would be getting off soon. He would either be replaced by a midnight man or would be on call through the night.

  It was at times like this that Bosch thought about smoking again. It always seemed to make the time go faster and it took the edge off the anxiety that always built through a surveillance. But it had been more than four years now and he didn't want to break stride. Learning two years earlier that he was a father had helped him get past the occasional weaknesses. He thought that if not for his daughter he'd probably be smoking again. At best he had controlled the addiction. By no means had he broken it.

  He took out his cell phone and angled the light from its screen away from view of the service station while he punched in Kiz Rider's home number. She didn't answer. He tried her cell and got no answer again. He assumed she had shut down the phones so she could concentrate on writing the warrant. She had worked it that way in the past. He knew she would leave her pager on for emergencies but he didn't think the news he had gathered during the evening's phone calls rose to the level of emergency. He decided to wait until he saw her in the morning to tell her what he had learned.

  He put his phone in his pocket and raised the binoculars to his eyes. Through the glass windows of the service station office he could see Mackey sitting behind a weathered gray desk. There was another man in a similar blue on blue uniform in the office. It must have been a slow night. Both of the men had their feet propped up on the desk and were looking up at something high on the wall over the front window. Bosch could not see what they were focused on but the changing light in the room told him it was a television.

  Bosch's phone chirped and he pulled it from his pocket and answered without lowering the binoculars. He didn't check the display because he assumed it was Kiz Rider calling aft
er noticing that she had missed his call.

  "Hey."

  "Detective Bosch?"

  It wasn't Rider. Bosch lowered the field glasses.

  "Yes, this is Bosch. How can I help you?"

  "This is Tara Wood. I got your message."

  "Oh, yeah, thanks for calling back."

  "It sounds like this is your cell. I'm sorry to call so late. I just got in. I thought I was just going to leave a message on your office line."

  "No problem. I'm still working."

  Bosch went through the same interview process he had employed with the others. As he mentioned the name Roland Mackey to her he checked on Mackey through the glasses. He was still at the desk, watching the tube. Like Rebecca Verloren's other friends, Tara Wood didn't recognize the tow truck driver's name. Bosch added a new question, asking if she remembered the Chatsworth Eights, and her memory was vague about that as well. Lastly he asked if the next day he could continue the interview and show her a photograph of Mackey. She agreed but told him he would have to come to the CBS television studios, where she worked as a publicist. Bosch knew that CBS was next to the Farmers Market, one of his favorite places in the city. He decided he could go to the market, maybe eat a bowl of gumbo for lunch, and then go see Tara Wood to show the photo of Mackey and ask about Rebecca Verloren's pregnancy. He made the appointment for 1 p.m. and she agreed to be in her office.