“Detective, you’re back,” he said.
“I am,” Bosch said. “How’s business?”
“Still dead. You need to look at my cameras again?”
“That’s right. But I’ve got a different date for you. When I was here before, you said the LAPD guys came by to look at tape for the night of that murder down at the Haven House.”
“That’s right.”
“All right if I take a look at the same night?”
Gascon studied Bosch for a moment like he was trying to figure out his angle. Finally, he shrugged.
“Don’t see why not.”
It took Gascon five minutes to retrieve the video from the cloud of the night James Allen was murdered. He put it on fast play and Bosch watched the entrance of the motel property.
“What are we looking for?” Gascon asked.
Bosch answered without taking his eyes off the screen.
“A burnt-orange Camaro,” he said.
They watched silently for the next ten minutes. Cars moved up and down Santa Monica with an unnatural speed. Bosch decided that if they got through the night without seeing the Camaro, he would ask to watch it again on a slower speed. Gascon might object to that but Bosch would push for it.
“There,” Gascon suddenly said. “Was that a Camaro?”
“Slow it,” Bosch said.
The playback went to normal speed and they watched wordlessly. The car they had seen enter the Haven House parking lot did not come back out. Bosch realized that there was no reason to think the car would reemerge quickly.
“Let’s back it up and see that again,” he said.
Gascon did as instructed. Then on his own he put the playback on slow motion. They waited and an orange car came into the screen from the left side and turned left toward the motel entrance.
“Freeze it,” Bosch ordered.
Gascon froze the image as the car was crossing the westbound lanes of Santa Monica. It was directly sideways to the camera but the image was grainy and undefined. The general lines of the car appeared to match those of a Camaro. A two-door coupe design with a sleek, low profile roof.
“What do you think?” Gascon asked.
Bosch didn’t answer. He was studying the dark band of windows on the car and the matching dark wheels. It was close but Bosch couldn’t call it. He wondered if Haller’s video-enhancement person could improve the image.
“Go ahead and play it,” he said. “Speed it up.”
He noted the time on the bottom of the screen. The orange car entered the motel lot at 11:09 p.m. Gascon went back to triple speed and they sat and watched silently for several minutes. Several cars went in and out. It was a busy night at the motel. Finally, the orange car appeared and disappeared. Gascon reversed the video and they watched again on slow speed. The car pulled out of the motel without stopping, turned right, and went west on Santa Monica and out of the frame.
“He’s in a hurry now,” Gascon said.
Bosch looked at the time counter. The orange car left at 11:32 p.m., just twenty-three minutes after entering. Bosch wondered if that was enough time for them to go into Allen’s room and extricate him, alive or dead.
“When the LAPD guys were here, did they key on this car?” Bosch asked.
“Uh, no, not really,” Gascon said. “They watched for a while and seemed like they thought it was kind of useless. They took a copy to give to the Video Tech Unit for enhancement. I never heard from them after that.”
Bosch kept his eyes on the playback while they talked. From the right side of the screen he now saw an orange car moving west on Santa Monica toward the Haven House. It crossed the screen and turned into the entryway before disappearing.
“He’s back,” he said.
Gascon looked at the screen but the car was already gone.
“Back it up,” Bosch instructed. “He comes in from the east this time. Freeze it when he gets to the center.”
Gascon quickly executed and Bosch leaned in close to the screen. There was a head visible in the car as it crossed directly in front of the cemetery. The image was still small and grainy but it was more defined because the car was closer to the camera. Bosch had no doubt now that it was a Camaro. From this angle, he could even see a few yellow pixels in the center of the black wheels—the yellow brake calipers that Cisco Wojciechowski had described.
But the distance from the camera and the dark-tinted windows made it impossible for Bosch to get a bead on the driver.
“Okay, play it,” he said. “Let’s see how long they stay this time.”
Bosch noted that the time on the video was now 11:41 p.m. They watched the Camaro turn into the motel entrance again. Gascon then sped the playback and they watched and waited. Bosch thought about why there had been two visits to the motel. He guessed that the first time, Ellis and Long may have been casing the motel and Allen’s room. Another possibility was that the rear parking lot was too busy with people coming and going. A third possibility was that Allen was with a client.
This time the Camaro did not emerge for fifty-one minutes. Once again it left quickly, turning right without stopping as it emerged and then going west and out of the picture. Bosch considered the time that had elapsed, and his instincts told him that James Allen was dead and in the trunk of the Camaro when it drove out of the frame.
“What do you think?” Gascon asked.
“I think I need a copy of that,” he said.
“Got a drive?”
“Nope.”
“How about two hundred beans, like I got before?”
“I have that.”
“Then let me see if I can find somebody around here with a drive.”
39
On his way back to his house, Bosch parked his rental behind the Poquito Mas on Cahuenga. He went into the restaurant and ordered a chile pasilla plate to go. He then used his Uber app to call for a car. Both the car and his food order arrived at the same time. He took the car up to his house, checking along the drive for indications of surveillance from Ellis and Long. There was no sign of the vice cops and no conversation with the driver this time. Bosch decided it had something to do with sitting in the backseat.
Once inside the house Bosch grabbed the discovery file out of his bedroom and dropped it on the dining room table. Before beginning his work he opened the sliders to let in some fresh air. He stepped out on the deck for a moment and looked around. To his right he could see across a cut in the canyon to the cantilevered deck from which Long had been watching that morning. He wondered if they had figured out that he was not home and not using the Cherokee.
He went back inside to the table and pulled a legal pad over front and center. He started using the discovery file and his own notes and memory to construct a timeline that would allow him to see and contemplate the case as a whole, beginning it far before the murder of Alexandra Parks. He first posted the murders on the timeline and then added the other relevant events around them.
He was fifteen minutes into the project when the doorbell rang. He got up quietly and approached the door. Through the peephole he saw the top of a bald head with a scattershot spread of sun spots on it. He stepped back and opened the door. It was his neighbor Francis Albert.
“Detective Bosch, I saw you out on the deck a little bit ago. Were you going to show me any pictures?”
“Totally forgot, Frank. Hold on a second.”
It was rude but Bosch left him standing on the front stoop. He didn’t want Albert coming inside because it might then be difficult to get him back out. Bosch returned to the table where he had left his coat draped over a chair. He pulled the photos of Ellis and Long out of the pocket and went back to the door. He handed the photocopy containing both headshots to Albert.
“Was the guy you saw this morning one of them?” he asked.
Albert didn’t take very long to draw a conclusion. He nodded.
“Yeah, this guy, he was the clown,” he said.
He turned the photo of Long towar
d Bosch. Bosch nodded.
“Yeah, I thought it might be,” he said. “Thanks, Frank.”
There was an awkward pause as Frank didn’t move and waited for more.
“Will you give me a call if you see him again?” Bosch asked.
“Sure,” Albert said. “Do you think he’s really a cop?”
Bosch paused for a moment and thought about the question and what he should tell Albert.
“Not really,” he said.
He went back to the table after closing the door and repeatedly went through the timeline, adding nuances of detail as he went. After another half hour he finally had a document he believed detailed the case and his investigation in its entirety.
Unknown Date 2013—watch bought by Dr. Schubert
Unknown Date 2014—watch stolen or sold by Schubert
Dec. 11—watch bought by Harrick at Grant & Sons
Dec. 25—watch given to Alexandra Parks
Unknown Date—watch’s crystal is broken
Feb. 2—watch arrives by FedEx to Las Vegas
Feb. 5—Gerard examines watch—still registered to Schubert
Feb. 5—Gerard calls Mrs. Schubert (watch stolen)
Feb. 5—Parks calls Gerard, learns her watch may have been stolen
Feb. 5—Parks calls Grant & Sons (conversation unknown)
Feb. 5—Dr. Schubert calls Gerard—watch not stolen, paid gambling debt
Feb. 5—Gerard calls Parks (watch not stolen)
Feb. 9—Alexandra Parks murdered
Mar. 19—Da’Quan Foster arrested—DNA match
Mar. 21–22—James Allen murdered—orange Camaro in Haven House lot—two car doors in alley—two killers?
Apr. 1—Cisco crashes—orange Camaro
May 5—Haller arrested—Ellis and Long
May 7—Nguyen brothers questioned by Bosch—Nguyen brothers murdered—two killers?
Bosch finally put the pen down and studied the dates and events on each line. Deconstructing the case to a simple timeline helped him see how everything was connected and how the events fell like dominoes, one leading to the next. And through all of it was the watch. Could four murders actually be linked by the changing ownership of a watch?
Bosch knew that it was time to meet Dr. Schubert and finish the puzzle. He sat back and considered how to best do this. He drew certain conclusions about the man he had never met or even seen before—conclusions based on what he did for a living and where and how he lived.
He decided that the best approach would be to scare Schubert and gain his cooperation through fear. And in this case, he wasn’t going to have to fake it.
Bosch got up from the table and headed down the hallway to his bedroom. It was time to change into real detective clothes.
40
Ellis was in the new apartment with the twins. He was reviewing the last day’s recordings, looking for the next project to work. Long called him on the burner.
“You were right,” he said. “He just showed up. I think you need to get over here.”
One of the girls was sitting on the couch, painting her fingernails. The other was taking a nap because the night before had been so busy. Ellis moved into the kitchen so he would have some privacy. He spoke in a low voice to Long.
“What’s he doing?” he asked.
“Well, he’s wearing a suit and tie for one thing,” Long said.
“Trying to look like a detective. That’ll be his play. What else?”
“He’s holding a file.”
“Where exactly is he?”
“The garage, leaning against a car that looks like a plain-wrap. You should get over here. Something is going to go down, I think.”
“He’ll want to get him away by himself. Someplace private.”
Ellis had to think about this. What would be the best opportunity for their own play?
“You still there?” Long asked.
“I’m here,” Ellis said. “Can you tell, is he carrying?”
“Uh…yeah, he’s carrying. Left hip. I see the jacket riding up on it.”
“We’ll have to remember that. And you’re sure he didn’t see you.”
“No, man, he drove in right by me.”
“In the Cherokee?”
“No, he’s got a Chrysler. Looks like a rental.”
Ellis considered this. Bosch knew that they had tagged the Cherokee. Did he know they were watching Schubert?
”You coming or not?” Long asked.
“Soon.”
He disconnected and walked into the living room.
41
The Center for Cosmetic Creation was located in a two-story structure a block from Cedars-Sinai in West Hollywood. The entire first level served as a parking garage with the medical facilities just a short elevator ride up. Bosch found Schubert’s car easily in the parking garage—he had a reserved spot with his name stenciled on the wall in front of it. There was a sleek-looking silver Mercedes-Benz sitting in the space. Bosch drove past it and found an open space nearby. He parked and waited. As he did so, he looked through the file of reports and photos he had put together, and worked on his pitch. That was what it was going to be. A pitch to Schubert. An offer to save his life.
While Bosch waited he saw a few patients of the cosmetic surgery center come out of the elevator and leave after being discharged from whatever treatment they had elected. They were wheeled out by nurses and then helped into waiting Town Cars. Bosch noticed that the Lincolns all had license plate frames from the same car service and he got the idea that the ride was part of the surgery package. All but one of the patients had bandages on her face. Bosch guessed that the one who didn’t had gone in for breast enhancement or liposuction. She carried herself gingerly when she stood from the wheelchair and climbed slowly into the back of the waiting car.
All of the patients Bosch saw leaving were women. All of them middle-aged or older. All of them by themselves. All of them probably trying to hold on to an image of youth, pushing back that moment when they feared men would stop looking at them.
It was a rough and tough world out there. It made Bosch think about his daughter and how soon she would be leaving home and going out on her own. He hoped that she would never have a destination like this place. He pulled out his phone and fired off a text to her, even though she had told him it was unlikely they would be camping in a place with cellular service. He sent the text anyway, more for himself than for her.
Hey, hope you’re having fun. I miss ya!
Bosch was looking at the phone’s screen, hoping for a reply, when he heard the chirp of a car being unlocked. He looked up and saw two women in patterned nursing scrubs heading toward their cars. The medical offices were probably closing for the day. Moments behind them came a man who Bosch guessed was possibly a doctor. He was heading toward the Mercedes in the parking spot marked for Schubert but he walked by it to the car right next to it. After the man pulled out of the spot, Bosch started his car and moved it over to the open space next to Schubert’s. He got out with the file and walked around to Schubert’s Mercedes. Leaning against the back of the car, he put the file down on the trunk lid and folded his arms across his chest.
For the next twenty minutes nurses and staff members continued to sporadically emerge from the elevator and enter the garage, but no one approached Schubert’s Mercedes. A few gave Bosch an inquisitive look but no one asked him why he was there or what he was doing. It was Friday afternoon, the end of the week, and they wanted to get out of there. Bosch used his phone to search Google images for an online photo of the plastic surgeon. He found only one and it was from a 2003 article in a Beverly Hills society paper. The photo depicted the doctor and his wife, Gail, attending a charity event at the Beverly Hilton. It looked to Bosch as though the wife had made a visit or two to her husband’s office for professional reasons. There was a chiseled look to her chin and the ridge of her eyebrows.
A text from Maddie popped up on his phone screen.
Really cold at n
ight. See you Sunday!
It was like her to keep it succinct and deliver the real message outside the words—the message being that she would be holding off on communicating until she got back home. Bosch opened up a window to tap out a return message but was unsure what to say.
“Excuse me.”
Bosch looked up. A man was approaching and Bosch recognized him from the twelve-year-old photo he had just pulled up on his phone. Schubert gestured toward the Mercedes that Bosch was leaning against.
“My car, if you don’t mind,” he said.
He wore green pants and a light-blue button-down shirt and gray tie. He wore no sport coat, most likely because he wore a doctor’s white coat inside the center. Bosch pushed off the trunk of the car and adjusted his jacket, being sure to flip it enough to show off the gun holstered on his hip. He saw Schubert’s eyes hold on it.
“What is this?” Schubert said.
“Dr. Schubert, my name’s Bosch and I’m here to save your life,” Bosch said. “Is there a place we can talk privately?”
“What?” the doctor exclaimed. “Is this some kind of a joke? Who the hell are you?”
Schubert gave Bosch a wide berth as he moved toward the driver’s-side door of his car. He pulled a key from his pocket and clicked it, unlocking the doors.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Bosch said.
Schubert stopped, his hand in midreach to the door, as if Bosch were warning him that he might trigger a bomb should he pull the handle. Bosch came around the back of the car, sliding the file off the trunk as he approached.
“Look, who are you?” Schubert said.
“I told you who I am,” Bosch said. “I’m the guy trying to keep you breathing.”
He handed the file to Schubert, who reluctantly took it. So far, things were going according to the pitch Bosch had worked out. The next ten seconds would determine if it stayed that way.
The Crossing Page 25