The Crossing

by Michael Connelly

  Adrenaline crashed into my veins and my blood took off running as everything came together. All in a moment I realized what Vincent had been up to and what he had been planning. I didn’t need his laptop or his legal pads anymore. I didn’t need his investigator. I knew exactly what the defense strategy was.

  At least I thought I did.

  I pulled my cell phone and called Cisco. I skipped the pleasantries.

  “Cisco, it’s me. Do you know any sheriff’s deputies?”

  “Uh, a few. Why?”

  “Any of them work out of the Malibu station?”

  “I know one guy who used to. He’s in Lynwood now. Malibu was too boring.”

  “Can you call him tonight?”

  “Tonight? Sure, I guess. What’s up?”

  “I need to know what the patrol designation four-alpha-one means. Can you get that?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call you back. But hold on a sec for Lorna. She wants to talk to you.”

  I waited while she was given the phone. I could hear TV noise in the background. I had interrupted a scene of domestic bliss.

  “Mickey, are you still there at the office?”

  “I’m here.”

  “It’s eight-thirty. I think you should go home.”

  “I think I should, too. I’m going to wait to hear back from Cisco—he’s checking something out for me—and then I think I’m going over to Dan Tana’s to have steak and spaghetti.”

  She knew I went to Dan Tana’s when I had something to celebrate. Usually a good verdict.

  “You had steak for breakfast.”

  “Then I guess this will make it a perfect day.”

  “Things went well tonight?”

  “I think so. Real well.”

  “You’re going alone?”

  She said it with sympathy in her voice, like now that she had hooked up with Cisco, she was starting to feel sorry for me, alone out there in the big bad world.

  “Craig or Christian will keep me company.”

  Craig and Christian worked the door at Dan Tana’s. They took care of me whether I came in alone or not.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lorna.”

  “Okay, Mickey. Have fun.”

  “I already am.”

  I hung up and waited, pacing in the room and thinking it all through again. The dominoes went down one after the other. It felt good and it all fit. Vincent had not taken on the Wyms case out of any obligation to the law or the poor or the disenfranchised. He was using Wyms as camouflage. Rather than move the case toward the obvious plea agreement, he had stashed Wyms out at Camarillo for three months, thereby keeping the case alive and active. Meantime, he gathered information under the flag of the Wyms defense that he would use in the Elliot case, thereby hiding his moves and strategy from the prosecution.

  Technically, he was probably acting within bounds, but ethically it was underhanded. Eli Wyms had spent ninety days in a state facility so Vincent could build a defense for Elliot. Elliot got the magic bullet while Wyms got the zombie cocktail.

  The good thing was, I didn’t have to worry about the sins of my predecessor. Wyms was out of Camarillo, and besides, they weren’t my sins. I could just take the benefit of Vincent’s discoveries and go to trial.

  It didn’t take too long before Cisco called back.

  “I talked to my guy in Lynwood. Four-alpha is Malibu’s lead car. The four is for the Malibu station and the alpha is for… alpha. Like the alpha dog. The leader of the pack. Hot shots—the priority calls—usually go to the alpha car. Four-alpha-one would be the driver, and if he’s riding with a partner, then the partner would be four-alpha-two.”

  “So the alpha car covers the whole fourth district?”

  “That’s what he told me. Four-alpha is free to roam the district and scoop the cream off the top.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The best calls. The hot shots.”

  “Got it.”

  My theory was confirmed. A double murder and shots fired near a residential neighborhood would certainly be alpha-car calls. One designation but different deputies responding. Different deputies responding but one car. The dominoes clicked and fell.

  “Does that help, Mick?”

  “It does, Cisco. But it also means more work for you.”

  “On the Elliot case?”

  “No, not Elliot. I want you to work on the Eli Wyms case. Find out everything you can about the night he was arrested. Get me details.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  Thirty-one

  The night’s discovery pushed the case off the paper and into my imagination. I was starting to get courtroom images in my head. Scenes of examinations and cross-examinations. I was laying out the suits I would wear to court and the postures I would take in front of the jury. The case was coming alive inside and this was always a good thing. It was a momentum thing. You time it right and you go into trial with the inescapable conviction that you will not lose. I didn’t know what had happened to Jerry Vincent, how his actions might have brought about his demise, or whether his death was linked at all to the Elliot case, but I felt as though I had a bead on things. I had velocity and I was getting battle ready.

  My plan was to sit in a corner booth at Dan Tana’s and sketch out some of the key witness examinations, listing the baseline questions and probable answers for each. I was excited about getting to it, and Lorna need not have worried about me. I wouldn’t be alone. I would have my case with me. Not Jerry Vincent’s case. Mine.

  After quickly repacking the files and adding fresh pencils and legal pads, I killed the lights and locked the office door. I headed down the hallway and then across the bridge to the parking garage. Just as I was entering the garage, I saw a man walking up the ramp from the first floor. He was fifty yards away and it was only a few moments and a few strides before I recognized him as the man in the photograph Bosch had shown me that morning.

  My blood froze in my heart. The fight-or-flight instinct stabbed into my brain. The rest of the world didn’t matter. There was just this moment and I had to make a choice. My brain assessed the situation faster than any computer IBM ever made. And the result of the computation was that I knew the man coming toward me was the killer and that he had a gun.

  I swung around and started to run.

  “Hey!” a voice called from behind me.

  I kept running. I moved back across the bridge to the glass doors leading back into the building. One clear, single thought fired through every synapse in my brain. I had to get inside and get to Cisco’s gun. I had to kill or be killed.

  But it was after hours and the doors had locked behind me as I had left the building. I shot my hand into my pocket in search of the key, then jerked it out, bills, coins and wallet flying out with it.

  As I jammed the key into the lock, I could hear running steps coming up quickly behind me. The gun! Get the gun!

  I finally yanked the door open and bolted down the hallway toward the office. I glanced behind me and saw the man catch the door just before it closed and locked. He was still coming.

  Key still in my hand, I reached the office door and fumbled the key while getting it into the lock. I could feel the killer closing in. Finally getting the door open, I entered, slammed it shut, and threw the lock. I hit the light switch, then crossed the reception area and charged into Vincent’s office.

  The gun Cisco left for me was there in the drawer. I grabbed it, yanked it out of its holster, and went back out to the reception area. Across the room I could see the killer’s shape through the frosted glass. He was trying to open the door. I raised the gun and pointed at the blurred image.

  I hesitated and then raised the gun higher and fired two shots into the ceiling. The sound was deafening in the closed room.

  “That’s right!” I yelled. “Come on in!”

  The image on the other side of the glass door disappeared. I heard footsteps moving away in the hallway and then the door to th
e bridge opening and closing. I stood stock-still and listened for any other sound. There was nothing.

  Without taking my eyes off the door, I stepped over to the reception desk and picked up the phone. I called 911 and it was answered right away, but I got a recording that told me my call was important and that I needed to hold on for the next available emergency dispatcher.

  I realized I was shaking, not with fear but with the overload of adrenaline. I put the gun on the desk, checked my pocket, and found that I hadn’t lost my cell phone. With the office phone in one hand, I used the other to open the cell and call Harry Bosch. He answered on the first ring.

  “Bosch! That guy you showed me was just here!”

  “Haller? What are you talking about? Who?”

  “The guy in the photo you showed me today! The one with the gun!”

  “All right, calm down. Where is he? Where are you?”

  I realized that the stress of the moment had pulled my voice tight and sharp. Embarrassed, I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself before answering.

  “I’m at the office. Vincent’s office. I was leaving and I saw him in the garage. I ran back inside and he ran in after me. He tried to get into the office. I think he’s gone but I’m not sure. I fired a couple of shots and then—”

  “You have a gun?”

  “Goddamn right I do.”

  “I suggest you put it away before somebody gets hurt.”

  “If that guy’s still out there, he’ll be the one getting hurt. Who the hell is he?”

  There was a pause before he answered.

  “I don’t know yet. Look, I’m still downtown and was just heading home myself. I’m in the car. Sit tight and I’ll be there in five minutes. Stay in the office and keep the door locked.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not moving.”

  “And don’t shoot me when I get there.”

  “I won’t.”

  I reached over and hung up the office phone. I didn’t need 911 if Bosch was coming. I picked the gun back up.

  “Hey, Haller?”

  “What?”

  “What did he want?”

  “What?”

  “The guy. What did he come there for?”

  “That’s a good goddamn question. But I don’t have the answer.”

  “Look, stop fucking around and tell me!”

  “I’m telling you! I don’t know what he’s after. Now quit talking and get over here!”

  I involuntarily squeezed my hands into fists as I yelled and put an accidental shot into the floor. I jumped as though I had been shot at by someone else.

  “Haller!” Bosch yelled. “What the hell was that?”

  I pulled in a deep breath and took my time composing myself before answering.

  “Haller? What’s going on?”

  “Get over here and you’ll find out.”

  “Did you hit him? Did you put him down?”

  Without answering I closed the phone.

  Thirty-two

  Bosch made it in six minutes but it felt like an hour. A dark image appeared on the other side of the glass and he knocked sharply.

  “Haller, it’s me, Bosch.”

  Carrying the gun at my side, I unlocked the door and let him in. He, too, had his gun out and at his side.

  “Anything since we were on the phone?” he asked.

  “Haven’t seen or heard him. I guess I scared his ass away.”

  Bosch holstered his gun and threw me a look, as if to say my tough-guy pose was convincing no one except maybe myself.

  “What was that last shot?”

  “An accident.”

  I pointed toward the hole in the floor.

  “Give me that gun before you get yourself killed.”

  I handed it over and he put it into the waistband of his pants.

  “You don’t own a gun—not legally. I checked.”

  “It’s my investigator’s. He leaves it here at night.”

  Bosch scanned the ceiling, until he saw the two holes I had put there. He then looked at me and shook his head.

  He went over to the blinds and checked the street. Broadway was dead out there this time of night. A couple of nearby buildings had been converted into residential lofts but Broadway still had a way to go before recapturing the nightlife it had had eighty years before.

  “Okay, let’s sit down,” he said.

  He turned from the window to see me standing behind him.

  “In your office.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to talk about this.”

  I moved into the office and took a seat behind the desk. Bosch sat down across from me.

  “First of all, here’s your stuff. I found it out there on the bridge.”

  From the pocket of his jacket he pulled my wallet and loose bills. He put it all on the desk and then reached back in for the coins.

  “Okay, now what?” I asked as I put my property back in my pocket.

  “Now we talk,” Bosch said. “First off, do you want to file a report on this?”

  “Why bother? You know about it. It’s your case. Why don’t you know who this guy is?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “That’s not good enough, Bosch! He came after me! Why can’t you ID him?”

  Bosch shook his head.

  “Because we think he’s a hitter brought in from out of town. Maybe out of the country.”

  “That’s fucking fantastic! Why did he come back here?”

  “Obviously, because of you. Because of what you know.”

  “Me? I don’t know anything.”

  “You’ve been in here for three days. You must know something that makes you a danger to him.”

  “I’m telling you, I’ve got nothing.”

  “Then, you have to ask yourself, why did that guy come back? What did he leave behind or forget the first time?”

  I just stared at him. I actually wanted to help. I was tired of being under the gun—in more ways than one—and if I could’ve given Bosch just one answer, I would have.

  I shook my head.

  “I can’t think of a single—”

  “Come on, Haller!” Bosch barked at me. “Your life is threatened here! Don’t you get it? What’ve you got?”

  “I told you!”

  “Who did Vincent bribe?”

  “I don’t know and I couldn’t tell you if I did.”

  “What did the FBI want with him?”

  “I don’t know that, either!”

  He started pointing at me.

  “You fucking hypocrite. You’re hiding behind the protections of the law, while the killer is out there waiting. Your ethics and rules won’t stop a bullet, Haller. Tell me what you’ve got!”

  “I told you! I don’t have anything and don’t point your fucking finger at me. This isn’t my job. It’s your job. And maybe if you would get it done, people around here would feel—”

  “Excuse me?”

  The voice came from behind Bosch. In one fluid move he turned and pivoted out of his chair, drawing his gun and aiming it at the door.

  A man holding a trash bag stood there, his eyes going wide in fright.

  Bosch immediately lowered his weapon, and the office cleaner looked like he might faint.

  “Sorry,” Bosch said.

  “I come back later,” the man said in a thick accent from Eastern Europe.

  He turned and disappeared quickly through the door.

  “Goddamn it!” Bosch cursed, clearly unhappy about pointing his gun at an innocent man.

  “I doubt we’ll ever get our trash cans emptied again,” I said.

  Bosch went over to the door and closed and bolted it. He came back to the desk and looked at me with angry eyes. He sat back down, took a deep breath, and proceeded in a much calmer voice.

  “I’m glad you can keep your sense of humor, Counselor. But enough with the fucking jokes.”

  “All right, no jokes.”

  Bosch looked
like he was struggling internally with what to say or do next. His eyes swept the room and then held on me.

  “All right, look, you’re right. It is my job to catch this guy. But you had him right here. Right goddamn here! And so it stands to reason that he was here with a purpose. He came to either kill you, which seems unlikely, since he apparently doesn’t even know you, or he came to get something from you. The question is, what is it? What is in this office or in one of your files that could lead to the identity of the killer?”

  I tried to match him with an even-tempered voice of my own.

  “All I can tell you is that I have had my case manager in here since Tuesday. I’ve had my investigator in here, and Jerry Vincent’s own receptionist was in here up until lunchtime today, when she quit. And none of us, Detective, none of us, has been able to find the smoking gun you’re so sure is here. You tell me that Vincent paid somebody a bribe. But I can find no indication in any file or from any client that that is true. I spent the last three hours in here looking at the Elliot file and I saw no indication—not one—that he paid anybody off or bribed somebody. In fact, I found out that he didn’t need to bribe anybody. Vincent had a magic bullet and he had a shot at winning the case fair and square. So when I tell you I have nothing, I mean it. I’m not playing you. I’m not holding back. I have nothing to give you. Nothing.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “Same answer. Nothing.”

  Bosch didn’t respond. I saw true disappointment cloud his face. I continued.

  “If this mustache man is the killer, then, of course there is a reason that brought him back here. But I don’t know it. Am I concerned about it? No, not concerned. I’m fucking scared shitless about it. I’m fucking scared shitless that this guy thinks I have something, because if I have it, I don’t even know I have it, and that is not a good place to be.”

  Bosch abruptly stood up. He pulled Cisco’s gun out of his waistband and put it down on the desk.

  “Keep it loaded. And if I were you, I would stop working at night.”