Bosch nodded.
“You do have the right to a lawyer. But you know what happens once you bring in a lawyer? You get booked into the jail and we slap an immigration hold on you and there is no bail in the world for that.”
A pained expression moved across Ojeda’s face.
“That’s right,” Bosch said. “We checked with Immigration and we know your printout there is bullshit. You can wipe your ass with it because that’s about all it’s worth.”
Most of this was a bluff. The chances of getting an Immigration confirmation on a Friday near midnight in Tulsa were next to nil. But Bosch was confident Ojeda didn’t have a valid green card under the name Francisco Bernal. A legit card would have entailed a fingerprint check by Immigration, which would have produced his real name.
“So what happens is that after you’ve been in jail for about a month, you finally get a hearing before a judge,” he continued. “But there’s not really much you can do to help yourself when you have counterfeit papers. No defense for that, my friend. So you get shipped back to Chihuahua.”
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing.
“So I gotta ask, is that really how you want to play this? If it is, just nod your head and I’ll take you to the jail and I’ll even give you a quarter to call that lawyer who can’t help you.”
Ojeda folded his arms. They had removed the handcuffs before placing him in the room. It was a little hint that they wanted something from him. That there might be a negotiation. But it had obviously been too subtle, since he had asked for a lawyer right off the top.
“Only I can help you,” Bosch said.
Now Ojeda was beginning to see the play.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Bosch reached down and pulled his badge off his belt. He then put it down on the table so Ojeda could read it. Arms still folded, he leaned forward and did so.
“L.A.? Why are you here?”
“You know why, Angel.”
“No, I don’t. I haven’t been in L.A. in—”
“Orlando Merced is dead.”
Ojeda looked up at him. He didn’t know, hadn’t heard.
“He died three days ago and he died because of that bullet that was in his spine. The bullet that was meant for you.”
Ojeda sat back up straight and stared at Bosch.
“Ten years ago you lied to us, Angel. You lied by omission. You know what that is? It’s when you don’t tell the whole truth, when you don’t tell us everything you know.”
“I didn’t know anything.”
“Yes, you did. You knew it all. You didn’t tell us and—”
“No!”
“—that’s obstruction of justice. But that was back then. Now it’s a murder, and if you’re not helping us, then you’re helping the murderer, and that’s a whole different thing. That’s what they call accessory after the fact. Accessory to murder. And that means they don’t send you back to Chihuahua until after you do your time in a California prison.”
“No, this is crazy.”
“Who took that shot at you, Angel? Who made you run to Oklahoma and change your name?”
Ojeda shook his head as if he were trying not to let Bosch’s words get in his ears.
“Nobody made me do anything. You have this wrong. I changed my name because my uncle owned the bar and he wanted me to come out and act like his son. So I took his name and that’s all.”
Bosch reached across the table and took his badge back. He clipped it on his belt. It was a move that gave him time to think about what direction to go. He thought about the name from the registry from the Mariachi Hotel and knew he could buy a little time with it.
“Who is Rodolfo Martin?” he asked.
Ojeda shook his head again and looked confused.
“I don’t know. I never heard this name.”
“He was in the hotel across the plaza. He took the shot and you saw him. We’ve got it on video, Angel. That’s why you ran. You saw the man with the gun and you saw he was aiming at you. Merced took that bullet for you!”
“No. I didn’t see anybody. I—”
“Who is Rodolfo Martin?”
“I don’t know!”
Bosch calmed himself and proceeded in an even tone.
“You need to start telling me the whole story or I can’t help you. Tell me what happened.”
For the first time, Ojeda nodded instead of shaking his head. Bosch knew then it was going to work. He was going to open up. He waited and finally Ojeda spoke with his eyes down on the table.
“When I was a musician I used to get women. Nice women. I get women now at the bar, but not the same kind.”
It wasn’t what Bosch expected to hear but he nodded. He could see it. Ojeda was a strikingly handsome guy and a musician—back then at least. Bosch’s daughter had recently told him about a study she had come across on the Internet that reported that in a blind street study, women were more likely to give their phone number to a man who approached them carrying a musical instrument case than to a man with a briefcase.
“Okay.”
“And then I got with the wrong woman and all of this happened.”
Bosch had been expecting it to be about drugs. Not a woman.
“Okay, tell me about the woman. Who was she? Where did you meet her?”
Ojeda scratched the back of his neck as he spoke.
“We had a gig. It was at a big house. It was like a castle on the mountain and there was a big dinner for someone special with many people. I met her there. At the end when we were packing our instruments, I went outside for a smoke, you know? She was there and we smoked. She gave me a phone number and told me I should call her.”
“And you did?”
“She was beautiful. I called her.”
“She was married?”
Ojeda nodded.
“She was married to the man who had the house. Very powerful man. Very rich. People said he was the concrete king. It was their house.”
“She’s married to this king with a castle but she wants you to call her.”
Bosch didn’t ask it as a question, but succinctly summarizing Ojeda’s story underlined the seeming absurdity of it.
“She told me—this was later—she said she was lonely but couldn’t leave because he was dangerous. Very powerful and he had all the money. He made her sign a paper for it.”
“A prenup. When exactly was this gig where you met her?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“How long before the shooting?”
“I’m not sure. But, yes, before. Obvious.”
“Were you with the new band? Los Reyes Jalisco?”
“Yes, with them.”
“Okay, so six months before the shooting? A month?”
“Like three months. In there.”
“And you’re saying you started an affair with this woman?”
Ojeda nodded.
“How long did it last?”
“Uh, many weeks.”
“And the husband found out?”
Another nod.
“He came to me at my place and he threatened. He say he’d kill me if I didn’t stop. You know, with his wife.”
“Did you stop?”
Ojeda averted his eyes and then shook his head.
“No. I loved her very much.”
The last bit sounded phony, as if part of an excuse system Ojeda had put together and kept fueled for ten years. It was about love, he told himself, not about a carnal need, not about every man’s desire to take something off the top shelf. His desire ultimately destroyed a man’s life. There had to be a valid reason.
“What about her? Did he tell her to stop with you?”
“He did but we did not stop.”
Ojeda bowed his head as if acknowledging his decision had had fatal consequences.
“How long was it between when the husband warned you and when Merced was shot in the plaza?”
“Not long. A month?”
&nb
sp; “Don’t ask me. Tell me. How long?”
“A month.”
Bosch leaned back and looked at Ojeda, trying to assess what he was hearing and the veracity of it all.
“What was her name?”
“Maria.”
“Her whole name.”
“Maria Broussard. But she was Mexican. Her name was Fuentes before she married her husband.”
“And her husband’s name?”
“Bruce.”
“Bruce Broussard. You sure?”
“That’s what she called him.”
“Okay, and where was this big house where the party was? The castle.”
“Up in the mountain. It was the whole side of the mountain.”
“What was the address?”
“I don’t know this. I was only there one time. And I was in the back of the van when we drove up.”
“You met her the other times—when you got together—somewhere else?”
“She got hotels mostly. Once she came to my place.”
“Which hotels?”
“Many hotels, all over the place. We met at Universal once. And that hotel downtown with the glass elevators on the outside of the building.”
“Did you know from the start who she was? I mean, that she was married and that was her house?”
Ojeda hesitated.
“Don’t lie,” Bosch said. “You lie to me one time about any of this and we have a big problem.”
“Yes, I knew,” Ojeda said.
“Did the other men in the band know about you and her?”
“No, it was secret. Just her and me.”
“How did her husband find out?”
“I don’t know.”
“She told him?”
“No. I think he followed her. Or he had someone follow her.”
“Who is Rodolfo Martin?”
“I told you the truth. I don’t know.”
Bosch knew the name was most likely phony. You don’t give your real name when you check into a hotel room to use it as a sniper’s nest. He moved on.
“When was the last time you spoke to Maria Broussard?”
“Ten years. After the day Orlando got shot, I called her and told her I knew what happened. After that, I never saw her again.”
“You told her that you knew the bullet that hit Merced was meant for you?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she didn’t believe me. She said I was a liar. So that was it.”
Bosch had taken no notes. He knew Soto was watching and writing, and that Childers had set up a camera.
He had one final question for the time being.
“You said the party where you met her was for a very special person. Who was that?”
“I don’t remember his name. He was running for the mayor and at the dinner they charged people to raise the money.”
Bosch sat still and looked at Ojeda. He now better understood the reasons he had disappeared and changed his name. Whether it was love or just a base human desire that he had followed, his choices had taken him into the dark waters where politics and murder swirl.
“Was it Armando Zeyas at the dinner? Was he the special man?”
Ojeda shook his head.
“No, not him.”
“You sure? You remember what I said about lying?”
“I’m sure. It wasn’t him. I know who he is. We played at his wedding. It was someone else who wanted to be mayor. He was a white guy.”
One of Zeyas’s opponents. The connection wasn’t as direct but Bosch still felt dark waters rising.
Bosch found Soto sitting in the video room, where she had watched the Ojeda interview. She was alone. She had an open bag of potato chips from a machine. It reminded Bosch that he hadn’t eaten since the brisket sandwich in Dallas.
“Where’s Ricky?”
“He left about halfway through. Said he had his own stuff to do but would be around if we need him. Nice going in there.”
Bosch picked up the bag and dug his hand into it for a potato chip. Soto didn’t protest.
“Thanks.”
“Ricky stayed until you got Ojeda to break. He said you were a ‘true gator’ and didn’t need any help from him. What’s that mean?”
Bosch shrugged.
“I don’t know. He looks too young to have been in Vietnam.”
“What did it mean in Vietnam? My grandfather was in Vietnam.”
“Your grandfather? That makes me feel good.”
She snatched the bag away from him, feigning annoyance that he had not given it back.
“Get your own—there are machines in the hallway. My grandfather was a lot older than you and a lifer in the Marines, believe it or not. What did it mean?”
“They had these CIA types they called ‘gators’—short for interrogators. But they used what they called ‘enhanced’ methods and tools of interrogation.”
“You mean like helicopters? Yeah, my grandfather told some stories.”
Her memory threatened to trigger Bosch’s own memories and he didn’t need that now. He brought the discussion back on point.
“How much of that last part of the interview did you write down in your notes?”
“None of it yet.”
“Good. Let’s keep it off the record for now.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a hot door and we have to be careful. You never open a door on a burning room. You approach cautiously and you—”
He stopped when he realized what he was saying.
“Sorry, that was not the right—”
“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I get it. We can keep it out of the report but what about the video? You don’t want to erase it, do you?”
“No, we take the video but the captain won’t look at the video. He’ll just read our report and I don’t want that last part to get to him yet.”
“Got it.”
“Good. What about that name? Bruce Broussard. You heard of him?”
She shook her head.
“It sort of rings a bell but I don’t know from where,” she said. “You?”
“No.”
“Sounds like a big shot—the ‘concrete king.’ Do you believe Ojeda? About him and this woman with the rich husband falling in love.”
Bosch thought for a moment and then nodded.
“So far I do. It could have been love from his side of it. The woman? I don’t know yet. But we don’t talk about this with anyone. Nothing in the reports, nothing to your friends, even if they have badges. We find out more about Maria Broussard first.”
“What will you tell the captain? He’ll want to know what he got for his money, sending us out here.”
“I’ll write the summaries and leave the name Broussard out for now. I know how to make it look like he got his money’s worth. We need to try to get on a plane first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll check online. What about Ojeda?”
Bosch had to think about that for a moment. Letting Ojeda go could always result in his running again. It was a risk they’d have to take. Holding him on the phony ID and green card was a good way to turn a potential witness against the prosecution. He pointed to the equipment that lined one side of the room.
“We have the video of the interview. We take that and we write up a statement. One that includes the whole story. We get him to sign it and then we cut him loose. We keep it all out of the book for now. Just in case.”
“Of what?”
“Of anything.”
17
On Saturday morning Bosch and Soto caught the first flight to Dallas, where the airline had put them on standby lists for the next three flights to L.A. They had spent little more than twelve hours in Tulsa and less than a thousand dollars of city money in all. For what they had learned from Ojeda, Bosch thought that was a pretty good deal.
They got lucky in Dallas and made it onto the first flight. They then doubled down on the luck when the plane’s
captain, who had been routinely informed that two armed law enforcement officers would be on the flight, bumped them to the top of the upgrade list, and both snagged seats in first class—though in separate rows. Bosch felt embarrassed to have brought his to-go bag from Cousin’s into such luxurious surroundings, where he was informed by the flight attendant that a complimentary lunch would be served. When he saw a soldier in camo coming down the aisle and making his way to the back, he handed the bag to him and told him it was the best chopped brisket sandwich he’d ever eat. The soldier took the bag.
“We’ll see about that, sir,” he said. “I’m from Memphis.”
Bosch nodded. He had once spent a week in Memphis on a case, and a local detective took him to a different barbecue joint each day.
“Wet or dry?” he asked the soldier.
“Dry, sir.”
“The Rendezvous?”
“You got it, sir.”
Bosch nodded and the soldier moved on down the aisle. The woman behind him asked Bosch if he was giving anything else away and his face turned red.
Bosch was in the third row of the cabin and Soto the first. The pilot had made sure that they got aisle seats so they could act and move quickly in the event of a problem. This wasn’t the first time Bosch had received such treatment. Most flight crews he had encountered welcomed an armed presence near the cockpit.
While waiting out a minor delay before departure, Bosch put in his earbuds and listened to music he had downloaded from a film about Frank Morgan, the saxophonist. It was a documentary and featured a tribute concert at San Quentin, where Morgan had been incarcerated for years before making his comeback in the jazz world. The tribute band was composed of players who had worked with or revered Morgan, and the dedication came out in the strong performance. He played the Dizzy Gillespie standard “The Champ” twice in a row, his favorite part being when Delfeayo Marsalis and Mark “the Preacher man” Gross traded fours on trombone and sax.
After the plane finally took off, Bosch stopped the music and got down to work. He and Soto had divided up the murder books and he still had the files from the Bonnie Brae fire investigation. Sitting next to a woman who looked like a young Hollywood executive, Bosch was concerned about opening the binders and possibly revealing photos of victims at the scene or after autopsy. So he slipped the thickest media envelope out of one of the binders and started reading through the newspaper coverage of the deadly fire.
The Burning Room Page 14