The Burning Room

by Michael Connelly

  The packet was filled with folded and yellowed clippings that were as fragile as the gang organizational chart he had opened the day before. The creases broke apart even as he carefully and slowly unfolded them. This happened often when he reviewed old case files, and his practice was to tape the separated pieces onto butcher paper—they kept a roll in the squad room—so that the disintegration could be curtailed and the stories refolded.

  As would be expected, the Bonnie Brae fire drew a tremendous amount of coverage from the Los Angeles Times. The contents of the media packet were largely split in half, with the first half containing stories about the fire and immediate aftermath and the second being reports on the investigation that seemed to have been published at semiregular intervals—six months later, one year later, five years later, and ten years later. Apparently the editors at the newspaper either missed a chance at a twenty-years-later story or deemed it un-newsworthy. The last story in the packet was the tenth-anniversary story.

  After determining what he had, Bosch started at the beginning. On day one, the Times was almost wholly dedicated to the fire. He unfolded an entire front page that had three photos and the start of three stories. The photo block contained two smaller photos depicting residents charging out of the smoky apartment building and two women embracing on the street, their faces streaked with soot and tears and wearing looks of utter anguish. The larger main image to the right of these and at center was of a firefighter emerging from the building and holding a young girl in his arms, her limbs hanging it seemed lifelessly. The firefighter had not waited to get out of the building before starting CPR measures. He was blowing air into her mouth as he was coming out of the building. Bosch read the caption below the photo block but it did not identify the firefighter or the girl and did not say whether she lived. He looked again closely at the photo and then two rows up the aisle, where he could barely see the top of Soto’s head above the back of her seat. He wondered if she was the girl in the photo.

  He had noticed that since he had started to work with her, there had been many small instances of luck turning his way. In the past forty-eight hours on this case alone he had felt lucky several times, from getting the cop-friendly Sherma Barthlett as the on-call judge for search warrants, to Ricky Childers’s being there when they checked into the Tulsa PD, to getting first-class upgrades on the flight home. He felt in many ways that he was on a roll and it defied the law of averages, which held that you win some and you lose some. It had him contemplating the idea of luck and whether it was something random or possibly something that could follow certain people all their lives, including being the one to survive a deadly fire and a deadly firefight outside a liquor store. Perhaps Lucky Lucy was more than a nickname. And perhaps the luck she brought was contagious.

  “Wow, that’s what you call old news.”

  Bosch turned. The woman next to him was looking at the yellowed and cracked front page he was holding. He smiled and nodded awkwardly.

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Bosch looked at her.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just nosy. It looks interesting.”

  “I’m just checking out something that happened a long time ago.”

  “That fire.”

  She pointed to the photos on the newspaper front.

  “Yeah,” Bosch said. “But I can’t really talk about it. It’s a private matter.”

  “Can you tell me this?” the woman insisted. “Did that girl live?”

  Bosch looked at the photo for a moment before answering.

  “Yes, she did. She was lucky.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Bosch nodded and the woman went back to reading a script. Bosch focused on the stories on the front page. There was the main story at the upper-right corner that contained the basics of what happened—at least as far as what was known on the day of the fire. There was a single-column sidebar below it with a headline:

  Illegal

  Day Care

  Rampant

  Bosch assumed that the purpose of the story was to show a causal relationship between the fire and the deaths in the building’s basement day-care center. Presumably a licensed facility would have had multiple exit routes in the event of a fire, and the children would have escaped, but the tone of the story seemed to imply that the children themselves had somehow brought on their own deaths by being involved in an illegal day-care center.

  The third story was an investigation of the 210-unit apartment complex’s health-and-safety inspection record, which was replete with violations over the past decade. The story also focused on the complex’s ownership by a real-estate holding company that owned several other large complexes in the area, which also carried low rents and high incidences of health-and-safety-code violations. Written before the deadly fire was known to be arson, the story seemed intended to prepare the reader for an eventual conclusion that the blaze was started because some code was violated or ignored.

  The stories jumped inside, where there were more sidebars and two pages of photographs from the scene. There was also a black-bordered box that listed the names of all the reporters who worked on the newspaper’s coverage of the fire. Bosch counted twenty-two names and it made him miss the old Los Angeles

  Times. In 1993 it was big and strong, its editions fat with ads and stories produced by a staff of some of the best and brightest journalists in their field. Now the paper looked like somebody who had been through chemo—thin, unsteady, and knowing the inevitable could only be held off for so long.

  It took Bosch almost an hour just to read the stories and study the photographs in the A section. Nothing he read gave him any ideas about proceeding any differently with the case. The only place where the Times coverage came close to what would eventually be the focus of the original investigation was an inside story that profiled the neighborhood and mentioned Pico-Union La Raza as the predominant gang. It quoted an unnamed police source calling Bonnie Brae Street a drive-through drug market where rock cocaine and black tar heroin from Mexico were plentiful.

  Bosch noticed that Soto was getting up from her seat and holding her computer open. He quickly folded the newspaper and slipped it beneath the stack of other clips in case the photographs were something she didn’t want to see.

  Soto came back to his row, carrying her open laptop. She saw the stack of yellowed newspaper clippings.

  “You’re reading all of that stuff?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You never know, sometimes you get an idea from it. You see a quote from somebody or something. I wrote down some names of people who were there that day—reporters and residents. Might be worth a phone call or something, see what they remember.”

  “Okay.”

  Bosch nodded to her computer.

  “So what’s up?”

  She put her computer down on top of the news clippings so he could see the screen.

  “I’m using the Wi-Fi and I think I found Broussard.”

  Bosch turned in his seat to block the possibly prying eyes of his seatmate and looked at the screen. He realized he was seeing a digital version of the Los Angeles Times. It was a story dated nine years before about the appointment of Charles “Brouss” Broussard to the Parks and Recreation Commission by newly elected mayor Armando Zeyas. It was a short story because the commission that oversaw the city’s parks was not a big news generator. The profile of Broussard described him as a local businessman who had been an important fund-raiser for local politicians for many years. The accompanying photo was a shot taken on the night of the mayor’s election and it showed Zeyas with his arm around Broussard’s shoulders. A smiling woman standing nearby was identified as Maria Broussard. She was much younger than her husband.

  “Good work,” Bosch said without looking up at Soto.

  He tilted the computer screen back so he could see the photo better. He studied Broussard intently. He was a heavyset man in an expensive-l
ooking suit. Maybe forty years old at the time of the photo. He had a full beard with an odd graying pattern that made it look as though bleach had leaked from the corners of his mouth and left a trail of white hair down to his jaw.

  Soto leaned down so she did not have to talk loudly.

  “But Ojeda said the fund-raiser where he met Maria was not for Zeyas,” she said.

  Bosch nodded. It was a discrepancy in the story.

  “Either Ojeda lied or Broussard switched sides,” he said. “We need to find out which one it is.”

  18

  They had driven separately to LAX the day before because they didn’t know the circumstances of their return and Soto lived south of the airport in Redondo Beach, while Bosch lived in the opposite direction, in the hills above the Cahuenga Pass.

  They landed at 9:30, and as they walked toward the exit doors of Terminal 4, they discussed their schedule and agreed that they would meet at the office the next morning at eight and work half a day. This was perfect for Bosch because Sunday was his daughter’s sacred day for catching up on sleep. If undisturbed, she would sleep till noon and then want breakfast. He would be able to get a solid four hours of work in on their cases before meeting up with Maddie.

  They crossed the airport pickup lanes and entered the parking structure and then went their separate ways. Bosch felt excited. The short trip had been extremely profitable in terms of information gathered and case momentum. Even the plane ride home counted. Soto had identified their next investigative target, Charles Broussard.

  As Bosch was driving down Century Boulevard after exiting the airport, he thought of something that he decided shouldn’t wait—even until the next morning. He pulled his phone and called his daughter’s line. She answered right away.

  “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “Just got up,” she said.

  “Have a plan for the day?”

  “Homework.”

  “It’s a beautiful day. You should be out having fun.”

  “You mean you’re back already?”

  “Just landed. But I might have to go in for a little bit. I’ll be home before dinner.”

  “Dad, you said you’d be back on Sunday.”

  “I said I thought I would. What’s wrong with getting home a day early?”

  “I have a date tonight because I thought you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You mean a date at the house?”

  He failed to keep the concern out of his voice.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I meant, I said yes to this guy because I didn’t think you’d be home. I’ll call him up and say I changed my mind.”

  “No, look, don’t do that. Go out. Have fun. Who is the guy? What’s his name?”

  “You don’t know him. His name is Jonathan Pace and I know him from Explorers.”

  “He’s not the sergeant in charge, is he?”

  There had been a scandal once and he had warned her.

  “No, Dad, gross! He’s seventeen, just like me.”

  “But he knows your dad’s a cop?”

  It wasn’t her first date but she had not had many. Bosch required her to inform all suitors that her father was a police detective who always carried a gun. It sent the proper message every time.

  “Yes, he knows exactly who you are and what you do. He wants to be a detective, too.”

  “Really? Sounds like a keeper. When do you leave?”

  “We’re meeting at the Grove at seven to see a movie.”

  “By yourselves?”

  “No, we’re meeting other Explorers.”

  “Boys and girls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll be home before you leave. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “There’s a bookstore in that place right next to the movie theaters. Why don’t you kids check that out, too?”

  “Dad.”

  They had reached a level where she could simply say Dad and Bosch would read it as synonymous with Stop. This was one of those times.

  “Sorry, I thought books were fun.”

  “It’s Saturday night. We’re not going to sit in a bookstore, reading. We want to have some fun. We read books all week at school. I have to read for homework right now.”

  “Okay, got it. Is Jonathan Pace involved in the alcohol sting on Tuesday?”

  “Yes, we all are.”

  “Okay. Maybe I’ll meet him then.”

  “Dad, you already said you’re not going to come! That would be so embarrassing that my father had to check on us like we’re children.”

  “Okay, okay, message received. I won’t be there if you don’t want me there. Just be safe then and be safe tonight. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  After hanging up, Bosch called directory assistance to get the number to the newsroom at the Times. The operator made the connection, and while he waited for the call to go through, he turned onto the circular entrance ramp to the 405 north. Depending on how this call went, he would either take the freeway up the Sepulveda Pass to Mulholland or jog east on the 10 toward downtown and the PAB.

  The call was answered by someone who did not give a name but simply said, “Newsroom.”

  “Yes,” Bosch said. “I’m looking for Virginia Skinner.”

  “She’s off today. Can I take a message?”

  “Can you get her a message? I don’t have her number with me. I need to talk to her today and she’ll want to talk to me.”

  There was a short pause and then an answer.

  “I can try but I can’t promise anything. What’s the message?”

  Bosch gave his first name only and his number, and the message was that Skinner needed to call him today or she would miss the story.

  “That all?”

  “That’s it.”

  Bosch disconnected. Virginia Skinner was one of the few veteran reporters the Times had left in its downtown newsroom. Bosch knew her because twenty years earlier, when she had gotten the Times job after spending most of her twenties in journalism’s minor leagues, she was placed on the police beat. She wanted nothing to do with covering cops and crime but it was the starter position and she was smart enough to know that the better she was at it, the faster she’d get promoted to the next slot.

  She was right and she was good, and in two years she was on to the next beat, which was city hall. Covering local and state politics and government was what she wanted all along and where she had stayed to this day. And her name was perfect for the job, too. She specialized in political profiles that usually stripped candidates down to the bone and in many cases eviscerated their election chances.

  But during those first two years, Bosch took a liking to her because of her accuracy and fairness. She had crossed his path on several stories and he spoke to her on and off the record, and never once did she burn him. In the following years, they had minimal contact, but there were always stories here and there where police and politics crossed. She would check in and he would give her what he knew and what he could say. Bosch certainly didn’t like the idea of being any reporter’s source, but at least he had never had cause to mistrust Virginia Skinner. He did have her phone number but it was hidden in his desk. He was not foolish enough to carry it in the contacts list on his phone. If his phone ever fell into the wrong hands and it was revealed that he had a direct connection to her, the ramifications in the Department could be career threatening. Command staff frowned upon media sympathizers—especially if the media was the L.A. Times.

  As he drove, Bosch tried to recall the last time he had spoken to Skinner and what the story was. He couldn’t remember. It had probably been two or three years before.

  There was no callback by the time he got to the decision-making point on the freeway. He knew that because his daughter would be out during the evening, he could flip things around and go home now to spend some time with her, then go back down to the PAB to work at night. He struggled with this choice as he looked at the approaching eastbound lanes a
nd then was saved by the phone. A call marked “private number” was coming in. He answered, putting the phone on speaker.

  “Harry, it’s Ginny Skinner. What’s so important on a Saturday?”

  “Thanks for calling. Let’s start by saying all of this is off the record. You can’t write anything about it.”

  “I don’t know what it is, so it’s hard for me to agree to that.”

  It was the typical catch-22 with all reporters. They wouldn’t agree to hold something back until they knew what it was. But what if, upon knowing what the story was, they said they couldn’t hold it back? Now Bosch had to carefully choose his words.

  “Well, you know I work cold case homicides, right?”

  “Right, and I also read my own newspaper. I know you are on the mariachi case.”

  Bosch frowned. He was hoping she would not know what case he was on.

  “I have many cases working at once, Ginny. You know that.”

  “Well, cut to the chase, then, Harry. It’s Saturday and a beautiful day outside. I’m turning fifty tomorrow and I want a last margarita before that happens. What do you want?”

  “Really? You? Fifty?”

  “Yes, really, and that’s all I want to say about it. I shouldn’t have even brought it up. What do you need?”

  “Well, you guys write about campaign finance and all of that, right? Do you keep all of those records from elections past?”

  “Depends on how far back you want to go and which race. What are we talking about here?”

  “I’d like to see donation lists for the mayoral elections going three back.”

  He thought that by spreading wide the net he was casting, it would be harder for her to figure out what his true target was.

  “Ooh,” she said. “That’s a lot. We have all of this stuff computerized, but you’re not asking to search for a needle in a haystack, you’re asking for the whole haystack. You’ve got to tell me what you really want, Harry. Be specific.”

  Bosch considered ending the call and waiting until Monday to get the information he needed through proper channels. But his urgency to keep the case moving won out and he tried one more time to strike a deal.