“We have that. That’s why she kicked Ana out. She said it was headed toward a bad end and she didn’t want it to happen in the apartment.”
“Okay, well, we need to hit that again with her. Hit it hard. We want him taking the trash out. We want to establish his knowledge of the apartment complex.”
“Got it.”
“We also need to find out about Ana and clear up the possibility that she started the fire.”
“Out of revenge. Right.”
“And I want you to do this interview. You already spoke and established a rapport with her. You also both lived in that place and you can use that if needed.”
“Okay. We did speak in Spanish earlier.”
“Okay, there you go. I’m going to hang back and if I think of something to ask I’ll take you aside.”
“Okay.”
“Couple other things. We want to know how she knew Ana Acevedo in the first place. You know, how did they become roommates? And then we want to know if she had any continuing interaction over the past twenty years with any of these people.”
“She already said no about that last part but I’ll ask again.”
Bosch glanced over and saw that Soto was writing his questions down in a notebook that was just like the one he carried. The notebook was new. He hadn’t noticed it before.
Five minutes later they pulled into the Ralphs parking lot. It was on 3rd Street at Vermont. The parking lot was surprisingly full for the hour. Bosch guessed that a lot of midnight-shifters were hitting the market on their way home from work.
At the office at the front of the store, they asked for Stephanie Perez and were directed to the produce section, the area she was in charge of. Perez was a very small and round woman who wore an oversize white service jacket. Although she had spoken earlier to Soto, she seemed nervous about the detectives showing up at her workplace. Soto asked if there was a private place to talk and she took them to a break room in the rear of the store. It was too early for anyone to be taking breaks, so they had the space to themselves.
Perez asked if it was all right if the interview was conducted in Spanish and Bosch nodded his approval to Soto. Whatever made the witness most comfortable was the rule. Soto in return asked if it was okay to record the conversation and Perez gave her approval. Soto put her phone on the break table and turned on its recording feature. Bosch made a mental note to tell Soto after the interview that it was not necessary to ask permission to record an interview.
The women then started talking and Bosch tried to keep up. He was able to understand Spanish much better than he could speak it. But he quickly lost the thread, recognized only a few words, and then was distracted when his phone started vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket to check the screen and saw that it was Captain Crowder calling. He let it go to message and focused back on the conversation he didn’t understand.
Twenty minutes in, Soto turned to Bosch.
“She would like to look at pictures now,” she said.
Bosch thought for a moment. This was the big decision. If Perez couldn’t identify the EZBank employees, that could be an issue down the line. It was time to make the call on it and Soto was leaving it to him.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s do it.”
Soto had carried in a stack of files. They contained three separate six-pack photo lineups. Each lineup contained one photo of one of the EZBank employees in question along with five randomly selected photos of people of similar age and race. The photos were slipped into windows cut in a piece of cardboard. They started with the easy one. Ana Acevedo. Soto had been unable to find a current driver’s license for Acevedo in California or any of its neighboring states. While that was worrying in itself because it left Acevedo’s present whereabouts unknown, it also meant that Soto had to use a DL photo from the time of the EZBank robbery in the six-pack. It would most likely be the easiest identification Perez had to make.
Soto opened a file containing photos of six women of Latin ethnicity. Within two seconds Perez put her finger on Acevedo’s photo.
“That’s Ana,” she said.
“Okay,” Soto said.
She popped the photo out of its cardboard frame and asked Perez to sign the back of it as a confirmation of her choice. She then returned it to the file and put it to the side of the table. Soto opened the next file, which contained shots of six men of Eastern European heritage. Perez leaned over and studied all six photos before tapping the photo of Maxim Boiko.
“This one is Max,” she said.
Soto went through the same process of having Perez sign the photo she had selected.
Now came the big one. Soto opened the last six-pack and put it down in front of Perez. Soto didn’t say a word. She knew it was important not to speak or communicate anything through body language that was encouraging or confirming to the witness. That could result in a tainted identification in the eyes of a judge and jury.
Perez once again leaned forward and studied the photos—this time of six white men in their midforties. All homegrown Americans. Bosch knew there were all kinds of theories on inter-ethnic identification and that the process they were engaged in was fraught with issues relating to accuracy. The best they could do was present the photos, say nothing that might direct an identification, and simply wait. If she made an ID, the lawyers could fight about it later.
Perez studied the photos for nearly a minute and then slowly put her finger down below one of the photos.
“Him,” she said. “This is Rodney.”
Bosch and Soto exchanged eye contact and then Soto had Perez sign the photo she had chosen. It was the photo of Rodney Burrows.
“I have to return a call to the captain,” Bosch said to Soto. “You finish up and I’ll be in the car.”
Bosch thanked Perez for her time and cooperation and made his way back through the store and then out to the car. On the way, he listened to the message left on his phone by Crowder.
“Harry, this is Captain Crowder speaking. I want my update and I’m not fucking around. Call me. Now.”
Bosch got behind the wheel and turned on the engine. It was a cool morning and he wanted heat. He called the captain’s direct line.
“Where are you, Harry?” Crowder said by way of greeting.
“In the field,” Bosch said. “Something’s come up.”
“I don’t want to hear that. I want to hear the update on Merced. What’ve you got for me? It better be good.”
30
They traded updates once Soto made it back to the car, and Bosch headed toward the PAB. She summarized the interview with Stephanie Perez and then he recounted his conversation with Crowder, reporting that the captain was at first upset to hear that the Merced investigation had temporarily stalled but then was placated when informed that Bosch and Soto were closing in on something regarding the much bigger Bonnie Brae case—a break that happened to come out of an anonymous call to the Merced tip line.
“Speaking of Crowder,” he said, “I need to drop you back at the PAB while I go to breakfast. Crowder said media relations approved an interview with you and a reporter from La Opinión. It’s been over a week since Orlando Merced passed and they want to run an update. I told him to set it up now so we have the rest of the day. You do that while I meet my federal friend.”
“Okay,” Soto said. “How much do I tell the reporter?”
Bosch took the car across the 110 freeway overpass and glanced down as he considered Soto’s question. All ten lanes looked as though they were frozen.
“Well, you don’t mention Broussard by name.”
“Right. What about the rifle?”
Bosch wasn’t sure.
“Ask Crowder,” he said. “Let him decide. We put it out and we might stir things up. Put some pressure on Broussard.”
“Okay, I’ll ask. Does Crowder know about Broussard?”
“I’ve left that out of my updates.”
“Does he know we’re looking at someone?”
“Got it.”
“Good. In the meantime, if I don’t get back by the time you’re finished, try to confirm locations on Ana Acevedo. We might be most interested in Burrows but we need to talk to Acevedo to tie in the story. Boiko, too.”
“Okay.”
“By the way, did you ask Perez if she ever thought Ana had started the fire?”
“I did and she said no. She said Ana wasn’t a good roommate but she was a good person. She said she would never have done something like that.”
Bosch thought about this answer. They were looking into the possibility that, good person or not, Ana Acevedo had direct involvement with the fire or at least the men who started it—as well as the robbery connected to it.
“Harry,” Soto said. “Do you want me to reschedule my shrink session?”
Bosch came out of his thoughts and looked over at her. He had forgotten. It was Wednesday and Soto had her regular afternoon session with Dr. Hinojos at Behavioral Sciences.
“Yeah,” Bosch said. “See if she’ll let you skip this week. We have things moving on this. Let’s not break momentum.”
“I’ll call her.”
“And I’ll be back in an hour. Maybe we’ll know more about Burrows by then.”
“Who is this agent you’re meeting?”
“She works in an intelligence unit. They throw out the net, you know. Then they analyze.”
“I thought it was a she. Your voice completely changed when you were talking to her on the phone today. It was like when you talk to your daughter. You get all nice.”
Bosch glanced over at her. He didn’t know whether to compliment her perception or tell her to mind her own business.
“Yeah, well. There’s a history.”
“And she wants to meet you by yourself.”
“That’s just the way she is. She’ll say more if it’s just me.”
“Whatever works, Harry.”
Bosch nodded. He was happy to move on from a discussion about Rachel Walling.
“Okay, let’s go back to Stephanie Perez for a minute before you jump out. Through her we have all three of these EZBank people in the Bonnie Brae.”
“That’s absolutely solid. We have her six-pack IDs and her take on Burrows, which confirms the racist attitudes.”
“Okay, what about Ana? How did she and Perez hook up? How long did they share the apartment before Perez made her move out?”
“Stephanie said they lived together for a year and she got her after putting a roommate-needed notice on the bulletin board in the complex’s laundry room.”
“Ana was already living there?”
“No, but she had lived there when she was a kid. She was back visiting friends, saw the notice, and made contact with Perez. She said she wanted to live there because she knew the place and could walk to work. She didn’t have a car.”
Bosch nodded. This was all good. In her earlier summary of the Perez interview Soto had also said that Burrows spent at least two nights a week in the apartment with Acevedo over a three-month period leading up to the point where Acevedo was asked to leave. Boiko was a less frequent visitor but was still an occasional overnight guest as well. But when Perez started complaining about the situation, Acevedo reacted by making both men get involved in the upkeep of the apartment. This included chores such as taking out the trash.
All of this was based on Stephanie Perez’s twenty-one-year-old memories but it was positive in terms of case momentum. What Bosch and Soto needed now was further confirmation through Acevedo, Burrows, and Boiko themselves.
“We really need to find Ana Acevedo,” Bosch said.
“I told you,” Soto said. “I’m on it.”
They were stopped at a light at 1st and Hill, a few blocks from the PAB.
“Gus Braley said the video showed her pulling the alarm before the robbers came in,” he said. “Based on that, they decided back then that she wasn’t part of the robbery.”
“You’re thinking otherwise?”
“Not yet. But I’m looking at the video from the opposite side of things now.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, if you knew there was a camera on you, then you probably knew that if you didn’t pull the alarm, you were guaranteeing you would be considered a suspect.”
Soto thought about that for a bit and then nodded.
“I get it,” she said.
“That’s why we need to find her and talk to her,” Bosch said. “You said she’s disappeared. No DL, no record, whereabouts unknown. I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I. Do you think she’s dead? Maybe they used her and buried her in the desert.”
Bosch nodded. It was a possibility.
“The other thing is, we don’t have any idea about the two gunmen,” he said. “All three of these people we’re talking about were inside EZBank. They didn’t commit the actual robbery.”
“Or start the fire.”
“If one of these people is the insider, they lead us to the other two.”
“Can we back up and just talk about how the whole thing went down?”
The light changed and Bosch proceeded.
“You have the two guys in the car,” he said. “Their first stop is the Bonnie Brae. One of them goes in and drops the Molotov down the trash chute.”
“They start the fire, then head to the cash box,” Soto said.
“Right. They’ve got a scanner in the car and pull up close to the target and wait to hear the response on the fire. When they hear ‘all units,’ they go to the cash box. Or maybe they’re not that sophisticated. They just pull over and wait for sirens. When they hear the big response, they go in, hit the target, and have time to get away before police can respond.”
Bosch pulled the car up to the courtyard that fronted the PAB. Soto hopped out and looked back in at him.
“I think it works,” she said.
Bosch nodded.
“See you in an hour,” he said.
Rachel Walling was waiting for Bosch in a booth in a back room of the restaurant on 6th Street. It was the room reserved for heavy hitters and regulars. With three round tables for big parties and three booths for smaller parties, the room was at capacity, and Bosch recognized half the faces from City Hall. He wasn’t sure who they all were but they were at least mid-level important or they wouldn’t be eating breakfast at 9 a.m. on a workday.
Rachel Walling didn’t look like she had aged a day since he had last seen her. Her jawline was cut sharply, her neck taut, her brown hair with hints of raven in it. Her eyes were always the thing with Bosch. Dark, piercing, unreadable. A vibration went through him as he approached, a reminder of what could have been. There was a time when he had this woman, and then things went wrong. When it came to the women in his life, there were only a few regrets. She would always be one of them.
She smiled and put aside the folded newspaper she had been reading as he slid into the booth.
“Harry.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not that late. Are things happening?”
“Beginning to.”
Walling indicated the newspaper she had put to the side.
“You were in the paper last week about that mariachi musician dying. Can I ask, were you asking about Rodney Burrows in regard to that?”
“Not really, no. I have other cases. You know how it is.”
“Sure. I was just curious about the fit on this.”
“No, like I told you on the phone, I’m interested in the fire that killed all those kids. Were you able to get me something? I see the newspaper but I don’t see a file or anything.”
She smiled as if parrying an insult.
“You know we don’t give files out. We’re not really the sharing kind.”
The waiter came up with a coffeepot and Bosch signaled that he’d take a cup. The waiter asked if they knew what they wanted to order or needed a menu. Bosch hadn’t needed a menu
in the Pacific Dining Car in twenty-five years. He looked at Rachel.
“Are we going to eat or is this going to be short and sweet?” he asked.
“We’re going to eat,” she said. “I told you, I’m hungry.”
They ordered without the menu and the waiter went away. Bosch took a draw of hot coffee and then fixed Walling with a look that said it was time to give.
“So,” he said. “Rodney Burrows . . .”
She nodded.
“Okay, this is the deal,” she said. “You had Rodney Burrows pegged correctly and he was on our radar for a long time, but then he went away on the tax conviction and he’s been quiet ever since. At least we think so. So I need to know if the bureau is going to be embarrassed by anything you are doing.”
Bosch shook his head emphatically.
“Not unless the bureau dropped the ball in ’93. This is strictly a cold case investigation. This guy lives out in Adelanto now and as far as I know he’s been quiet as a mouse.”
“Okay, I’ll trust you on that.”
“So tell me what you’ve got. When did he hit the FBI radar?”
“Well, by the mid-nineties we started watching a lot of these types. You know, militia sympathizers, Posse Comitatus, Christian Identity—all those ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ anti-government hate groups. In the space of two years we had Waco and Ruby Ridge and you couple that with the riots in ’92 right here in L.A. and you sort of have this call to arms that speaks to a lot of these fringe dwellers. Some of them, like your guy, believed the riots constituted the first warning of a coming race war. Mix in your standard anti-government views, stand-your-ground arms accumulation, and a lot of those other ‘ist’ allegiances you mentioned earlier, and you have yourself a loose-form movement. We picked up on this happening in many places across the country. Obviously there were many that didn’t get our notice—the Oklahoma City bombing happened in ’95.”
“So what about Burrows?”
“He and some of his fellow numbskulls formed something they called the WAVE. It was a benign-sounding acronym standing for White American Voices Everywhere. They became part of this national association of groups that wanted to close borders and get ready to defend white America when the race war began.”
The Burning Room Page 26