The Black Box (21 page)

“Did you in any way lead the corrections officers at San Quentin to believe that you wished to speak to Shawn Stone as part of an investigation?”

Bosch shook his head.

“No, I did not. And I think when I asked how I could deposit money into his canteen account, it was clear that he was not part of an investigation.”

“But you asked about that after you spoke to Stone, correct?”

“Correct.”

There was a pause as she looked through the documents Bosch had provided.

“I think, gentlemen, that that’s it for now.”

“No more questions?” Bosch asked.

“For now. I may have follow-ups later.”

“Can I ask some questions now?”

“You can ask and I’ll answer if I can.”

Bosch nodded. Fair enough.

“How long will this take?”

Mendenhall frowned.

“Well, in actual investigation time I don’t think it will take long. Unless I can’t get what I need by phone from San Quentin and have to go up there.”

“So, they might spend the money to send you all the way up there to check out what I did with an extra hour of my time.”

“That would be my captain’s call. He’ll certainly look at the costs involved and the level of seriousness of the investigation. He also knows that I carry several other investigations at the moment. He might decide that it is not worth the expenditure of money and investigative time.”

Bosch had no doubt that they would send Mendenhall to San Quentin if needed. She might be in a bubble where there was no pressure from above, but her captain wasn’t.

“Anything else?” she asked. “I have an interview at nine that I should prepare for.”

“Yes, one more thing,” Bosch said. “Where did this complaint come from?”

Mendenhall seem surprised by the question.

“I can’t discuss that, but I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious.”

“No, I know it came from O’Toole. But the whole thing about me visiting Shawn Stone—how did he come up with that? How did he know?”

“That I can’t talk to you about, Detective. When my investigation is complete and I make a recommendation, you may become aware of those facts.”

Bosch nodded but the open question bothered him. Had someone from San Quentin called O’Toole to suggest Bosch had acted improperly, or had O’Toole pursued this, going so far as to check on Bosch’s activities at the prison? Either way, it was disconcerting to Bosch. He had walked in believing the 128 complaint would easily be discarded after his explanations to Mendenhall. Now he saw that things might not be so clear-cut.

After leaving the PSB, Jackson and Bosch took one of the ornately designed elevators down to the lobby. To Bosch, the century-old Bradbury Building was far and away the most beautiful building in the city. The only blemish on its image was the fact that it housed the Professional Standards Bureau. As they crossed the lobby beneath the atrium to the West Third Street exit, Bosch could smell the fresh bread being baked for the lunch rush in the sandwich shop next to the building’s main entrance. That was another thing that always bothered him. Not only was the PSB housed in one of the city’s hidden gems and not only were there fireplaces in some of the offices, but the place also smelled so damn good every time Bosch was there.

Jackson was quiet as they moved through the lobby and then turned left into the dimly lit side-exit lobby. There was a bench with a bronze statue of Charlie Chaplin sitting on it.
Jackson sat down next to the figure and signaled Bosch to the other side.

“What?” Bosch said as he sat down. “We should get back.”

Jackson was upset. He shook his head and leaned across Charlie Chaplin’s lap so he could whisper.

“Harry,” he said. “I think you’re really screwed on this.”

Bosch didn’t understand Jackson’s mood or his apparent surprise that the department would go to this length over a fifteen-minute interview in San Quentin. But to Bosch this was nothing new. The first time he got dinged by Internal Affairs was thirty-five years earlier. He caught a beef for stopping by a dry cleaner’s—which was on his beat—to pick up his pressed uniforms while on his way to the station at the end of watch. Since then, nothing surprised him about how the department policed its own.

“So what,” he said dismissively. “Let her sustain the complaint. What’s the worst they could give me? Three days? A week? I’ll take my kid to Hawaii.”

Jackson shook his head again.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Now Bosch was thoroughly confused.

“Don’t get what? It’s Internal Affairs, no matter what they’re calling it now. What’s not to get?”

“This is not just about a week’s suspension. You’re on the DROP, man. That’s a contract and you don’t have the same protections—that’s probably why nobody from the League called you back. A contract can be voided on a CUBO.”

Now it hit Bosch. The year before, he had signed a five-year contract under the Deferred Retirement Option Plan. He had effectively retired in order to freeze his pension and then came
back to work under the contract. There was a clause in that contract that allowed the department to dismiss him if he was found guilty of committing a crime or if an internal charge of Conduct Unbecoming an Officer was sustained against him.

“Don’t you see what O’Fool is doing?” Jackson asked. “He’s reshaping the squad, trying to make it
his
squad. Anybody he doesn’t like or has a problem with or isn’t showing him the proper respect and allegiance, he’ll pull this sort of shit to move them out.”

Bosch nodded as he saw the scheme come together. He knew what Jackson didn’t; that O’Toole might not be acting alone, just to feather his nest. He might be doing the bidding of the man on the tenth floor.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” he said.

“Oh, shit,” Jackson said. “What?”

“Not here. Let’s go.”

They left Charlie Chaplin behind and headed back to the PAB on foot. Along the way, Bosch told Jackson two stories, one old and the other new. The first was the backstory behind the case Bosch worked the year before involving the death of then-councilman Irvin Irving’s son. Bosch recounted how he had been used by the chief and a former partner he trusted in a successful political coup, resulting in Irving losing his bid for reelection. A police department sympathizer was elected in his stead.

“That already put me on a collision course with Marty,” he said. “And with the case I’m working now, we’ve collided.”

He then explained how the man on the tenth floor was trying through O’Toole to pressure him into slowing down the forward momentum of the Anneke Jespersen case. By the time
he was finished with the story, Bosch guessed that Jackson fully regretted having signed on as Harry’s defense rep.

“So, in the grand scheme of things,” Jackson said as they entered the front courtyard of the PAB, “you are not interested in slowing it down, not even just pushing it quietly over into next year?”

Bosch shook his head.

“She’s waited too long,” he said. “And whoever killed her has been free too long. I’m not slowing down for anything.”

Jackson nodded as they went through the automatic doors.

“I didn’t think so.”

18

B
osch was no sooner at his desk in his cubicle in the Open-Unsolved Unit than he was visited by his new nemesis, Lieutenant O’Toole.

“Bosch, did you set up an appointment with the PSB investigator yet?”

Bosch swiveled in his seat so he could look up at his supervisor. O’Toole had his suit jacket off and was wearing suspenders with a design of little golf clubs on them. His tie tack was a miniature LAPD badge. They sold them in the gift shop at the Police Academy.

“It’s taken care of,” Bosch said.

“Good. I want this cleared up as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It’s nothing personal, Bosch.”

Bosch smiled at that.

“I just want to know one thing, Lieutenant. Did you come up with this all on your own, or did you have help from upstairs?”

“Harry?” Jackson said from across the cubicle divider. “I don’t think you should get into a—”

Bosch held up his hand to stop Jackson from getting involved.

“It’s okay, Rick. It was just a rhetorical question. The lieutenant doesn’t have to answer it.”

“I don’t know what you mean by upstairs,” O’Toole said anyway. “But it would be typical of you to focus on where the complaint came from instead of the complaint itself and your own actions.”

Bosch’s cell phone began to buzz. He pulled it from his pocket and looked away from O’Toole to check the screen. The caller ID was blocked.

“The question is simple,” O’Toole continued. “Did you act properly while up there in the prison or did you—”

“I have to take this,” Bosch said, cutting him off. “I’m working a case, L-T.”

O’Toole turned to leave the cubicle. Bosch connected to the call but told the caller to hold. He then held the phone to his chest so his words would not be overheard by whoever was on the other end.

“Lieutenant,” he said.

He had called to his supervisor loud enough for several detectives in their nearby cubicles to hear. O’Toole turned around and looked back at him.

“If you continue to harass me,” Bosch said, “I will file a formal complaint.”

He held eye contact with O’Toole for a few moments, then raised his phone to his ear.

“This is Detective Bosch, how can I help you?”

“This is Suzanne Wingo, ATF. Are you presently in the PAB?”

It was Rachel Walling’s contact. Bosch felt a tremor of adrenaline hit his bloodstream. She might have already traced the ownership of the gun used to kill Anneke Jespersen.

“Yes, I’m here. Have you—”

“I’m on a bench in the front plaza. Can you come down? I have something for you.”

“Uh, sure. But would you rather come up to the office? I can—”

“No, I would prefer that you come down here.”

“Then I’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Come alone, Detective.”

She disconnected. Bosch sat for a long moment, wondering why she had told him to come alone. He quickly called Rachel Walling’s number.

“Harry?”

“It’s me. This Suzanne Wingo—what’s with her?”

“What do you mean? She told me she would run the numbers. I gave her your cell.”

“I know. She just called me and told me to meet her down in the front plaza. She told me to come alone. What am I getting into here, Rachel?”

Walling laughed before she answered.

“Nothing, Harry. She’s just that way. Very secretive, very cautious. She’s doing you a favor and doesn’t want anybody else to know.”

“You sure that’s all?”

“Yes. And she’ll probably want something in return for the favor. Quid pro quo.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea, Harry. It might not even be right now. You
may just owe her one. Either way, if you want to find out who owns the gun you’ve got, go down and see her.”

“Okay. Thanks, Rachel.”

Bosch disconnected and stood up. He looked behind him. Chu was still not at his desk. Bosch hadn’t seen him yet that morning. He saw Jackson looking at him, and Bosch gave him a signal to meet him at the door. Harry waited until they were out in the hallway before speaking.

“You have a few minutes?” he asked.

“I guess,” Jackson said. “What’s up?”

“Come over here.”

Bosch moved to the glass wall that allowed him to look down on the plaza. He scanned the concrete benches until he saw a woman sitting alone, holding a file. She wore a blazer over slacks and a golf shirt. Bosch could see where the blazer rode up into a sharp ridge behind the right pocket. The woman had a gun holstered under the jacket. It was Wingo. Bosch pointed down at her.

“See the woman on the bench? Blue jacket?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going down to meet her for a few minutes. I just need you to watch us, maybe take a picture with your phone. Can you do that?”

“Sure. But what’s going on?”

“Probably nothing. She’s from ATF and wants to give me something.”

“So?”

“I’ve never met her before. She didn’t want to come in and told me to come down alone.”

“Okay.”

“I guess I’m just being paranoid. With O’Toole obviously checking on my every move . . .”

“Yeah, I don’t think it helped, you calling him out like you just did. As your defense rep, I don’t think you should be—”

“Fuck him. I gotta go down. You’ll watch?”

“I’ll stay right here.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Bosch hit him on the arm and walked away. Jackson called after him.

“You know you’re the most paranoid guy I know.”

Bosch narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Who told you that?”

Jackson laughed. Bosch took the elevator down and walked directly across the plaza to the woman he had spotted from above. Up close he saw that she was in her midthirties, athletically built, with a short no-nonsense cut to her auburn hair. Bosch’s first take was that she was most likely a seasoned federal agent.

“Agent Wingo?”

“You said two minutes.”

“Sorry, I got stopped by my supervisor and he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Aren’t they all.”

Bosch liked that she said it as a statement, not a question. He sat down next to her, his eyes on the file she was holding.

“So, what’s with the secret agent stuff and the meet-up out here? I remember our old place, nobody wanted to visit because it was going to pancake next time we hit a six on the Richter scale. But we’ve got a brand-new place now. It’s guaranteed safe. You could come in and I’d show you around.”

“Rachel Walling asked me for the favor, but she could only vouch for you so far, you know what I mean?”

“No, what did she say about me?”

“She said trouble follows you and I should be careful. But she didn’t use those words exactly.”

Bosch nodded. He guessed that Walling had called him a shit magnet. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You girls stick together.”

“It’s a boys’ club. We have to.”

“So, you did run the gun numbers?”

“I did. And I am not sure I’m going to be much help to you.”