The Scarecrow (46 page)

Gandle, whose balding pate and dour expression made him a perfect administrator, spread his hands in a gesture offering a
complete lack of sympathy.

“I told everybody in the staff meeting last week, we’ve got South’s back this week. They’ve got on a skeleton crew while everybody
else is in homicide school. They caught three cases over the weekend and one this morning. So there goes the skeleton crew.
You guys are up and the rob job is yours. That’s it. Any other questions? Patrol is waiting down there with a witness.”

“We’re good, Loo,” Bosch said, ending the discussion.

“I’ll wait to hear from you, then.”

Gandle headed back to his office. Bosch pulled his coat off the back of his chair, put it on and opened the middle drawer
of his desk. He took out a fresh notebook and pen and stuck them in his side pocket. The truth was, he didn’t care what kind
of case it was. He wanted a fresh kill.

Ferras stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at the clock on the wall over the bulletin boards.

“Shit,” Ferras said. “Every time.”

“What do you mean, ‘every time’?” Bosch said. “We haven’t caught a case in a month.”

“Yeah, well, I was getting used to that.”

“Well, if you don’t want to work murders, there’s always a nine-to-five table, like auto theft.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Then, let’s go.”

Bosch stepped out of the cubicle into the aisle and headed toward the door. Ferras followed, pulling his phone out so he could
call his wife and give her the bad news. On the way out of the squad room, both men reached up and patted the boar on the
nose for good luck.

Two

B
osch didn’t need to lecture Ferras on the way to South L.A. His silence was his lecture. His young partner seemed to wither
under the pressure of what was not said and finally opened up.

“This is driving me crazy,” he said.

“What is?” Bosch asked.

“The twins. There’s so much work, so much crying. It’s a domino effect. One wakes up and that starts the other one up. Neither
of us is getting any sleep and my wife is…”

“What?”

“I don’t know, going crazy. Calling me all the time, asking when I’m coming home. So I come home and then it’s my turn and
I get the boys and I get no break. It’s work, kids, work, kids, work, kids every day.”

“What about a nanny?”

“We can’t afford a nanny. Not with the way things are and we don’t even get overtime anymore.”

Bosch didn’t know what to say. His daughter was a month away from her thirteenth birthday and almost ten thousand miles away
from him. He had never been directly involved in raising her. Basically he saw her for four weeks a year—two one-week visits
in Hong Kong and then a two-week span in the summer when she came to L.A. and stayed with him. It was only when she was in
California that she was under his full-time supervision and control, and he knew that wasn’t good enough for him to consider
himself a valid parent.

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “You know I’ve got your back. I’ll do what I can when I can.”

“I know, Harry. I appreciate that. It’s just the first year with twins, you know? S’pose to get a lot easier.”

“Just maintain your focus when we have something to focus on. Like right now. That’s all I want.”

“You got it. You always have.”

Bosch nodded and that was enough said.

The address Gandle had given them was in the seventieth block of South Normandie Avenue. This was just a few blocks from the
infamous corner of Florence and Normandie, where some of the most horrible images of the 1992 riots had been captured by news
helicopters and broadcast around the world. It seemed to be the lasting image of Los Angeles to many.

But Bosch quickly realized he knew the area and the liquor store that was their destination from a different riot and for
a different reason.

Fortune Liquors was already cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape. A small number of onlookers were gathered but murder
in this neighborhood was not that much of a curiosity. The people here had seen it before—many times. Bosch pulled their sedan
into the middle of a grouping of three patrol cars and parked. After going to the trunk to retrieve his briefcase, he locked
the car up and headed toward the tape.

Bosch and Ferras gave their names and badge numbers to the patrol officer with the crime scene attendance log and then ducked
under the tape. As they approached the front door of the store, Bosch put his hand into his right jacket pocket and pulled
out a book of matches. It was old and worn. The front cover said
Fortune Liquors
and it carried the address of the small yellow building before them. He thumbed the book open. There was only one missing
match, and on the inside cover was the fortune that came with every matchbook:

HAPPY IS THE MAN WHO FINDS REFUGE IN HIMSELF
.

Bosch had carried the matchbook with him for almost twelve years. Not so much for the fortune, though he did believe what
it said. It was because of the missing match and what it reminded him of.

“Harry, what’s up?” Ferras asked.

Bosch realized he had paused in his approach to the store.

“Nothing, I’ve just been here before.”

“When? On a case?”

“Sort of. But it was a long time ago. Let’s go in.”

Bosch walked past his partner and entered through the open front door of the liquor store.

Several patrol officers and a sergeant were standing inside. The store was long and narrow. It was a shotgun design and essentially
three aisles wide. Bosch could see down the center aisle to a rear hallway and an open back door leading to a parking area
behind the store. The cold-beverage cases ran along the wall on the left aisle and then across the back of the store. The
liquor was on the right aisle, while the middle aisle was reserved for wine, with red on the right and white on the left.

Bosch saw two more patrol officers in the rear hallway and he guessed they were holding the witness in what was probably a
rear storage room or office. He put his briefcase down on the floor by the door. He unsnapped the locks and pulled out two
pairs of latex gloves. He gave a set to Ferras and they put them on.

The sergeant noticed the arrival of the two detectives and broke away from his men.

“Ray Lucas,” he said by way of greeting. “We have one vic down behind the counter here. His name is John Li, spelled L-I.
Happened, we think, about an hour ago. Looks like a robbery where the guy just didn’t want to leave a witness. A lot of us
down here in the Seventy-seventh knew Mr. Li. He was a good old guy.”

Lucas signaled Bosch and Ferras over to the counter. Bosch held his coat so it wouldn’t touch anything when he went around
and squeezed into the small space behind the counter. He squatted down like a baseball catcher to look closer at the dead
man on the floor. Ferras leaned in over him like an umpire.

The man on the floor was Asian and looked to be almost seventy. He was on his back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His
lips were pulled back from clenched teeth, almost in a sneer. There was blood on his lips, cheek and chin. It had been coughed
up as he died. The front of his shirt was soaked with his blood and Bosch could see at least three bullet entry points in
his chest. His right leg was bent at the knee and folded awkwardly under his other leg. He had obviously collapsed on the
spot where he had been standing when he was shot.

“No casings that we can see,” Lucas said. “The shooter cleaned those up and then he was smart enough to pull the disc out
of the recorder in the back.”

Bosch nodded. The patrol guys always wanted to be helpful but it was information Bosch didn’t need yet. There was much to
do first.

Bosch studied the body silently. He was pretty sure it was the same man he had encountered in here so many years before. He
was even in the same spot on the floor behind the counter. And Bosch could see a soft pack of cigarettes in the shirt pocket.

He noticed that the victim’s right hand had blood smeared on it. This was not unusual. From earliest childhood, you touch
your hand to an injury to try to protect it and make it better. It is a natural instinct. This victim had done the same here,
most likely grabbing at his chest after the first shot hit him.

There was a substantial spatial separation between the bullet wounds. At least four inches separated the shots as they formed
the points of a triangle. Bosch knew that three quick shots from close range usually made a tighter cluster. This led him
to believe that the victim had likely been shot once and then had fallen to the floor. The killer had then probably leaned
over the counter and shot him twice more, creating the spread.

The slugs had torn through the victim’s chest, causing massive damage to the heart and lungs. The blood expectorated through
the mouth showed that death was not immediate. The victim had tried to breathe. After all his years working cases, Bosch was
sure of one thing. There was no easy way to die.

“No headshot,” Bosch said.

“Right,” Ferras said. “What’s it mean?”

Bosch realized he had been musing out loud.

“Maybe nothing. Just seems like three in the chest, the shooter wanted no doubt. But then no headshot to make sure.”

“Like a contradiction.”

“Maybe.”

Bosch took his eyes off the body for the first time and looked around from his low angle. His eyes immediately held on a gun
that was in a holster attached to the underside of the counter. It was located for easy access in case of a robbery or worse,
but it had not even been pulled from its holster.

“We’ve got a gun under here,” Bosch said. “Looks like a forty-five in a holster, but the old man never got the chance to pull
it.”

“The shooter came in quick and shot the old guy before he could reach for his piece,” Ferras said. “Maybe he knew he was strapped.”

“The gun’s gotta be new,” Lucas said. “The guy’s been robbed at least six times in the last three years since I’ve been here.
As far as I know, he never pulled a gun.”

Bosch nodded and turned his head to speak over his shoulder to the sergeant.

“Tell me about the witness,” he said.

“Uh, she’s not really a witness,” Lucas said. “It’s Mrs. Li, the wife.

She came in and found her husband when she brought the dinner in. We’ve got her in the back room but you’ll need a translator.
We called the ACU, asked for Chinese to go.”

Bosch took another look at the dead man’s face, then stood up and both his knees cracked loudly. Lucas had acted a bit quick
in calling the Asian Crime Unit. That was supposed to be Bosch’s call but the department had so many specialty units that
a patrol sergeant like Lucas was probably always quick to make use of whatever seemed necessary.

“You speak Chinese, Sarge?”

“No, that’s why I called ACU.”

“Then how did you know to ask for Chinese and not Korean or maybe even Vietnamese?”

“I’ve been on the job twenty-six years, Detective. And—”

“And you know Chinese when you see it.”

“No, what I’m saying is, I have a hard time making it through a shift these days without a little jolt. Once a day I stop
by here to pick up one of those energy drinks, you know? Five-hour boost it gives you. Anyway, I got to know Mr. Li a little
bit from coming in. He told me he and his wife came from China and that’s how I knew.”

Bosch nodded and was embarrassed.

“I guess I’ll have to try one of those,” he said. “Did Mrs. Li call nine-one-one?”

“No, like I said, she doesn’t have much English. From what I got from dispatch, Mrs. Li called her son and he’s the one who
called nine-one-one.”

Bosch stepped out and around the counter. Ferras lingered behind it, squatting to get the same view of the body and the gun
that Bosch had just had.

“Where is the son?” Bosch asked.

“He’s coming but he works up in the Valley,” Lucas said. “Should be here anytime now.”

Bosch pointed to the counter.

“When he gets here, you and your people keep him away from this.”

“Got it.”

“And we’re going to have to try to keep this place as clear as possible now.”

Lucas got the message and took his officers out of the store. Finished behind the counter, Ferras joined Bosch near the front
door, where he was looking up at the camera mounted on the ceiling at the center of the store.

“Why don’t you check out the back?” Bosch said. “See if the guy really pulled the disc, and look in on our witness.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, and find the thermostat. Turn the air down. It’s too warm in here and I don’t want that body to turn.”

Ferras headed down the center aisle. Bosch looked back to take in the scene as a whole. The counter was about twelve feet
long. The cash register was set up at center with an open space for customers to put down their purchases. On one side of
this were racks of gum and candy. On the other side of the register were other point-of-purchase products, like energy drinks,
a plastic case containing cheap cigars and a lotto display case. Overhead was a wire-mesh storage box for cigarette cartons.

Behind the counter were shelves where high-end liquors were stored, which had to be asked for by customers. Bosch saw six
rows of Hennessy. He knew the expensive cognac was favored by high-rolling gang members. He was pretty sure the location of
Fortune Liquors would put it in the territory of the Hoover Street Crips.

Bosch noticed two things and stepped closer to the counter.

The cash register had been turned askew on the counter, revealing a square of grit and dust on the Formica where it had been
located. Bosch reasoned that the killer had pulled it toward him while he took the money from the drawer. This was a significant
assumption because it meant that Mr. Li had not opened the drawer and given the robber the money. This likely meant he had
already been shot. This could be significant in an eventual prosecution in proving intent to kill. More important, it gave
Bosch a better idea of what had happened in the store.