Bored with watching the post office door after an hour, Bosch turned on the radio and found it tuned to a channel featuring a southern evangelical ranter. It took several seconds before Harry realized that the speaker’s subject was the Los Angeles earthquake. He decided not to change the station.
“And ah ask, is it a coincidence that this cata-clysmic calamity was centered in the very heart of the ind’stry that poe-loots this entarh nation with the smut of pone-ography? I think not! I believe the Lahd struck a mighty blow to the infidels engaged in this vile and mul-tie-billyon-dollah trade when he cracked the uth asundah. It is a sign, mah frens, a sign of things that ah to come. A sign that all is not right in—”
Bosch turned it off. A woman had just come out of the post office holding a red envelope among other pieces of mail. Bosch watched her cross the parking lot to a silver Lincoln Town Car. Bosch instinctively jotted the plate number down, though he had no law enforcement contact in this part of the state who would run it for him. The woman was in her mid-sixties, Bosch guessed. He had been waiting for a man, but her age made her fit. He started the Mustang and waited for her to pull out.
She drove north on the main highway toward Sarasota. Traffic moved slowly. After about fifteen minutes and maybe two miles, the Town Car took a left on Vamo Road and then almost immediately took a right on a private road camouflaged by tall trees and green growth. Bosch was only ten seconds behind her. As he came up to the drive, he slowed but didn’t turn in. He saw a sign set back in the trees.
WELCOME TO
PELICAN COVE
CONDOMINIUM HOMES, DOCKAGE
The Town Car passed by a guard shack with a red-and-white-striped gate arm coming down behind it.
“Shit!”
Bosch hadn’t anticipated anything like a gated community. He assumed that such things were rare outside of Los Angeles. He looked at the sign again, then turned around and headed out to the main road. He remembered seeing another shopping plaza right before he had turned on to Vamo.
There were eight homes in Pelican Cove listed in the For Sale section of the Sarasota Herald-Tribune, but only three were for sale by owner. Bosch went to a pay phone in the plaza and called the first one. He got a tape. On the second call the woman who answered said her husband was golfing for the day and she felt uncomfortable showing the property without him. On the third call, the woman who answered invited Bosch to come over right away and even said she’d have fresh lemonade prepared when he got there.
Bosch felt a momentary pang of guilt about taking advantage of a stranger who was just trying to sell her home. But it passed quickly as he considered that the woman would never know she had been used in such a way, and he had no other alternative for getting to McKittrick.
After he was cleared at the gate and got directions to the lemonade lady’s unit, Bosch drove through the densely wooded complex, looking for the silver Town Car. It didn’t take him long to see that the complex was mostly a retirement community. He passed several elderly people in cars or on walks, almost all of them with white hair and skin browned by the sun. He quickly found the Town Car, checked his location against the map given to him at the guard shack and was about to make a cursory visit to the lemonade lady to avoid suspicion. But then he saw another silver Town Car. It was a popular car with the older set, he guessed. He took out his notebook and checked the plate number he had written down. Neither car had been the one he had followed earlier.
He drove on and finally found the right Town Car in a secluded spot in the far reaches of the complex. It was parked in front of a two-story building of dark wood siding surrounded by oak and paper trees. It looked to Bosch as if there were six units in the building. Easy enough, he thought. He consulted the map and got back on course to the lemonade lady. She was on the second floor of a building on the other side of the complex.
“You’re young,” she said when she answered the door.
Bosch wanted to say the same thing back to her but held his tongue. She looked like she was in her mid- to late thirties, which put her three decades behind anyone Bosch had seen around the complex so far. She had an attractive and evenly tanned face framed in brown shoulder-length hair. She wore blue jeans, a blue oxford shirt and a black vest with a colorful pattern in the front. She didn’t bother with much makeup, which Bosch liked. She had serious green eyes, which he also didn’t disagree with.
“I’m Jasmine. Are you Mr. Bosch?”
“Yes. Harry. I just called.”
“That was quick.”
“I was nearby.”
She invited him in and started the rundown.
“It’s three bedrooms, like the paper said. Master suite has a private bath. Second bath off the main hall. The view is what makes the place, though.”
She pointed Bosch toward a wall of sliding glass doors that looked out on a wide expanse of water dotted with mangrove islands. Hundreds of birds perched in the branches of these otherwise untouched islands. She was right, the view was beautiful.
“What is that?” Bosch asked. “The water.”
“That’s— you’re not from around here, are you? That’s Little Sarasota Bay.”
Bosch nodded while computing the mistake he had made by blurting out the question.
“No, I’m not from around here. I’m thinking of moving here though.”
“Where from?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard. A lot of people are bailing out. Because the ground won’t stop shaking.”
“Something like that.”
She led him down a hallway to what must have been the master suite. Bosch was immediately struck by how the room didn’t seem to fit this woman. It was all dark and old and heavy. A mahogany bureau that looked like it weighed a ton, matching bedside tables with ornate lamps and brocaded shades. The place smelled old. It couldn’t be where she slept.
He turned and noticed on the wall next to the door an oil painting that was a portrait of the woman standing next to him. It was a younger likeness of her, the face much gaunter, more severe. Bosch was wondering what kind of person hangs a painting of herself in her bedroom when he noticed that the painting was signed. The artist’s name was Jazz.
“Jazz. Is that you?”
“Yes. My father insisted on hanging that in here. I actually should have taken it down.”
She went to the wall and began to lift the painting off.
“Your father?”
He moved to the other side of the painting to help her.
“Yes. I gave this to him a long time ago. At the time I was thankful he didn’t hang it out in the living room where his friends would see it but even here is a little too much.”
She turned the painting so the back faced outward and leaned it against the wall. Bosch put together what she had been saying.
“This is your father’s place.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve just been staying here while the ad ran in the paper. You want to check out the master bath? It has a Jacuzzi tub. That wasn’t mentioned in the ad.”
Bosch moved closely by her to the bathroom door. He looked down at her hands, a natural instinct, and saw no rings on any of her fingers. He could smell her as he passed and the scent he picked up was the same as her name: Jasmine. He was beginning to feel some kind of attraction to her but wasn’t sure if it was the titillation of being there under false pretenses or an honest pull. He was exhausted, he knew, and decided that was it. His defenses were down. He gave the bathroom a quick once-over and stepped out.
“Nice. Did he live here alone?”
“My father? Yes, alone. My mother died when I was little. My father passed away over Christmas.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. What else can I tell you?”
“Nothing. I was just curious about who had been living here.”
“No. I mean, what else can I tell you about the condo?”
“Oh, I . . . nothing. It’s very nice. I’m still in the looking-
around stage, I guess, not sure what I’m going to do. I—”
“What are you really doing?”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you doing here, Mr. Bosch? You’re not looking to buy a condo in here. You’re not even looking at the place.”
There was no anger in her voice. It was a voice full of the confidence she had in reading people. Bosch felt himself turning red. He had been found out.
“I’m just . . . I’m just here to look at places.”
It was a terribly weak comeback and he knew it. But it was all he could think of to say. She sensed his predicament and let him off the hook.
“Well, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. Do you want to see the rest of the place?”
“Yes— uh, well, did you say it was three bedrooms? That’s really too big for what I’m looking for.”
“Yes, three. But it said that in the newspaper ad, too.”
Luckily, Bosch knew he probably couldn’t get any redder than he already was.
“Oh,” he said. “I must’ve missed that. Uh, thanks for the tour, though. It’s a very nice place.”
He moved quickly through the living room toward the door. As he opened it he looked back at her. She spoke before he could say anything.
“Something tells me it’s a good story.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever it is you’re doing. If you ever feel like telling it, the number’s in the paper. But you already know that.”
Bosch nodded. He was speechless. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Chapter 23
By the time he drove back to where he had seen the Town Car, his face had returned to its normal color but he still felt embarrassed about being cornered by the woman. He tried to dismiss it and concentrate on the task at hand. He parked and went to the first-floor door that was nearest the Town Car and knocked. Eventually, an old woman opened the door and stared at him with frightened eyes. One hand clasped the handle of a small two-wheeled cart that carried an oxygen bottle. Two clear plastic tubes snaked over her ears and across both cheeks to her nose.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said quickly. “I was looking for the McKittricks.”
She raised a frail hand, formed a fist with the thumb out and jerked it up toward the ceiling. Her eyes went up that way, too.
“Upstairs?”
She nodded. He thanked her and headed for the stairs.
The woman who had picked up the red envelope answered the next door he knocked on and Bosch exhaled as if he had spent a lifetime looking for her. It almost felt that way.
“Mrs. McKittrick?”
“Yes?”
Bosch pulled out his badge case and flipped it open. He held the wallet so that his first two fingers crossed most of the badge, obscuring the LIEUTENANT.
“My name’s Harry Bosch. I’m a detective with the LAPD. I was wondering if your husband was here. I’d like to talk to him.”
An immediate concern clouded her face.
“LAPD? He hasn’t been out there in twenty years.”
“It’s about an old case. I was sent out to ask him about it.”
“Well, you could’ve called.”
“We didn’t have a number. Is he here?”
“No, he’s down with the boat. He’s going fishing.”
“Where’s that? Maybe I can catch him.”
“Well, he doesn’t like surprises.”
“I guess it will be a surprise whether you tell him or I tell him. Doesn’t make any difference to me. I just have to talk to him, Mrs. McKittrick.”
Maybe she was used to the no-debate tone that cops can put into their voice. She gave in.
“You walk around the building here and go straight back past the next three buildings. Go left, you’ll see the docks after that.”
“Where’s his boat?”
“It’s slip six. It says Trophy in big letters on the side. You can’t miss it. He hasn’t left yet because I’m supposed to bring his lunch down.”
“Thanks.”
He had started away from the door to the side of the building when she called after him.
“Detective Bosch? Are you going to be a while? Should I make you a sandwich, too?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be but that would be nice of you.”
As he headed toward the docks, he realized that the woman named Jasmine had never offered him the lemonade she had promised.
Chapter 24
It took Bosch fifteen minutes to find the little inlet where the docks were. After that, McKittrick was easy enough to spot. There were maybe forty boats in slips but only one of them was occupied. A man with a deep tan set off by his white hair stood in the stern bending over the outboard engine. Bosch studied him as he got closer but saw nothing recognizable about the man. He did not fit with the image Bosch had in his mind’s eye of the man who had pulled him from the pool so long ago.
The cover was off the boat engine and the man was doing something with a screwdriver. He wore khaki shorts and a white golf shirt that was too old and stained for golf but was fine for boating. The boat was about twenty feet long, Bosch guessed, and had a small cabin near the bow, where the helm was. There were fishing rods erected in holders along the sides of the boat, two rods per side.
Bosch stopped on the dock at the bow of the boat on purpose. He wanted to be at a distance from McKittrick when he showed the badge. He smiled.
“Never thought I’d see somebody from the Hollywood homicide table so far away from home,” he said.
McKittrick looked up but showed no surprise. He showed nothing.
“Nope, you’re wrong. This is home. When I was over there, that’s when I was far away.”
Bosch gave a that’s-fair-enough nod and showed the badge. He held it the same way as when he’d showed it to McKittrick’s wife.
“I’m Harry Bosch, from Hollywood homicide.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”
Bosch was the one who showed surprise. He could not think of who in L.A. would have tipped McKittrick to his arrival. No one knew. He had only told Hinojos and he could not fathom that she would betray him.
McKittrick relieved him by gesturing to the portable phone on the dashboard of the boat.
“The wife called.”
“Oh.”
“So what’s this all about, Detective Bosch? When I used to work there, we did things in pairs. It was safer that way. You folks that understaffed, you’re going singleton?”
“Not really. My partner’s chasing down another old case. These are such long shots, they’re not wasting money sending two.”
“I assume you’re going to explain that.”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am. Mind if I come down there?”
“Suit yourself. I’m fixing to shove off as soon as the wife comes with the food.”
Bosch began walking along the finger dock to the side of McKittrick’s boat. He then stepped down into the craft. It wobbled on the water with the added weight but then steadied. McKittrick lifted the engine cover and began snapping it back in place. Bosch felt grossly out of place. He wore street shoes with black jeans, an Army green T-shirt and a black light-weight sport jacket. And he was still hot. He took the jacket off and folded it over one of the two chairs in the cockpit.
“What are you going for?”
“Whatever’s biting. What are you going for?”
He looked directly at Bosch when he asked this and Harry saw that his eyes were brown like beer-bottle glass.
“Well, you heard about the earthquake, didn’t you?”
“Sure, who didn’t? You know, I’ve been through quakes and ’canes and you can keep the quakes. At least with a hurricane, you see it coming. You take Andrew, he left a lot of devastation, but think how much it woulda been if nobody knew he was about to hit. That’s what you get with your earthquakes.”
It took Bosch a few moments to place Andrew, the hurricane that had slammed the Sou
th Florida coast a couple of years earlier. It was hard to keep track of all the disasters in the world. There were enough just in L.A. He looked out across the inlet. He saw a fish jump and its reentry create a stampede of jumping among the others in the school. He looked at McKittrick and was about to tell him when he realized it was probably something McKittrick saw every day of his life.
“When’d you leave L.A.?”
“Twenty-one years ago. I got my twenty in and pffft, I was gone. You can have L.A., Bosch. Shit, I was out there for the Sylmar quake in ’seventy-one. Knocked down a hospital and a couple freeways. At the time we were living in Tujunga, a few miles from the epicenter. I’ll always remember that one. It was like God and the devil meetin’ in the room and you were there with ’em playin’ referee. Goddamn . . . So what’s the quake got to do with you being here?”
“Well, it’s kind of a strange phenomenon but the murder rate’s fallen off. People are being more civil, I guess. We—”
“Maybe there’s nothing left there worth killing for.”
“Maybe. Anyway, we’re usually running seventy, eighty murders a year in the division, I don’t know what it was like when you—”
“We’d do less than half that. Easy.”
“Well, we’re running way below the average this year. It’s given us time to go back through some of the old ones. Everybody on the table’s taken a share. One of the ones I’ve got has your name on it. I guess you know your partner from back then passed away and—”
“Eno’s dead? Goddamn, I didn’t know that. I thought I would’ve heard about that. Not that it would’ve mattered a whole hell of a lot.”
“Yeah, he’s dead. His wife gets the pension checks. Sorry you hadn’t heard.”
“That’s okay. Eno and me . . . well, we were partners. That’s about it.”