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
Bosch 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.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I think the gun you’ve recovered has been missing for twenty-one years.”
Bosch felt the adrenaline charge immediately start to ebb. He regretted having put so much hope into believing that the gun’s serial number would open up the case’s black box.
“It’s where it’s missing from that makes it interesting,” Wingo added.
Bosch’s thoughts of regret were immediately replaced with curiosity.
“Where did it go missing?”
“In Iraq. Way back during Desert Storm.”
19
Wingo opened the file and read her own notes before going any farther.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” she said.
“Do I need to take notes or are you eventually going to give me that file?” Bosch asked.
“It’s all yours. Just let me use it to tell the story.”
“Then, go ahead.”
Bosch tried to remember exactly what he had told Rachel Walling about the case. Had he told her that Anneke Jespersen had covered Desert Storm? Had she told Wingo? Even if Wingo had known, it wouldn’t have changed the trace and she couldn’t have known how this one piece of information—that the gun went missing in Iraq—turned things in a new direction for Bosch.
“Let’s begin at the start,” Wingo said. “The ten serial numbers you gave me belong to a lot manufactured in Italy in nineteen eighty-eight. Those ten weapons were among three thousand weapons manufactured and sold to the Government of Iraq’s Ministry of Defense. Delivery of the weapons cache was on February first, nineteen eighty-nine.”
“Don’t tell me, the trail disappears after that?”
“No, actually not quite yet. The Iraqi Army kept some limited records that we have gotten access to since the second Persian Gulf War. A little benefit that came from the distribution of records confiscated from Saddam Hussein’s palaces and military bases. Remember the search for weapons of mass destruction? Well, they might not have found any WMDs but they found a shit pile of records involving lesser weapons. We eventually got access to it.”
“Good for you. What did they tell you about my gun?”
“The entire shipment of guns from Italy was distributed to the Republican Guard. The RG were the elite soldiers. Do you know the history of what happened back then?”
Bosch nodded.
“I know the basics. Saddam invaded Kuwait, and after the atrocities started, the Allied forces said, enough.”
“Right, Saddam invaded in nineteen ninety, right after receiving these weapons. So I think the obvious conclusion is that he was outfitting for the invasion.”
“So the gun went to Kuwait.”
Wingo nodded.
“Most likely, but we can’t be sure. That’s where the records stop.”
Bosch leaned back and looked up at the sky. He suddenly remembered he’d asked Rick Jackson to watch over him. He didn’t think it was necessary anymore and his eyes searched the glass surface of the PAB. The reflection of the sun on the glass coupled with Bosch’s tight angle prevented him from seeing anything. He held his hand up and made the okay sign. He hoped Jackson would get the message and stop wasting his time.
“What’s that?” Wingo asked. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I had some guy checking on me because you were so spooky about me coming alone and everything. I just told him it was okay.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Bosch smiled at her sarcasm. She handed him the file. Her report was complete.
“Look, I’m a paranoid guy, and you hit the right buttons,” Bosch said.
“Sometimes paranoia is a good thing,” Wingo replied.
“Sometimes. So what do you think happened to the gun? How did it get over here?”
Bosch was working on his own answers to those questions but wanted to hear Wingo’s take before she left. After all, she worked for the federal agency charged with monitoring firearms.
“Well, we know what happened in Kuwait during Desert Storm.”
“Yeah, we went over there and kicked the shit out of Saddam’s soldiers.”
“Right, the actual war lasted less than two months. The Iraqi Army first retreated to Kuwait City and then tried to make a run back across the border to Basra. Lots were killed and even more were captured.”
“I think that route was called the Highway of Death,” Bosch said, remembering the story and photos filed by Anneke Jespersen.
“That’s right. I Googled all of this yesterday. There were hundreds of casualties and thousands of captives on that one road alone. They put the captives in buses and their weapons in trucks and shipped both out to Saudi Arabia, where they had set up the POW camps.”
“So my gun could have been on one of those trucks.”
“That’s right. Or it could’ve belonged to a soldier who didn’t make it out alive, or who did make it to Basra. There is no way to tell.”
Bosch thought about this for a few moments. Somehow a gun from the Iraqi Republican Guard ended up in Los Angeles the following year.
“What happened to the captured weapons?” he asked.
“The weapons were stockpiled and destroyed.”
“And nobody recorded serial numbers?”
Wingo shook her head.
“It was war. There were too many weapons and not enough time to stand there and mark down serial numbers or anything like that. We’re talking truckloads of guns. So they were simply destroyed. Thousands of weapons at a time. They would haul them out into the middle of the desert, dump them in a hole, and then blow them to bits with high-grade explosives. They’d let ’em burn for a day or two and then push sand over the hole. Done deal.”
Bosch nodded.
“Done deal.”
He continued grinding on it. Something was out on the periphery of his thoughts. Something that connected, that would help bring it all into focus. He was sure of it but he just couldn’t see it clearly.
“Let me ask you something,” he finally said. “Have you seen this before? I mean a gun from over there showing up over here in a case. A gun that was supposedly seized and destroyed.”
“I checked on that ver
y question this morning, and the answer is that we have seen it. At least one time that I could find. Just not exactly in this way.”
“Then in what way?”
“There was a murder at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in ’ninety-six. A soldier killed another soldier in a drunken rage over a woman. The gun he used was also a Beretta model ninety-two that had belonged to Saddam’s army. The soldier in question had served in Kuwait during Desert Storm. During his confession, he said that he had taken it off a dead Iraqi soldier and later smuggled it home as a souvenir. I couldn’t find in the records I reviewed how that was done, however. But he did get it stateside.”
Bosch knew that there were many different ways to get souvenir weapons home. The practice was as old as the army itself. When he had served in Vietnam, the easy way was to break the gun down and mail the parts home separately over the course of several weeks.
“What are you thinking, Detective?”
Bosch chuckled.
“I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking that I have to figure out who brought that gun over here. My victim was a journalist and photographer. She covered that war. I read a story she wrote on the Highway of Death. I saw her photos . . .”
Bosch had to consider that Anneke Jespersen had brought the gun she was killed with to Los Angeles. It seemed unlikely, but he could not discount the fact that she had been in the same place the gun was last accounted for.
“When did they start using metal detectors at airports?” he asked.
“Oh, that goes way back,” Wingo said. “That started with all the hijackings in the seventies. But scanning checked baggage is different. That is much more recent and it’s not very consistent either.”
Bosch shook his head.
“She traveled light. I don’t think she was the type who checked bags.”
He couldn’t see it. It didn’t make sense that Anneke Jespersen had somehow picked up a dead or captured Iraqi soldier’s gun and smuggled it home and then again into the United States, only to be killed with it.
“That doesn’t sound promising,” Wingo said. “But if you could put together a census of the neighborhood where your victim was killed, you could find out who served in the military and in the Persian Gulf War. If there was someone living in the vicinity of the murder who had just come back . . .