"I think I want a lawyer now," Stoddard said.
"Yeah, of course you do."
Bosch left the room and walked down the hallway to an open door. It was the monitoring room. The lieutenant and one of the patrol officers from the ride in were in the small space. There were two active video screens. On one Bosch saw Stoddard sitting in the interview room. The camera angle was from an upper corner of the room. Stoddard seemed to be staring blankly at the wall.
The image on the other screen was frozen. It showed Bosch and Stoddard in the backseat of the patrol car.
"How's the sound?" Bosch asked.
"Beautiful," the lieutenant said. "We got it all. Taking off the cuffs was a nice touch. Brought his face up into the camera."
The lieutenant hit a switch and the picture started moving. Bosch could hear Stoddard's voice clearly. He nodded. The patrol car had been equipped with a dashboard camera used for filming traffic stops and prisoner transports. For the ride in with Stoddard the car's interior microphone was turned on and the exterior was cut off.
It had worked perfectly. Stoddard's admissions in the backseat would help seal the case. Bosch felt no worries from that direction at all. He thanked the lieutenant and the patrolman and asked if he could borrow a desk to make some calls.
Bosch called Abel Pratt to update him and to assure him that Rider was shaken up but otherwise okay. He told Pratt that he needed to get SID teams to both Stoddard's and Muriel Verloren's homes to process crime scenes. He said a search warrant should be applied for and approved before the SID team entered Stoddard's house. He said that Stoddard was about to be booked and his fingerprints taken. The prints would need to be compared to those found on the slat from beneath Rebecca Verloren's bed. He finished by telling Pratt about the video taken during the ride to the station and the admissions Stoddard had made.
"It's all solid and it's on tape," Bosch said. "It all came after Miranda."
"Good going, Harry," Pratt said. "I don't think we'll have anything to worry about on this."
"Not with the case, at least."
Meaning that Stoddard was going to go down without a problem, but Bosch wasn't sure how he would fare in the review of his handling of the case.
"It's tough to argue with results," Pratt said.
"We'll see."
Bosch started getting a call-waiting signal on his phone. He told Pratt he had to go and clicked over to the new call. It was McKenzie Ward from the Daily News.
"My sister was listening to the scanner in the photo shop," she said urgently. "She said a backup unit and an ambulance were sent to the Verloren house. She recognized the address."
"That's right."
"What's going on, Detective? We had a deal, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember. And I was just about to call you."
42
THE KITCHEN at the Metro Shelter was dark. Bosch went to the small lobby of the adjoining hotel and spoke to the man behind the glass window. He asked for Robert Verloren's room number.
"He's gone, man."
Something about the finality in his tone put a hollow into Bosch's chest. It didn't sound like he meant Verloren had gone out for the night.
"What do you mean gone?"
"I mean gone. He did his thing and he's gone. That's it."
Bosch took a step closer to the glass. The man had a paperback novel open on the counter and had not looked up from its yellowed pages.
"Hey, look at me."
The man flipped the book over to not lose his page and looked up. Bosch showed him his badge. He then glanced down and saw the book was called Ask the Dust.
"Yes, Officer."
Bosch looked back up at the man's tired eyes.
"What do you mean, He did his thing, and what do you mean he's gone?"
The man shrugged.
"He came in drunk and that's the one rule we got around here. No drinking. No drunks."
"He was fired?"
The man nodded.
"What about his room?"
"Room came with the job. Like I said, he's gone."
"Where?"
The man shrugged one more time. He pointed to the door that led to the sidewalk on Fifth Street. He was telling Bosch that Verloren was out there somewhere.
"It happens," the man said.
Bosch looked back at him.
"When did he go?"
"Yesterday. It was you cops who did it to him, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"I heard some cop came in here, told him some shit. I don't know what it was about, but that was right before-know what I'm saying? He got off work and went out and took the taste again. And that was that. All I know is, we need a new chef now 'cause the guy they got fillin' in can't make eggs for shit."
Bosch said nothing else to the man. He stepped away from the window and went to the door. Outside the shelter the street was teeming with people. The night people. The damaged and displaced. People hiding from others and hiding from themselves. People running from the past, from the things they did and the things they didn't do.
Bosch knew the story was going to hit the news in the morning. He had wanted to tell it to Robert Verloren himself.
Bosch decided he would look for Robert Verloren out there. He didn't know what the news he would bring would do for him. He didn't know if it would bring Verloren out or push him further into the hole. Maybe nothing could help him now. But he needed to tell him anyway. The world was full of people who could not get over things. There was no closure and there was no peace. The truth did not set you free. But you could get through things. That's what Bosch would tell him. You could head toward the light and climb and dig and fight your way out of the hole.
Bosch pushed open the door and headed out into the night.
43
THE POLICE ACADEMY parade field was nestled like a green blanket against one of the wooded hills of Elysian Park. It was a beautiful and shaded place and spoke well of the tradition the police chief had wanted Bosch to be reminded of.
At 8 a.m. on the morning following his fruitless night search for Robert Verloren, Bosch presented himself at the graduation check-in table and was escorted to an assigned seat on the platform beneath the VIP tent. There were four rows of chairs in formation behind the lectern from which the speeches would be made. Bosch's seat looked out across the parade grounds where the new cadets would march, then form up and be inspected. As an invited guest of the chief he would be one of the inspectors.
Bosch was in full uniform. It was tradition to fly the colors at the graduation of new officers-to welcome them to the uniform in the uniform. And he was early. He sat by himself and listened to the police band play old standards. As other VIPs were taken to their seats, no one bothered him. They were mostly politicians and dignitaries and a few purple heart winners from Iraq who wore the uniform of the U.S. Marine Corps.
Bosch's skin felt raw under his starched collar and tightly knotted tie. He had spent almost an hour in the shower scrubbing away the ink he'd had put to his skin, hoping that it would take all the ugliness of the case down the drain with it.
He didn't notice the approach of Deputy Chief Irvin Irving until the cadet leading him to the tent said, "Excuse me, sir."
Bosch looked up and saw that Irving was being seated right next to him. He straightened up and grabbed his program off the seat intended for Irving.
"Enjoy yourself, sir," the cadet said before snapping into a turn and heading back for another VIP.
Irving didn't say anything at first. He seemed to be spending a lot of time making himself comfortable and looking around to see who might be watching them. They were in the first row, two of the best seats in the place. Finally he spoke without turning or looking at Bosch.
"What is going on here, Bosch?"
"You tell me, Chief."
Bosch took a turn looking around to see if anyone was watching them. It obviously wasn't happenstance that they were sitting next to each other. Bosch did not
believe in coincidences. Not like that.
"The chief said he wanted me to be here," he said. "He invited me on Monday when he gave me back my badge."
"Good for you."
Another five minutes went by before Irving spoke again. The tent was almost full, except for the spot reserved for the chief of police and his wife at the end of the first row. Irving whispered now.
"You've had a hell of a week, Detective. You land in shit and come out stinking like a rose. Congratulations."
Bosch nodded. It was an accurate assessment.
"What about you, Chief? Just another week at the office for you?"
Irving didn't respond. Bosch thought about the places he had looked for Robert Verloren the night before. He thought about Muriel Verloren's face when she had seen her daughter's killer being led to the patrol car. Bosch had had to hurry Stoddard into the backseat to keep her away from him.
"It was all because of you," Bosch said quietly.
Irving glanced at him for the first time.
"What are you talking about?"
"Seventeen years, that's what I'm talking about. You had your man check the alibis on the Eights. He didn't know that Gordon Stoddard was also the girl's teacher. If it had been Green and Garcia running down the alibis-as it should have been-they would have come across Stoddard and easily put the whole thing together. Seventeen years ago. All of that time, that's on you."
Irving turned fully in his seat to face Bosch.
"We had an agreement, Detective. You break it and I will find other ways of getting to you. I hope that's understood."
"Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Chief. But you forget one thing. I'm not the only one who knows about you. What are you going to do, make your little deals with everybody? Every reporter, every cop? Every mother and father who has had to live with a hollowed-out life because of what you did?"
"Keep your voice down," Irving said through his teeth.
Bosch responded in a quiet, calm voice.
"I've said all I want to say to you."
"Well, let me tell you something, I'm not finished talking to you. If I find -"
He dropped the sentence as the chief of police was escorted by with his wife. Irving straightened himself in his seat as the music swelled and the show began. Twenty-four cadets with shining new badges on their uniformed chests marched into the parade grounds and took their positions in front of the VIP tent.
There were too many preliminary speeches. Then the inspection of the new officers took too long. But finally the program reached the main event, the traditional remarks of the chief of police. The man who had taken Bosch back into the department was relaxed and poised at the lectern. He spoke of rebuilding the police department from the inside out and starting with the twenty-four new officers standing before him. He said he was talking about rebuilding both the image and the practice of the department. He said many of the things he had said to Bosch on Monday morning. He urged the new officers never to break the law to enforce the law. To do their job constitutionally and compassionately at all times.
But then he surprised Bosch with his wrap-up.
"I would also like to draw your attention to two officers here as my guests today. One coming, one going. Detective Harry Bosch has returned to the department this week after a few years of retirement. I guess he learned during his extended vacation that you can't teach an old dog new tricks."
There was polite laughter from the crowd on the other side of the parade grounds. This was where the families and friends of the cadets sat. The chief continued.
"So he came back to the LAPD family and already he has performed admirably. He has put himself in harm's way for the good of the community. Yesterday he and his partner cleared a seventeen-year-old murder that had been sticking like a thorn into the side of this community. We welcome Detective Bosch back to the fold."
There was a smattering of applause from the crowd. Bosch felt his face go hot. He looked down at his hands.
"I would also like to thank Deputy Chief Irvin S. Irving for being here today," the chief continued. "Chief Irving has served in this department for nearly forty-five years. There is no current officer who has served longer. His decision to retire today and make this graduation his final action while wearing the badge is a fitting end to his tour of duty. We thank him for such service to this department and this city."
The applause for Irving was much louder and sustained. People started to stand in honor of the man who had served the department and city so long. Bosch turned slightly to his right so that he could see Irving's face and he knew the moment he saw the deputy chief's eyes that he had not seen it coming. He had been sandbagged.
Soon everyone was standing and clapping and Bosch felt compelled to do the same for a man he despised. He knew exactly who had engineered Irving's fall. If Irving protested or tried in some way to recover his position he would face an internal case built by Kizmin Rider. There would be no doubt who would lose that one. No doubt at all.
What Bosch didn't know was when it had been planned. Bosch thought about Rider sitting on the desk in 503, waiting for him with coffee, black just like he liked it. Had she already known then what case the cold hit had come from and where it would lead? He remembered the date on the DOJ report. It was ten days old by the time he had read it. What happened during those ten days? What was planned for his arrival?
Bosch didn't know and he was not sure he even cared. Department politics were played on the sixth floor. Bosch worked out of 503 and that's where he would make his stand. No question.
After the chief finished his remarks he stepped away from the microphone. He gave each cadet, one by one, a certificate of completion of academy training and posed for a photo shaking hands with the recipient. It was all very fast and clean and choreographed perfectly. Three police helicopters flew over the parade grounds in formation and the cadets ended the ceremony by hurling their hats into the air.
Bosch remembered the time more than thirty years before when he had thrown his hat into the air. He smiled at the memory. No one from his class was left. They were dead or retired or washed out. He knew it was up to him to carry the banner and tradition. To fight the good fight.
As the ceremony ended and the crowds rushed to the field to congratulate the new officers, Bosch watched Irving stand up and start walking directly across the parade grounds to the exit area. He stopped for no one, not even those who extended hands of congratulations and thanks to him.
"Detective, you've had a busy week."
Bosch turned. It was the chief of police. He nodded. He didn't know what to say.
"Thank you for being here," the chief said. "How is Detective Rider?"
"She took the day off. She had a close one yesterday."
"So I heard. Will either of you be attending the press conference today?"
"Well, she's off and I was thinking of skipping it, if that's all right."
"We'll handle it. I see you already gave the story to the Daily News. Now everyone else is clamoring for it. We have to put on the dog-and-pony show."
"I owed the reporter from the News that one."
"Yes, I understand."
"When the dust settles, will I still have a job, Chief?"
"Of course, Detective Bosch. As in any investigation, choices must be made. Tough choices. You made the best decisions you could make. There will be a review but I don't think you will have a problem."
Bosch nodded. He almost said thank you but decided against it. He just looked at the man.
"Is there something else you wanted to ask me, Detective?"
Bosch nodded again.
"I was just sort of wondering," he said.
"About what?"
"The case started with a letter from the DOJ and that letter was old by the time it got to me. I'm wondering why it was held for me. I guess what I'm saying is, I'm wondering about what you knew and when you knew it."
"Does any of that matter now?"
Bosch poked
his chin in the direction Irving had taken.
"Maybe," he said. "I don't know. But he won't just walk away. He'll go to the media. Or to the lawyers."
"He knows that if he does it will be a mistake. That there will be consequences for him. He's not a stupid man."
Bosch just nodded. The chief studied him a moment before speaking again.
"You still seem troubled, Detective. Remember what I told you Monday? I told you I carefully reviewed your case and career before deciding whether to welcome you back."