Bosch had always felt a low-grade friction from Cisco during the few times they had been in each other’s company. Bosch had chalked it up to the standard hostility between those who work for the defense and those who work for the prosecution. Added to this was the fact that since before Haller had hired him, Cisco had been associated with the Road Saints—a motorcycle gang in the police’s estimation, a club in the membership’s own view. And there was also a bit of jealousy thrown in. Bosch and Cisco’s boss shared a blood connection, which gave them a unique closeness that Cisco could not have. Bosch thought Cisco might be worried that one day Bosch was going to replace him as Haller’s defense investigator. In Harry’s mind, that was improbable.
Bosch decided to give him more than a hint.
“I want you to help me go undercover as a functioning oxycodone addict,” he said.
There was a pause before Cisco responded.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “I can do that.”
19
Fifteen minutes later, Bosch was sitting in a booth in the upstairs dining room of Greenblatt’s on Sunset, nursing a cup of coffee and watching the muted video on his burner again. The place was empty except for one other table on the other side of the room.
Bosch heard the slow, methodical sound of heavy footsteps coming up the wooden stairs. He paused the video and soon Cisco emerged. He was a big man who worked out like a fiend and as usual was wearing a black Harley T-shirt stretched tight by his muscular chest and biceps. He had gray hair tied back in a ponytail and dark Wayfarer sunglasses. He was carrying a black cane with flames painted on it and what looked like a wraparound knee brace.
“Hey, Bosch,” he said as he slid into the booth.
They bumped fists across the table.
“Cisco,” Bosch said. “We could have met downstairs so you didn’t have to make the climb.”
“Nah, it’s quiet up here and stairs are good for the knee.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s all good. Back on the bike, back on the job. Only time I complain is in the mornings when getting out of bed. That’s when the knee still hurts like a motherfucker.”
Bosch nodded and gestured toward the items Cisco had brought.
“What’s all of this?”
“These are your props. They’re all you need.”
“Tell me.”
“You want to pharmacy-shop, right? Stack prescriptions? It’s what addicts do.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I did it for a year. I was never turned away once. You go in these places, they want to make money like everybody else. They aren’t looking to turn you away, they’re looking to be convinced. You put on the knee brace—be sure to wear it outside your pants—and use the cane, and you won’t have any problems.”
“That’s it?”
Cisco shrugged.
“Worked for me. I bought a prescription pad off a bent doctor in La Habra for five grand. Had him sign the line on every slip. I did the rest. Filled them out and went to every mom-and-pop farmacia in East L.A. In six weeks I accumulated over a thousand pills. That’s when I made the deal with myself. When those pills ran out, I was going to rise up and beat it. And I did.”
“I’m glad you did, Cisco.”
“Fucking A. Me, too.”
“So no help from the V.A.?”
“Fuck them, the docs at the V.A. were the ones got me hooked in the first place after my surgeries. Then they cut me loose and I’m on the street, strung out, trying to keep a job, trying to keep my wife. Fuck the V.A. I’ll never go back to them.”
The story was not surprising to Bosch. It was the story of the epidemic. People start out hurt and just want to kill the pain and get better. Then they’re hooked and need more than the prescriptions allow. People like Santos fill the space, and there is no turning back.
“When the pills ran out, what did you do?”
“I bought a can opener.”
“What?”
“A can opener and thirty days of rations. I then had a friend put me in a windowless room with a toilet and nail the door shut. He came back in thirty days and I was clean. I’ll never take another pill again. I’ll take a fucking root canal but I still won’t take a pill.”
Bosch could only nod at the end of that story. A waitress came by and Cisco asked for an iced tea and one of their garlic pickles sliced into quarters.
“You want more than that?” Bosch asked. “I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Nah, I’m good. I like the pickles they have here. The garlic brine. One other thing is no eye contact. In the pharmacy. Keep your head down, hand them the piece of paper and your ID, and don’t make eye contact.”
“Got it. The people I’m dealing with are giving me a Medicare card too.”
“Of course, saves you a ton of money. Sticks it on the government.”
Bosch nodded.
“You mind me asking why you’re doing this?” Cisco asked.
“I’m working a case,” Bosch said. “Two pharmacists murdered up in San Fernando. A father and son.”
“Yeah, I read about that. Looks like some dangerous people. You got backup? I’m free at the moment.”
“I do. But I appreciate the offer.”
“I’ve been in the black hole, man. I know what it’s like. Anything I can do to help.”
Bosch nodded. He was aware that the Road Saints, Cisco’s motorcycle “club,” had once been suspected of being a primary manufacturer and mover of crystal meth, a drug with similarly devastating consequences for the addicted. The waitress arrived with iced tea and a sliced pickle, saving Bosch from bringing up the irony of Cisco’s offer.
Cisco used his fingers to take a slice of pickle off the dish and slid it into his mouth in two bites. When the waitress had brought the plate, Bosch had moved his phone out of the way and accidentally activated its screen. Cisco pointed a wet finger at it.
“What’s that?” he asked.
The screen was frozen on an image of Soto using the cutter on the evidence box. Bosch picked up the phone.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s another case. I was trying to figure something out while I was waiting for you.”
“Is that what you’re working with Mickey on?” Cisco asked.
“Uh, yeah. But I have to figure the thing out before we can go into court.”
“Can I see?”
“Nah, it’s kind of meant to be private. I can’t show—well, you know, why not?”
Bosch realized he was grasping at straws when it came to the sealed box. Maybe fresh eyes would bring a fresh idea.
“It’s a video of a detective cutting open an old evidence box, and they filmed it to prove it hadn’t been tampered with. To prove nobody had gotten into it.”
Bosch started the playback from the beginning of the video and then put the phone down on the table and turned it toward Cisco. He took it off mute as well, hoping the couple eating on the other side of the room would not object.
Cisco leaned down and watched the screen while eating another slice of pickle. When it was over, he straightened back up.
“Looked legit to me,” he said.
“Like it hadn’t been tampered with?” Bosch asked.
“Right.”
“Yeah, that’s my take too.”
Bosch took the phone off the table and buried it in his pocket.
“Who’s the guy?” Cisco asked.
“Her partner,” Bosch said. “He took it on his phone and narrated. He talks too much.”
“No, the other guy. The one watching.”
“What guy watching?”
“Give me the phone.”
Bosch pulled the phone out again, set up the video playback, and handed it across the table. This time Cisco held it and poised one of his pickle fingers over the play button. Bosch waited. Cisco eventually stabbed at the screen several times.
“Come on, stop. Shit. I have to go back.”
He manipulated the phone’s screen
until it was playing again and once again hit the play/stop button.
“This guy.”
He handed the phone to Bosch, who quickly looked at the screen. It was nearly in the identical spot where he had paused the playback when Cisco had arrived. Soto was cutting through the seals down the lengthwise seam on the top of the box. Bosch was about to ask what Cisco was talking about, when he saw the face in the background. It startled him because he had not noticed it before. But someone had been watching Soto from outside the viewing room. Someone from the next room was leaning across the property counter and looking in.
During all his previous viewings of the video Bosch had been so consumed with checking the integrity of the seals on the evidence box that his eyes had not wandered to the borders of the frame. And now he saw it. A counterman who was interested enough in what Soto and Tapscott were doing to lean over to watch them.
Bosch recognized the man but couldn’t immediately recall his name. Bosch had worked cold cases the last several years of his time with the LAPD and had gone to property control often to look at old evidence for new clues. The man on the screen had pulled the boxes for him on numerous occasions, but it was one of those quick bureaucratic relationships that never went much past the “Howyadoin’?” phase. He thought his name was Barry or Gary or something along those lines.
Bosch looked up from the phone to Cisco.
“Cisco, you working on something right now for Haller?”
“Uh, no. Just sort of standing by till he needs me. Like I said, I’m free at the moment.”
“Good. I’ve got a job for you. It’s the thing I’m doing with Haller, so it won’t be a problem.”
“What do I do?”
Bosch held the phone up so Cisco could see the screen.
“You see this guy? I want to know everything there is to know about him.”
“He a cop?”
“No, a civilian employee called a property officer. He works in Property Control at Piper Tech downtown. He’ll get off at five and come out past the guard shack on Vignes. If you set up under the freeway underpass, you should get a look at him when he puts his car window down and key-cards the exit gate. Tail him from there.”
“You paying or Mick?”
“Doesn’t matter. I pay you or he pays you and charges me. It’s part of the same case. I’m calling him as soon as we’re done here.”
“When do you want me to start?”
“Right now. I’d do it myself but this guy knows me. If he saw me tailing him, the whole thing could blow up.”
“Okay, what’s his name?”
“I can’t remember. I meant that he knows me on sight—from when I was LAPD. If he’s part of this and he saw me, the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Got it. I’m on it.”
“Call me when you have him at his home. But you need to go. You’re going to get caught in traffic going downtown.”
“Lane splitting—it’s why I ride a Harley.”
“Oh, right.”
Cisco finished the last slice of pickle and then climbed out of the booth.
From the parking lot behind the deli, Cisco rode off on his Harley, and Bosch headed home to wait to hear from him. The first thing he did when he got there was text the video from his burner to his real phone. He then e-mailed it to himself and for the first time watched the video on the thirteen-inch screen of his laptop.
Though he studied the opening of the box once more, his eyes were drawn now to the figure who was momentarily caught watching Soto cut through the labels. On the larger screen Bosch saw a clearer expression on the man’s face but could not read whether he was watching out of curiosity or something more. His excitement over Cisco’s find began to give way to disappointment. They were chasing a dead end and Bosch was back to the question: How did Cronyn get the DNA into the evidence box?
He stepped away from the computer, taking the cane and knee brace Cisco had given him down the hall to his daughter’s bedroom. The room seemed so still. She had not been up to L.A. in weeks. He sat on the bed and wrapped the brace around his left knee and over his pants, then secured it tightly with the buckles and straps. He then got up and walked stiff-legged to the center of the room, where he could see himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Holding the cane in his right hand, he walked toward the mirror, the brace minimizing the mobility of his knee. He pushed against the restraint and practiced walking. He didn’t want to present himself as someone who was actually injured. Rather, he wanted to be a man using props to appear injured. There was a difference, and in that difference was the secret to being the perfect pill shill.
Soon he was moving about the house, working the brace and the cane into a rocking gait that he thought would be effective in his undercover capacity. At one point, he accidentally put the rubber tip of the cane into the sliding door track as he stepped onto the back deck. The cane momentarily became stuck and he twisted his wrist to pull it free. He felt the curved handle turn loose from the barrel of the cane. Thinking he might have broken it, he examined the handle and saw a seam just below its curve. He grasped the barrel and pulled, sliding the two pieces apart. The handle was attached to a four-inch blade with a dagger point.
Bosch smiled. It was what every undercover pill shill needed.
Satisfied with his physical prep work, Bosch went to the kitchen to make an early dinner. He was spreading peanut butter on a piece of whole wheat bread when his cell buzzed. It was Cisco. Bosch answered the call with a question.
“Hey, how come you didn’t tell me the cane was a deadly weapon?”
There was a pause before Cisco answered.
“Holy shit, I forgot about that. The blade. Sorry, man, I hope that didn’t get you in trouble. Don’t try to go through TSA with that thing.”
“The kind of flying I’m expecting to do, there won’t be any TSA. Actually, it’s all good. I like having a little something up my sleeve if I need it in a jam. What’s happening with our guy?”
“I’ve got him tucked in already at home. Not sure if that’s for the night or what.”
“Where’s he live?”
“Altadena. Has a house.”
“Were you able to get his name yet?”
“I got his whole package, man. This is what I do. His name is Terrence Spencer.”
“Terry, yeah, I knew it was something like that. Terry Spencer.”
Bosch ran the name through his memory to see if it came up in any other way besides the routine interactions at the property control counter. No other connections came to light.
“What’s the whole package include?” he asked.
“Well, no criminal record, or I guess he wouldn’t be working there,” Cisco said. “I pulled his credit history. He’s owned the house I’m sitting here looking at for eighteen years and is carrying a mortgage of five-sixty-five on it. I’d say that is a bit high for this neighborhood. He’s probably maxed out on it. He’s been spotty making his payments the past few years, a couple months late here and there, but about seven years ago he went through a real shaky period. The house went into foreclosure. He apparently fought it off somehow and got the refi he’s on now. But that and his late-payment dings have pretty much tanked his credit score.”
Bosch wasn’t really interested in Spencer’s credit score.
“Okay, what else?”
“Drives a six-year-old Nissan, is married, his wife drives a newer Jaguar. Both cars were financed but paid off over time. Don’t know about kids. This guy’s fifty-four, so if he had them, they’re probably out of the house. I can knock on doors in the neighborhood if you want me to go deeper.”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t want to alert him.”
Bosch thought for a few moments about Cisco’s report. Nothing stood out in a big way. The mortgage trouble was of note, but since the financial crash a decade earlier, the middle class was squeezed, and missing payments and dodging foreclosure were not unusual. Spencer, howeve
r, was essentially a clerk, and the size of his mortgage would stand out if it were not for the fact that he had owned the house for eighteen years. In that length of time it was likely that the property’s value had more than doubled. If he took equity out of it, then it might explain how he got stuck with a high-six-figure note.
“Any idea what his wife does?” Bosch asked.
“Lorna’s still working on that,” Cisco said.
Bosch knew that Lorna Taylor was Mickey Haller’s ex-wife and office manager, even though he didn’t have an office. She was also currently married to Cisco, completing an incestuous circle in which everybody was somehow happy and worked together.
“You want me to stay on him?” Cisco asked.
Bosch thought about making a move that would bring clarity to the Spencer situation and allow Bosch to move on or focus in. He checked his watch. It was six fifteen.
“Tell you what,” he finally said. “Sit tight for a few minutes. I gotta make a quick call and then I’ll call you right back.”
“I’ll be here,” Cisco said.
Bosch disconnected and went to his laptop in the dining room. He closed down the Tapscott video on the laptop and Googled the name Lance Cronyn. He got a website and the general number for a law firm called Cronyn & Cronyn.
He then pulled the burner phone out of his pocket and called the number. Most law offices were nine-to-five establishments but the call for defense attorneys could come at any hour, and most often those hours were at night. Most lawyers specializing in criminal defense had answering services or forwarding numbers so they could be reached quickly—especially by paying customers.
As expected, Bosch’s call eventually reached a live human being.
“I need to speak to Lance Cronyn right away,” Bosch said. “It’s an emergency.”
“Mr. Cronyn has left for the day,” said the voice. “But he will check soon for messages. Can I have your name?”
“Terry Spencer. I need to talk to him tonight.”
“I understand and will give him the message as soon as he checks in. What number should he call?”
Bosch gave the burner’s number, repeated that it was an emergency situation, and disconnected. He knew that saying Cronyn would check in for messages was just a way of giving the lawyer an out if he didn’t want to call back. Bosch was certain that the go-between would forward his message right away.