The Crossing Read online

  Bosch got up from the table and went out to the back deck. As he slid open the glass door he was greeted by the ever-present sound of the freeway at the bottom of the Cahuenga Pass. He put his elbows on the wood railing and looked down, not really seeing the spectacle of the crowded freeway below. He was thinking. Lucia had said that Mike Stotter and Ali Karim had had the case profiled. He wanted to read the profile to compare it with the Parks profile and see if there were any psychological links between the two killings. The problem was he couldn’t go to Stotter and Karim without revealing what he was up to and he knew that he could not go back to Soto. Asking her to do anything further might put her in jeopardy.

  In his mind Bosch pulled up a visual of the massive RHD squad room and moved across the rows of cubicles, remembering who sat where, trying to conjure a face of somebody he could reach out to and ask for help. Suddenly he realized he was looking in the wrong place. He went back inside to the table where he had left his phone.

  He scrolled through his contacts list until he came to the name he wanted and made the call. He was expecting to have to leave a message and was surprised when the call was picked up live.

  “Dr. Hinojos.”

  “Doctor, it’s Harry Bosch.”

  “Well, Harry…how are you? How is retirement?”

  “Uh, retirement’s not so bad. How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay, but you know I’m mad at you.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “I didn’t get an invite to your retirement dinner. I thought for sure you would have—”

  “Doc, nobody got invited to my retirement dinner. I didn’t have one.”

  “What? Why not? Every detective has a retirement party.”

  “And at every one of them people stand around telling stories everybody else has heard a hundred times before. I didn’t want that. Besides I went out under a cloud, you know? I didn’t want to put anybody on the spot by asking them to come to my retirement party.”

  “I’m sure they all would have come. How is your daughter?”

  “She’s good. She’s actually the reason I’m calling.”

  Bosch and Hinojos had known each other twenty years. She was head of the Behavioral Science Unit now, but when they had first met, she was a department shrink charged with determining whether Bosch was fit to return to duty after a suspension incurred when he had pushed a supervisor through a glass window for interfering with Bosch’s interview of a murder suspect. It wouldn’t be the last time she would have to make the return-to-duty call with him.

  Their relationship continued in a new way five years earlier when Maddie had come to Los Angeles to live with Bosch and to try to get over the grief that engulfed her after her mother’s murder. Hinojos had volunteered her services free of charge and it was those therapy sessions that helped Maddie to eventually get through the trauma. Bosch was indebted to Hinojos on many levels and now was going to try to use her in an underhanded way. It made him feel guilty before he had even started.

  “Does she want to come in and talk?” Hinojos asked. “I’ll open my calendar.”

  “Actually, no, she doesn’t really need to talk,” Bosch said. “She’s going to college in September down at Chapman in Orange.”

  “Good school. What’s she going to study?”

  “Psychology. She wants to be like you, a profiler.”

  “Well, with me that’s only been part of the job, but I have to say I’m flattered.”

  Bosch hadn’t lied so far. And what he was about to ask he could defend to a certain degree. He would do what he said—if Hinojos came through.

  “So I was thinking,” he said, “most of what she knows about it is from watching TV and reading books but she’s never actually seen a profile of a real case, you know? That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if you had a few profiles of recent cases that you could give me to show her. You know, you could redact the names or whatever you needed to do. I’d just like her to actually see one of these things so she has a better idea of what the job’s about.”

  Hinojos took a few moments to answer.

  “Well,” she finally said, “I think I might be able to pull something together. But are you sure she’s ready for this, Harry? As you know, these profiles are very detailed and they don’t shy away from describing the most heinous aspects of these cases. The sexual assaults in particular. It’s not gratuitously graphic but the details are important.”

  “I know that,” he said. “I’m just concerned that she may not really understand what it’s about. The kid’s binge-watched sixteen seasons of SVU and other stuff like that and now wants to be a profiler. I want her to get a good read on it and not think it’s like a TV show.”

  Bosch waited.

  “Let me see what I can put together,” Hinojos said. “Give me till the end of the day. It’s actually been kind of slow in the profiling department but we had a few cases so far this year. And I could look in the archives, too. Maybe it would be better to pull them out of closed cases.”

  Bosch didn’t want that.

  “Whatever way you want to do it, Doctor,” he said. “But I think the more recent, the better. You know, it would show how it’s done and put together right now. But I’ll leave it to you and she’ll be very thankful for whatever I can get for her. I’ll make sure she calls you to tell you what she thinks.”

  “I hope it makes her more certain of her choice,” Hinojos said.

  “Should I call you later?”

  “That will be fine, Harry.”

  17

  Bosch was late for his appointment when he pulled to the curb in front of the house on Orlando. He was supposed to meet the real estate agent who was selling the house where Lexi Parks was murdered but didn’t see a car in the driveway or anyone waiting near the front door. He thought maybe she had come and gone after he was not on time.

  Bosch got out of the car and called the number on the for sale sign below the agent’s name. She answered right away.

  “Taylor Mitchell.”

  “Ms. Mitchell? It’s Harry Bosch. I’m at the house on Orlando and think I may have just missed you. I’m sorry I’m so late. I got caught up with…”

  Bosch didn’t really have a valid excuse and had not taken the time to think of one. He went with the old reliable.

  “…traffic this morning.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said cheerily. “And you didn’t miss me. I’m here in the house waiting for you.”

  Bosch crossed the street toward the house.

  “Oh, okay,” he said. “I’m here, too, and I didn’t see a car or anybody around. Thought I missed you.”

  “I live in the neighborhood and just walked over. I’ll meet you at the door.”

  “See you soon.”

  Bosch disconnected and walked through the archway cut into the tall hedge that surrounded the house. As he went up the three steps of the porch the front door opened and a young woman with reddish blond hair was standing behind it. She was attractive with a sincere smile. She held out her hand to him and invited him in.

  “Thanks for getting me in on short notice,” Bosch said.

  “Not a problem,” she said. “Like I said, I live nearby. I work most days from home and it’s easy with a listing like this to just walk over.”

  Bosch turned and took in what he could see of the house from the entry area.

  “Let me walk you through,” Mitchell said.

  They started in the living room and worked their way toward the bedrooms in the back of the house. The house was furnished but looked unlived in. None of the signs of daily habitation were visible. There were no photos on the fireplace mantel, no shopping list held on the refrigerator with a magnet. Bosch wondered if Lexi Parks’s husband, Vincent Harrick, had moved out.

  Eventually Mitchell moved the tour down the hallway to the bedrooms. They first stepped into the room that had been converted to an office. Appearing to be interested in how much storage space the room off
ered, Bosch opened the folding doors of the closet to check it out. The closet looked like it had not been disturbed since the crime scene photos were taken. Most notably, the brown leather watch box was still up on the top shelf. As Bosch stepped away, he left the closet doors open in case he got the opportunity to break away from Mitchell and check its contents.

  As he circled the room, acting like he was getting a feel for it as a potential buyer, he came to the framed diploma hung on the wall next to the desk. He acted like he was casually reading the details of the degree bestowed on Alexandra Parks but he was really looking at the juror ID tag, trying to see if there were any identifiers on it.

  As he looked closer he realized the tag was not real. It was a photocopy of a real juror tag that had been used in a gag or maybe a work presentation or play and Parks had held on to it as a keepsake. In faded pencil not picked up in the crime scene photo someone had printed:

  Alexandra Parks

  Judge and Jury

  Bosch wasn’t sure what the tag had been used for but he now dismissed it as an avenue of investigation. He also realized he owed Cornell and Schmidt, the Sheriff’s investigators, a mental apology for questioning their competency when he was reviewing the crime scene photos.

  The next stop was the guest bedroom and here Bosch saw signs of life. The bed was made but it looked a bit haphazard, as if it had been done quickly, and Bosch saw a pair of shower sandals peeking out from beneath it. On the bureau, there was a hairbrush and some change in a dish. Bosch guessed that Harrick might be using the guest room, since the murder had taken place in the master.

  He checked the size of the closet in this room as well, even though he was not as interested in its contents.

  As they moved back into the hallway Mitchell finally spoke of what had occurred in the room at the end of the hall.

  “I have to make a disclosure to you about this next room,” she said. “There was a crime—a woman died in this room.”

  They stepped into the room Bosch had seen in crime scene photos. But it was completely empty. Every piece of furniture had been removed and the twin closet doors were open, revealing that space to be empty as well. Bosch was disappointed. His purpose in visiting the crime scene was to absorb it and put together his own spatial orientation of things. It would be difficult now because he was standing in an empty room.

  “Really?” he said. “A crime? What happened?”

  “Well, the woman who lived here was sleeping and a man came in and killed her,” Mitchell said. “But he was caught and he’s in jail, so there is nothing to worry about in that regard.”

  Bosch noticed the smell of fresh paint in the room. The blood spatter tracks on the wall behind the bed and the ceiling had been covered over.

  “Did he know her?” he asked. “Who was he?”

  “No, it was like a random thing. It was like a gang member from downtown or something. Still, we understand that something random like that is disconcerting. That’s why the price point on the property is where it is. It would be unethical to not disclose the history.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “It was earlier this year.”

  “Wow, recent. Did you know her? You being in the neighborhood and all.”

  “I did. I sold this house to her and her husband four years ago. Lexi was a great person and it’s awful what happened. Just horrible. It could have been me! I live one block over.”

  “Yeah, calling it random violence doesn’t necessarily make one feel better about it.”

  “No, I guess not. But I can assure you, this has always been a very safe neighborhood. My kids play with their friends on the front lawn. What happened here was really an aberration.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you want to see the back porch? There is a built-in barbecue you will love.”

  “In a bit. I want to get the dimensions of the bedrooms. To see if they fit everything I have.”

  Bosch moved into the space where he knew the bed had been located. Working off his memory of the crime scene photos, he stood in the place where the victim had been found on the right side of the bed. He scanned the room, looking at what Lexi Parks would have seen. There were two windows on the opposite wall and they offered views of the side yard and the hedge. He closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate and absorb.

  “Mr. Bosch, are you all right?”

  Bosch opened his eyes. She was staring at him.

  “Sure. Do you have a tape measure by any chance?”

  “I might in my trunk—oh, that’s right, I didn’t drive here. Sorry. But I do have the dimensions on the listing sheet. There’s a stack in the kitchen.”

  “That’ll have to do then.”

  She headed toward the door and extended her arm to signal him to leave the room ahead of her. Bosch walked into the hallway and started back toward the kitchen. When he got to the door to the office, he paused and let her pass.

  “I just want to look at this room again,” he said. “I have two daughters, and if one gets a bigger room than the other, I’m going to have a problem.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll go get the listing sheet.”

  She continued up the hallway and he stepped into the office. He quickly went to the open closet and reached up to the watch box. He realized he would look like a thief if Mitchell came back and found him holding it. He tried to quickly open it but the fine crafting of the box made it a puzzle to open. He finally realized the front panel opened like a drawer.

  He heard Mitchell’s voice from the kitchen. She was talking excitedly to someone. Bosch thought it was a phone call but then he heard the low bass sound of a male’s voice in reply. Someone else was now in the house with them.

  As soon as he pulled the box open he determined there was no watch in it. There was a brown velvet cushion on which the watch should be set when not being worn. But it was empty. There was an instruction booklet in the box and a small square envelope marked in handwritten ink:

  Receipt. Don’t look! (Unless you are returning it. )

  Bosch quickly put the box under his arm and opened the envelope. He removed the receipt and unfolded it. The watch had been manufactured by Audemars Piguet and purchased at a jewelry store on Sunset Boulevard called Nelson Grant & Sons. The watch was called a Royal Oak Offshore and had cost $6,322 when purchased in December 2014. The name of the buyer on the receipt was Vincent Harrick.

  Bosch assumed that the watch had been purchased by Harrick as a Christmas gift to his wife. He wondered briefly how a Sheriff’s deputy could afford such an expensive watch but the question did not rise to the level of suspicion. People made all kinds of concessions to love—money choices being the least of them.

  He quickly put the receipt back into the envelope and returned it to the box. He closed it, having to push the front panel in and hearing the air whoosh out. He placed it back in its spot on the shelf and stepped away. He was in the middle of the room when Mitchell walked in, carrying the listing sheet.

  “This says both guest rooms are fourteen by twelve,” she said. “This room probably just feels smaller because of the bookcase.”

  Bosch looked at the shelves behind the desk and nodded.

  “Oh, okay,” he said. “That makes sense.”

  She handed him the listing sheet. He looked at it as if he were genuinely interested.

  “Do you want to check out the barbecue now?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “But is someone here? I heard you talking.”

  “It was the owner. He thought we would be finished by now but I told him we got a late start.”

  “Oh, I can leave.”

  “No, it’s fine. And he’s fine. Let’s go out on the deck.”

  Bosch followed her through the house to the sliding door off the kitchen. He did not see Harrick anywhere. They stepped onto a planked deck with a vine-covered latticework sun cover and a built-in barbecue station. It was all in good shape but didn’t look like it had been u
sed in a long time. The yard beyond was tiny but private. The front hedge ran along the sides and turned to continue along the property lines of the back, giving the yard and the back of the house complete privacy.

  “There is probably just enough room for a hot tub, if you were interested,” Mitchell said.

  “Yeah, but I wonder how they’d get it in here,” Bosch said. “Take down the hedge, I guess.”

  “No, they would crane it over. They do it all the time.”

  Behind him Bosch heard the glass door roll open.

  “Taylor?” a man said. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Of course,” Mitchell responded.

  Bosch turned to see Vincent Harrick standing in the open door. Bosch nodded and he nodded back.

  “Sorry. I won’t keep her long,” Harrick said.

  “I’ll be fine,” Bosch said.

  Mitchell went through the door and Harrick shut it behind her so Bosch would not hear their conversation. Bosch felt sweat start to pop on his scalp as he wondered if he had put the watch box in the wrong position or had somehow been seen.

  Before he could worry further about it, the sliding door came open and Mitchell stepped back out.

  “So, what do you think?” she asked.

  Bosch nodded.

  “It’s nice,” he said. “Very nice. I’ll have to think about it and talk to my girls.”

  He looked through the glass into the kitchen as he spoke but didn’t see Harrick.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he added.

  “Just let me know if they would like to take a look for themselves,” she said cheerily. “I’m only a block away and can make that happen pretty quickly.”

  “Great.”

  Bosch headed toward the door. He was still holding the listing sheet, which he folded lengthwise and put into the inside pocket of his sport coat. He hesitated before going back into the house.