The Crossing Read online

  There were a number of cars parked in various sections of the cemetery and pedestrians moving among the stones. It was a busy day. Bosch could also see a Hollywood tour van moving slowly next to one of the larger monuments. It was garishly painted with the roof cut off for open-air viewing from the six rows of seats behind the driver. The van was packed with tourists. Bosch lowered his window and could hear the tour guide’s amplified voice echoing off the mausoleums and carrying across the rows of stones.

  “Mickey Rooney is the latest Hollywood great to join the others here at Hollywood Forever, the resting place of the stars…”

  Bosch put his window back up and got out of the car. On the way into the office he called Haller and told him where he would be.

  The man in charge of security at Hollywood Forever was named Oscar Gascon. He was ex-LAPD but had retired so long ago that there was no point in trading names to see who knew whom. Bosch was just happy to make the ex-cop connection and hoped it would give him an edge. He got right to the point.

  “I’m working a case, trying to establish an alibi of someone accused of a crime.”

  “What, here?”

  “No, actually down the street at the Haven House.”

  “That dump? They should tear that place down.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that.”

  “So then how does HoFo fit in?”

  It took Bosch a moment to translate HoFo into Hollywood Forever. They were in Gascon’s tiny office, sitting on either side of a small table that passed for his desk. There was a stack of pamphlets displaying headstones and statues and Bosch got the idea that Gascon wasn’t only security director at the place. He was also in sales.

  “Well, it doesn’t really fit in, but I am interested in your cameras,” Bosch said. “I’m wondering if any of them capture the front of Haven House down the street.”

  Gascon whistled as if Bosch had just asked for the moon and stars in a box with a ribbon on it.

  “What date are we talking about?” he asked.

  “February ninth,” Bosch said. “Do you keep video going back that long?”

  Gascon nodded and tapped the screen of an ancient computer on a second table to his side.

  “Yeah, we’re backed up on the cloud,” he said. “Insurance makes us keep everything a year. But I don’t know. That’s a whole block away. I doubt anything would be in focus that far off.”

  He stopped there and waited. Bosch knew what he was doing. Harry picked up one of the pamphlets and glanced at it.

  “You sell these, too?” he asked.

  “Yeah, on the side,” Gascon said.

  “What do you get for one of these—as a salesman?”

  “Depends on the stone. I made a grand on the Johnny Ramone statue. That had to be designed and special ordered.”

  Bosch put the pamphlet back down.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “My employer is on his way here to meet me. He would be willing to buy a stone if there is something on the cameras we can use.”

  The men studied each other. Gascon looked very interested in the prospect of making money.

  “Do you have access to the camera on the Paramount tower?” Bosch asked. “It looked like it was pointed over here.”

  “Yeah, that’s ours,” Gascon said. “We needed an overview perspective. We have a joint agreement with them. They have access to it, too.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “So, should we take a look?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Gascon said. “Why not? Nothing’s going on around here. I mean, it’s pretty dead.”

  Bosch said nothing.

  “Get it?” Gascon asked.

  Bosch nodded. He was sure Gascon used that line whenever he could.

  “Yeah, I get it,” he said.

  Gascon turned to the computer and went to work. As he was typing commands, Bosch adopted a gossipy, casual tone when he asked his next question.

  “Did you know there was a murder over there at the Haven House in March?”

  “Maybe there was,” Gascon said. “The cops that came in here said they weren’t sure where it went down but that the guy that got himself killed was living there. They said he was a dragon.”

  It was old LAPD slang for drag queen. That was the catchall for the whole slew of different classifications running the gamut from transvestite to transgender. It even often used to go on reports, something that nowadays would draw protest. Gascon’s mention of it made Bosch remember that official police reports often abbreviated the term “drag queen” to DQ. He now wondered if that was known to Da’Quan Foster and a reason for his nickname.

  “So they came in to look at video, too?” Bosch asked.

  “Yeah, they were here,” Gascon said. “But just like you’re gonna find out, there’s not much to see of that place on our cameras.”

  Bosch waited for Haller in the parking lot. He wanted to talk to him before they went back in and talked to Gascon and played the video again.

  When the Lincoln finally pulled in Bosch saw that Haller was in the backseat. He got out with his briefcase.

  “You’ve got a driver now,” Bosch said.

  “Had to,” Haller said. “Got my license suspended because of that little stunt the cops pulled on me the other night. Why are we meeting at a cemetery?”

  Bosch pointed across the expanse of the cemetery to the back wall. The Paramount Studios water tower was the highest profile structure behind the wall.

  “Cameras,” he said. “They’ve got a reciprocal security agreement with Paramount here. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. There is a camera up on that tower. Takes in the whole cemetery and then some.”

  They headed toward the office door.

  “This guy, you’re going to have to buy a headstone,” Bosch whispered.

  Haller stopped in his tracks.

  “What?”

  “To get him to cooperate. I don’t have a badge anymore, you know. He sells gravestones on the side and I told him if he cooperated, you’d buy a stone.”

  “First of all, why would I want a headstone? Whose name do I put on it? And secondly, and most importantly, we can’t be paying potential witnesses. You know how that will look in court?”

  “He doesn’t matter. His video is what matters.”

  “But I might need him to introduce it in court. To authenticate it. You see? And I don’t want the prosecutor asking him how much we paid him. It looks bad to a jury.”

  “Look, if you don’t want a headstone, don’t buy a headstone, but this guy needs to be compensated for his cooperation. What he’s got is important. It changes things.”

  Five minutes later Bosch and Haller were standing behind a seated Gascon as he manipulated the video playback from the Paramount water tank camera.

  On the screen was the entire cemetery. It was a macro security image. The confines of the picture extended out to Santa Monica Boulevard. At the very top left corner was the Santa Monica entrance to the Haven House motel. The frame cut off the view of the actual motel and its rear parking lot. But it did show vehicular ingress and egress from that entrance. A code along the bottom frame showed the time as 9:44 p.m. on February 9, 2015.

  “Okay, what am I looking at?” Haller asked.

  Bosch pointed out the particulars.

  “This is Santa Monica Boulevard and this is the entrance to Haven House—where DQ says he was on the night of the ninth.”

  “Okay.”

  “The Haven House is on a flag lot. You know what that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, so this is the only ingress and egress point. You go in and drive by the office and the parking is in the back by the rooms. Very private.”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay, now watch this van. Go ahead, Oscar.”

  Gascon started the video moving. Bosch reached over his shoulder to point out the white van moving in a westerly direction on Santa Monica. It was crossing in front of the cemetery. He added commentary.
r />   “The reports you gave me said the Sheriff’s impounded and searched Foster’s nineteen ninety-three white Ford Econoline, turning up no evidence in the case. That on the screen is a white Ford Econoline. I can tell by the lights. I don’t know the year at this point but it’s no spring chicken. It turns into Haven House at nine forty-five p.m. February ninth.”

  “Okay, this is good.”

  “Oscar, jump it.”

  Gascon put the playback on fast-forward and they watched traffic on Santa Monica speed by and the minutes on the time counter move like seconds until Gascon slowed things down at the 11:40 mark.

  “Now watch,” Bosch said.

  At 11:43 the van came back into the picture, waiting to turn left out of the motel lot. Eventually traffic opened up and the van exited the motel lot and proceeded east on Santa Monica, back the way it had come.

  “If your client was coming up from his studio, he would take the one-ten to the one-oh-one and then exit on Santa Monica,” Bosch said. “He’d drive west to the motel, then he’d drive east on his way back.”

  “Does the Sheriff’s Department have this?” Haller asked.

  “Not yet,” Bosch said.

  “We need to confirm that it’s Foster’s van,” Haller said.

  “Oscar, can you make a copy of this? Mickey, you will need to have someone enhance it and work on that.”

  “I’ve got a person.”

  “What about me?” Oscar asked without taking his eyes off the screen.

  “What about you, Oscar?” Haller said. “Mr. Bosch spoke too quickly. I don’t want to buy a headstone. Don’t have much use for one. But I’ve got a thumb drive on my keychain and if you can put the video on it, I will pay for your time. And I will pay well.”

  Bosch nodded. That was the best way to do it.

  “Sure, I think that should work,” Gascon said.

  Haller looked at Bosch as he pulled his keys.

  “I’ll wait outside while you two talk business,” Bosch said.

  19

  Bosch was standing at the edge of one of the cemetery lawns, looking at the grave of Mel Blanc, the voice artist behind a thousand or more cartoons. On the stone it said, “That’s all, Folks!”

  He turned as Haller approached after leaving the office.

  “Good stuff,” Haller said.

  “How much did you pay?” Bosch asked.

  “A couple hundred bucks. A bargain if only I had a paying client.”

  “Maybe you should have offered him a painting.”

  “Gascon didn’t look like a patron of the arts to me.”

  They started walking through the cemetery with no clear direction other than trying to stay between the graves if possible.

  “The coroner’s report puts time of death at between ten and midnight,” Haller said. “They’ll argue it’s an inexact window and there was still time for Foster to get in under the wire.”

  “And a jury will know they’re stretching it,” Bosch said. “Besides, if he was shacked up with the prostitute for two hours, where’s the motivation for jumping in a van and hurrying over to West Hollywood to rape and kill Lexi Parks? On top of that, he heads the wrong way—away from West Hollywood—when he pulls out.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just looking at all the arguments the prosecution has. A lot of cars go in and out of that place on the video. They’ll say he could have jumped in another car and gone out to do the deed.”

  Bosch didn’t argue back. He thought he had made a significant find with the video. Now the excitement was dissipating.

  “I’m just saying we need to be ready for anything,” Haller said. “I’d still rather have this video than not have it.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “How long will your video person take to analyze it?”

  “I don’t know but I’ll get her right on it.”

  “Good.”

  They walked silently for a bit. Bosch was reading the names on tombstones but not really comprehending.

  “So, what are you thinking?” Haller asked.

  “I’m doing a lot of thinking,” Bosch said. “A lot of possibilities, a lot of scenarios. I need to see the James Allen file.”

  Haller nodded.

  “They vacuumed the room,” he said. “Hair and fiber, fingerprints. They might have evidence that puts Da’Quan in that room.”

  “Right. And with the van on the video, you can pin it to that day—February ninth.”

  “Very good. This is why I came to you, Harry.”

  “I think you came to me because you knew I would work for free.”

  “Bullshit. You’ll get paid. You’re a patron of the arts.”

  “Yeah, bullshit’s bullshit. Your investigator would have gotten to the same point eventually.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, how do you want to do this? If you go into court and ask for access to the forensics on the Allen case, you’ll be showing your hand to the prosecution. You cool with that?”

  “I’m never cool with showing anything to the prosecution. Let’s see what my video gal comes up with on the van before we take that next step and advertise what we’re doing.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Your call. I’m thinking it’s probably a long shot anyway—especially on prints. If Allen was killed in that room, then the killer might have wiped it down. In fact, he probably did. If there were prints in that room that matched Foster, they would have gone to see him in county to ask what he knew about Allen.”

  “Or they checked with the Sheriff’s first and decided not to step in it. No way it could have been DQ, since he was in jail.”

  “Spoken like a true defense attorney. Always looking for the conspiracy.”

  “Might serve you to start thinking that way.”

  “Maybe.”

  That seemed to end the conversation but they kept walking. They passed a monument with a kneeling angel on top of it. Its wings were broken and jagged from previously being toppled over—by vandals or earthquakes.

  Bosch finally spoke. “For now, I can try to back-channel it and get a look at the murder book on Allen. Try to keep it quiet.”

  “Okay. Step carefully.”

  “There’s something else you should do, I think.”

  “What?”

  “The company doing your DNA analysis. See if they can check the sample for CTE.”

  “What is CTE?”

  “Condom trace evidence.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “If the science is solid and your lab confirms the state’s match, then you need to explain how Foster’s DNA got to the crime scene, right? You need to explain the setup. If your client is innocent, how was his DNA taken from him and how was it transported?”

  Haller stopped walking as he considered this.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “I like it. I might be able to do great things with that in court, Bosch. I really like it.”

  “Well, don’t start loving it just yet,” Bosch said. “It’s missing parts. A lot of parts. But I’m working on it.”

  “Wouldn’t the Sheriff’s crime lab check for this CTE?”

  “No, they don’t. The LAPD and the Sheriff’s labs are in the same building. I know for a fact that it’s not part of the DNA protocol for either one. It costs too much money. So it’s done only on request and even then it’s farmed out. The only time I ever had a case where we needed to check for CTE, the sample was sent down to a lab in San Diego to the expert in the field. A guy named Blackledge. But last I heard he was retired.”

  “A lot of guys who retire from the public sector end up working in the private sector.”

  “Maybe that’s what he’s doing.”

  Haller nodded. He had the scent in his nose and would follow it.

  “Where do you go from here?” he asked. “You going to check out the alley where Allen was left?”

  Bosch shook his head. He noticed that a peacock was following them through the graveyard.

  �
�Not without seeing the crime scene photos,” he said. “No use going there until I know the layout of the scene. But you don’t have to worry, I’m keeping busy. There is still a lot on Parks for me to be doing.”

  He momentarily thought about the empty watch box. The explanation from Harrick bothered him. If the watch was broken and being fixed, why was the empty box still at the house?

  “I’m not worried,” Haller said.

  Haller looked down at a memorial plaque in the grass where he had stopped.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Carl Switzer. Alfalfa from Our Gang. I used to watch the reruns when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Bosch said.

  Haller pointed at the dates with the toe of his polished shoe.

  “He died young. Thirty-one years old.”

  “He got shot during a fight over a dog up in the Valley.”

  Haller looked from the gravestone to Bosch.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, that’s what happened. And nobody was ever charged—ruled justifiable.”

  “No, I mean, how the hell do you know that?”

  “It’s in the murder journals they keep at the PAB. I used to read them—when I was waiting for cases.”

  “You’re saying you just read the murder journals and remembered the details of a killing from nineteen fifty-nine?”

  “I don’t remember all of them but some I do. You gotta remember it when it’s Alfalfa.”

  “Man, Bosch, I’m not sure this retirement thing is going to work out for you.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  They turned and headed back to their cars.

  20

  Ellis and Long watched the cemetery from a parking spot on the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard. Long was texting someone on his cell phone but Ellis kept the watch. He had the binoculars in his lap and every now and then he brought them up for a close look at Bosch and Haller.

  Ellis was fascinated by Bosch and what he was doing. They had researched the man and learned he had been a near legend in the department. Now look at him. Working cases for a douche-bag defense attorney. There was no loyalty anymore. Nobody with a moral compass.