The Burning Room Read online

  Rodriguez pointed his chin at Soto.

  “Besides, you’ve got heroina con la pistola on your team, man. Lucky Lucy. You don’t need us.”

  Bosch realized that it wasn’t just the losing of the case that bothered Rodriguez. He was incensed that he was still working in a divisional detective squad while Soto had been elevated with zero experience to Open-Unsolved. Harry saw that the situation could not be helped at the moment and decided to get out of the station before things went further south. He noted that Rojas had not joined his partner in deriding Soto or the reassignment of the case. He would be the one Bosch would come back to when they were ready.

  “Okay, we’ll just take the stuff, then.”

  Bosch moved forward and put the three binders on top of the evidence box and picked it all up.

  “Lucia, get the guitar case,” he said.

  “It’s a vihuela, bro,” Rodriguez said. “Better get it right for the press conference.”

  “Right,” Bosch said. “Thanks.”

  He straightened up with his burden and checked the desks to see if there was anything he’d missed.

  “Okay, guys, thanks for the cooperation. We’ll be in touch.”

  He headed out of the alcove with Soto following.

  “You do that,” Rodriguez said to their backs. “Bring coffee.”

  They were out in the parking lot before either of them spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Soto said. “I really shouldn’t be on this case. Or even in this unit.”

  “Don’t listen to them, Lucia. You’ll do fine and I’m going to need you like crazy on this case. You’ll be very important.”

  “What, as a translator? That’s not detective work. I feel like I’ve been given something I don’t deserve. I’ve felt this way since they gave me my choice of detective assignments. I should’ve taken Burglary.”

  Bosch put the box and the binders down on the hood of the car so he could get out the keys. He popped the trunk, and going to the back of the car, they barely fit the instrument case and the box and binders into the trunk. Once it was all in place Bosch flipped the latches on the case and opened it. He looked at the vihuela without removing it. A single bullet hole splintered the polished facing of the instrument. He closed and latched the case. He then turned and finally responded to his partner.

  “Listen to me, Lucia. You would’ve been wasting your time in Burglary. I’ve only worked with you a few weeks but I know you’re a good cop and you’re going to be a very good detective. Stop undercutting yourself. As you just experienced, there will always be people out there to do it for you. You just have to block them out. They want what you have and you can’t help that.”

  Soto nodded.

  “Thank you. Please call me Lucy. When you call me Lucia I feel like we’ll never be real partners.”

  “Lucy, then. You’ve got to remember something here. This kind of case is a takeaway. A swoop and scoop. Nobody likes it when the RHD comes in and Bigfoots a case. People say things but they get past it. Those guys? Before this is over they’ll be very helpful to us. You watch.”

  She looked unconvinced.

  “I don’t know about Rodriguez. He’s got a major board up his ass,” she said.

  “But at the end of the day he’s a detective and he’ll do what’s right. Let’s go.”

  “Okay.”

  They got back in the car and drove out 1st, past the Chinese Cemetery and over to the 10 freeway. From there it was a two-minute cruise up to the exit for Cal State, where the Regional Crime Laboratory was located.

  The crime lab was a five-story structure that stood in the middle of campus. It had been built as a partnership between the LAPD and the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, a logical decision since both agencies together handled more than a third of the crimes that occurred in the state of California and many of those crimes overlapped their jurisdictions.

  However, inside the lab, the departments maintained many separate facilities. One of these was the LAPD’s Firearms Analysis Unit, which included the so-called bullet lab where technicians worked in a low-light room using lasers and computers to attempt to match bullets from one case to another.

  This was where the hope of the Merced case lay. The investigation conducted by Rodriguez and Rojas may have been thorough ten years before but they never found a bullet shell from the shooting and the slug had remained inside Merced’s body until now. The chances were slim but if the bullet removed from the victim’s spine during the autopsy could be matched to any other crime, then a whole new avenue of investigation would open for Bosch and Soto.

  The normal protocol at the lab was to submit a bullet or shell casing for analysis and wait in the backlog, sometimes for weeks, before getting an answer and a report. But on walk-in Wednesday, bullet cases could be walked in and handled on a first-come first-served basis.

  Bosch checked in with the bullet lab supervisor and was assigned to a technician appropriately named Gun Chung. Bosch had worked with him before and knew that Gun was the name on his birth certificate and not a nickname.

  “Gun, how’s it going?”

  “Very well, Harry. What have you brought me today?”

  “First of all, this is my new partner, Lucy Soto. And second, I’ve brought you a tough one for today.”

  Chung shook hands with Soto and Bosch handed him the evidence bag with the bullet slug in it. Chung used a pair of scissors to open the bag and removed the slug. He hefted it in his hand and then held it under a lighted magnifier that he pulled over by its mechanical arm.

  “It’s a Remington .308. Soft-nose—gives you maximum mushrooming. A round like this is primarily used for long-range shooting.”

  “You mean like a sniper rifle?”

  “More likely a hunting rifle.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “So can you do anything with it?”

  Bosch was asking whether the condition of the slug would preclude it from comparative analysis. The slug had gone through the front and back wood panels of Orlando Merced’s vihuela and then penetrated his body mass before lodging against the twelfth thoracic vertebra of his spine. The bullet had mushroomed during these impacts, leaving very little of its shaft intact. The shaft was where striations from the barrel of the gun the bullet had been fired from would create a unique pattern, allowing it to be compared to other projectiles in the BulletTrax database.

  With the bullet Bosch had just handed to Chung, there was no more than a quarter inch of undamaged form. Chung looked closely at it through the magnifier and seemed to be taking his time deciding if the slug was a candidate for ballistic profiling. Bosch did his best to lobby him while he looked.

  “Ten-year-old case,” he said. “The coroner just took that out of the victim’s spine. I think this might be our only chance to move things along.”

  Chung nodded.

  “It’s a two-step process, Harry,” he said. “First, I have to see if there is enough to work with here. And second, even if we put it in the data bank, there is no guarantee of a match. The database on rifle projectiles is limited. Most of our bullet crimes involve handguns.”

  “Understood,” Bosch said. “So what do you think? Enough there?”

  Chung pulled back from the magnifier and looked up at Bosch and Soto.

  “I think we can try,” he said.

  “Perfect,” Bosch said. “What kind of time are we looking at?”

  “It’s a slow day. I’ll work it up right now and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Thanks, Gun. Should we leave you alone or hang out?”

  “Either way. There’s a cafeteria on the first floor if you want to go get coffee.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Bosch and Soto had no sooner sat down in the cafeteria, Bosch with black coffee and Soto with a Diet Coke, than Harry’s phone buzzed. It was Crowder back at the PAB.

  “Harry, where are you?”

  “At Regional with the bullet.”

  “A
nything good?”

  “Not yet. We’re waiting to run it through the database.”

  “All right. Well, I need you to get back here right away.”

  “Why, what is it?”

  “We got the Merced family here and the media and the press conference is in twenty-five minutes.”

  “What press conference? We don’t have—”

  “Doesn’t matter, Harry. The number of reporters here hit critical mass and the chief called a press conference. The ME already put out that they’re ruling it a homicide.”

  Bosch almost cursed Corazon’s name out loud.

  “The chief wants you and Soto standing with him,” Crowder said. “So get back over here. Now.”

  Bosch didn’t answer for a moment.

  “Harry, did you hear me?” Crowder said.

  “I heard,” Bosch said. “We’re on our way.”

  4

  There was a large media room used for press conferences on the second floor down the hall from media relations. Bosch and Soto were being held in a small staging room next door, where a lieutenant from media relations named DeSimone told them how the press conference would be choreographed. The plan was for Chief Malins to speak first and then introduce Orlando Merced’s family. The microphone would then be turned over to Bosch and Soto. Since most reporters in attendance would be representing Spanish-language media, Soto would be made available for interviews in Spanish after the main press conference. Bosch cut DeSimone off in mid-explanation to ask him what exactly was being announced at the press conference.

  “We’re going to talk about the case and how Mr. Merced’s death yesterday has rebooted the investigation,” DeSimone said.

  Bosch hated words like rebooted.

  “Well, that takes about five seconds,” he responded. “Do we really need a press confer—”

  “Detective,” DeSimone cut in, “by ten o’clock this morning my office had already received eighteen requests for a briefing on this case. Call it a slow news day if you want, but this has caught the media beast’s attention. It’s reached a point that we believe a press conference is the best way to go. You summarize the case, tell them the results of the autopsy—they already know it’s been ruled a homicide—and go from there. You say the bullet that has been in the victim’s body for ten years is now being compared to thousands of others in the national data banks. Then you answer a few questions. Fifteen minutes in and out and you’re back on the case.”

  “I don’t like press conferences,” Bosch said. “You ask me, they never add anything. They only complicate things.”

  DeSimone looked at him and smiled.

  “Guess what? I’m not asking you. I’m telling you, we’re doing a press conference.”

  Bosch glanced at Soto. He hoped she was learning something.

  “So when do we do this?”

  “The media’s already in the room and waiting. We go in with the chief. So as soon as he comes down, we go.”

  Bosch felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He stepped away from DeSimone and answered the call. It was Gun Chung.

  “Make my day, Gun,” he said. “Please.”

  “Sorry, Harry, no can do. There’s no match on BulletTrax.”

  Bosch caught Soto’s eye again and shook his head.

  “You there, Harry?”

  “Yeah, Gun, I’m here. Anything else?”

  “Yes, I think I’ve identified your weapon.”

  That eased some of Bosch’s disappointment.

  “What’ve you got?” he asked.

  “Six grooves, right twist at twelve-one—I think what you have here is a Kimber Model 84. It was called the Montana in the catalog—a hunting rifle.”

  The grooves and twist were aspects of the interior rifling of the gun barrel. They allowed Chung to identify the model if not match the bullet to a unique weapon. It was better than nothing and Bosch was pleased that new information had come from the autopsy.

  “Does it help?” Chung asked.

  “Every piece of information helps,” Bosch said. “Is it an expensive gun?”

  “Not cheap. But you can get them used.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Thanks, Gun.”

  “Anytime. You want to pick this up or want me to hold it here?”

  “I need to pick it up and take it to property.”

  “You got it. And remember, Harry, you get me a shell casing and we’ve got a whole different story. There are more casings in the database than slugs. You get me a casing and then we might be in business.”

  Bosch knew that wasn’t going to happen. It was not like you could find a shell casing from a shooting ten years old.

  “Okay, Gun, thanks.”

  Bosch put the phone away and walked back to DeSimone.

  “That was the bullet lab,” he said. “The slug we took out of Merced has no match on the computer. We’re back to square one. Cancel the press conference—there’s nothing to say.”

  DeSimone shook his head.

  “No, we don’t cancel. You just don’t mention the bullet. Make it a request for public help on the case. There was a tremendous outpouring of support ten years ago and you need it again now. You can do this, Bosch. Besides, you don’t want to announce the bullet is a dead end. You want the shooter to think you might have something.”

  Bosch didn’t like the Department’s media guy telling him his own business—it was the reason he had not mentioned that Gun Chung had tentatively identified the model of the rifle that had been used in the shooting. He thought about simply turning and walking away rather than staying for the charade of the press conference. But that would leave Soto alone and forced into something she probably didn’t understand. It would probably also result in Bosch’s being pulled off the case.

  Just then DeSimone’s radio squawked and he was told the chief was on the elevator coming down.

  “Okay, let’s do this.”

  They stepped into the hallway and waited for the elevator to arrive from ten. When the doors opened, the chief stepped out, followed by a man Bosch immediately recognized as Armando Zeyas, the former mayor who had championed Orlando Merced’s cause ten years before. The chief had brought him back in for the press conference. Or perhaps Zeyas had pushed his way back in. It was said that he was readying a run for governor now. Using Merced’s case had helped him politically once before. Why not again?

  For Bosch such cynical thoughts came easily. He had been around the block a few times. But he noticed Soto’s eyes light up when she saw Zeyas. He was a true hero in the Latin community. He was a trailblazer.

  Zeyas and the chief were followed by a man Bosch also recognized. He was Connor Spivak, chief political strategist for the former mayor. It looked like he was along for the ride with Zeyas in the not-so-secret plan to win the governor’s mansion in the next election.

  DeSimone stepped up to the chief and whispered in his ear. Malins nodded once and came over to Bosch. They had known each other for decades. Roughly the same age, they had taken a similar trajectory through the Department: patrol, Hollywood Station detectives, Robbery-Homicide Division. While Bosch had found his home at RHD, Malins had ambitions beyond solving murders. He went into administration and quickly moved up the ranks of the command staff, finally being appointed to the top slot by the Police Commission. He was nearing the end of his first five-year term and would soon come up for reappointment. It was believed that a second term was a foregone conclusion.

  “Harry Bosch,” he said cordially. “I hear you are having trouble with the notion of a press conference.”

  Bosch nodded, a bit embarrassed. The space was tight and the others could hear the conversation. Still, he didn’t back down from his apprehension about discussing the case in front of the media.

  “The one lead we had—the bullet slug—isn’t panning out, Chief,” he said. “I don’t know what there is to say.”

  Malins nodded but disagreed with Bosch’s assessment.

  “There’s ple
nty to say. We need to reassure the people of this city that Orlando Merced will not be forgotten. That we are still looking for whoever did this and that we will find them. That message is more important than anything else, including a piece of lead.”

  Bosch held back on what he really thought.

  “If you say so,” he said.

  The chief nodded.

  “I do. Everybody counts or nobody counts—isn’t that what you told me once?”

  Bosch nodded.

  “I like that!” Zeyas said. “Everybody counts or nobody counts. That’s good.”

  Bosch couldn’t hide his look of horror. In Zeyas’s mouth it sounded like a campaign slogan.

  The chief looked past Bosch at Soto, who was standing her usual two steps behind. He reached around Bosch to offer his hand.

  “Detective Soto, how are they treating you at Robbery-Homicide?”

  Soto shook the chief’s hand.

  “Very well, sir. I’m learning from the best.”

  She nodded toward Bosch. The chief smiled. She had given him an opening.

  “This guy?” he said. “He’s a silverback, Soto. Learn all you can from him while he’s still here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Soto said eagerly. “I’m learning every day.”

  She beamed. The chief beamed. Everybody was happy. And Bosch realized that it had been the chief’s plan to put him with Soto. Crowder had only been following orders.

  “Okay,” DeSimone said. “Let’s go. The Merced family is already in the conference room, sitting in the first row. Chief Malins will take the podium first and introduce them. Then the former mayor will say a few words, and then Detective Bosch will discuss—”

  “Why don’t we go with Detective Soto,” the chief said. “She knows everything Detective Bosch knows on the case, correct? Yes, let’s do that. You don’t mind, do you, Harry?”

  The chief looked at Bosch. Harry shook his head.

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s your show.”

  The group moved down the hallway. One of DeSimone’s underlings was standing outside the open door to the media room. He stepped inside to give the get-ready signal to those waiting. Lights, cameras, and recorders were switched on.