The Brass Verdict Page 6

  There was something telling in that. The killer had either used a revolver or had had the presence of mind after killing a man to pick up the bullet casings ejected from his gun.

  Cisco continued his report.

  “I called another contact in communications and she told me the first call came in at twelve forty-three. They’ll narrow down time of death at autopsy.”

  “Is there a general idea of what happened?”

  “It looks like Vincent worked late, which was apparently his routine on Mondays. He worked late every Monday, preparing for the week ahead. When he was finished he packed his briefcase, locked up, and left. He goes to the garage, gets in his car, and gets popped through the driver’s side window. When they found him the car was in park, the ignition on. The window was down. It was in the low sixties last night. He could’ve put the window down because he liked the chill, or he could’ve lowered it for somebody coming to the car.”

  “Somebody he knew.”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  I thought about this and what Detective Bosch had said.

  “Nobody was working in the garage?”

  “No, the attendant leaves at six. You have to put your money in the machine after that or use your monthly pass. Vincent had a monthly.”

  “Cameras?”

  “Only cameras are where you drive in and out. They’re license plate cameras so if somebody says they lost their ticket they can tell when the car went in, that sort of thing. But from what I hear from my guy in forensics, there was nothing on tape that was useful. The killer didn’t drive into the garage. He walked in either through the building or through one of the pedestrian entrances.”

  “Who found Jerry?” “The security guard. They got one guard for the building and the garage. He hits the garage a couple times a night and noticed Vincent’s car on his second sweep. The lights were on and it was running, so he checked it out. He thought Vincent was sleeping at first, then he saw the blood.”

  I nodded, thinking about the scenario and how it had gone down. The killer was either incredibly careless and lucky or he knew the garage had no cameras and he would be able to intercept Jerry Vincent there on a Monday night when the space was almost deserted.

  “Okay, stay on it. What about Harry Potter?”

  “Who?”

  “The detective. Not Potter. I mean—”

  “Bosch. Harry Bosch. I’m working on that, too. Supposedly he’s one of the best. Retired a few years ago and the police chief himself recruited him back. Or so the story goes.”

  Cisco referred to some notes on a pad.

  “Full name is Hieronymus Bosch. He has a total of thirty-three years on the job and you know what that means.”

  “No, what does it mean?”

  “Well, under the LAPD’s pension program you max out at thirty years, meaning that you are eligible for retirement with full pension and no matter how long you stay on the job, after thirty years your pension doesn’t grow. So it makes no economic sense to stay.”

  “Unless you’re a man on a mission.”

  Cisco nodded.

  “Exactly. Anybody who stays past thirty isn’t staying for the money or the job. It’s more than a job.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “You said Hieronymus Bosch? Like the painter?”

  The second question confused him.

  “I don’t know anything about any painter. But that’s his name. Rhymes with ‘anonymous,’ I was told. Weird name, if you ask me.”

  “No weirder than Wojciechowski—if you ask me.”

  Cisco was about to defend his name and heritage when Lorna cut in.

  “I thought you said you didn’t know him, Mickey.”

  I looked over at her and shook my head.

  “I never met him before today but the name… I know the name.”

  “You mean from the paintings?”

  I didn’t want to get into a discussion of past history so distant I couldn’t be sure about it.

  “Never mind,” I said. “It’s nothing and I’ve got to get going.”

  I stood up.

  “Cisco, stay on the case and find out what you can about Bosch. I want to know how much I can trust the guy.”

  “You’re not going to let him look at the files, are you?” Lorna asked.

  “This wasn’t a random crime. There’s a killer out there who knew how to get to Jerry Vincent. I’ll feel a lot better about things if our man with a mission can figure it out and bring the bad guy in.”

  I stepped around the desk and headed toward the door.

  “I’ll be in Judge Champagne’s court. I’m taking a bunch of the active files with me to read while I’m waiting.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Lorna said.

  I saw her throw a look and nod at Cisco so that he would stay behind. We walked out to the reception area. I knew what Lorna was going to say but I let her say it.

  “Mickey, are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This wasn’t the plan. You were going to come back slowly, remember? Take a couple cases and build from there. Instead, you’re taking on an entire practice.”

  “I’m not practicing.”

  “Look, be serious.”

  “I am. And I’m ready. Don’t you see that this is better than the plan? The Elliot case not only brings in all that money but it’s going to be like having a billboard on top of the CCB that says I’M BACK in big neon letters!”

  “Yeah, that’s great. And the Elliot case alone is going to put so much pressure on you that…”

  She didn’t finish but she didn’t have to.

  “Lorna, I’m done with all of that. I’m fine, I’m over it, and I’m ready for this. I thought you’d be happy about this. We’ve got money coming in for the first time in a year.”

  “I don’t care about that. I want to make sure you are okay.”

  “I’m more than okay. I’m excited. I feel like in one day I’ve suddenly got my mojo back. Don’t drag me down. Okay?”

  She stared at me and I stared back and finally a reluctant smile peeked through her stern expression.

  “All right,” she said. “Then, go get ’em.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  Eight

  Despite the assurances I had given Lorna, thoughts about all the cases and all the setup work that needed to be done played in my mind as I walked down the hallway to the bridge that linked the office building with the garage. I had forgotten that I had parked on the fifth level and ended up walking up three ramps before I found the Lincoln. I popped the trunk and put the thick stack of files I was carrying into my bag.

  The bag was a hybrid I had picked up at a store called Suitcase City while I was plotting my comeback. It was a backpack with straps I could put over my shoulders on the days I was strong. It also had a handle so I could carry it like a briefcase if I wanted. And it had two wheels and a telescoping handle so I could just roll it behind me on the days I was weak.

  Lately, the strong days far outnumbered the weak and I probably could have gotten by with the traditional lawyer’s leather briefcase. But I liked the bag and was going to keep using it. It had a logo on it—a mountain ridgeline with the words “Suitcase City” printed across it like the Hollywood sign. Above it, skylights swept the horizon, completing the dream image of desire and hope. I think that logo was the real reason I liked the bag. Because I knew Suitcase City wasn’t a store. It was a place. It was Los Angeles.

  Los Angeles was the kind of place where everybody was from somewhere else and nobody really dropped anchor. It was a transient place. People drawn by the dream, people running from the nightmare. Twelve million people and all of them ready to make a break for it if necessary. Figuratively, literally, metaphorically—any way you want to look at it—everybody in L.A. keeps a bag packed. Just in case.

  As I closed the trunk, I was startled to see a man standing between my car and the one parked next to it. The ope
n trunk lid had blocked my view of his approach. He was a stranger to me but I could tell he knew who I was. Bosch’s warning about Vincent’s killer shot through my mind and the fight-or-flight instinct gripped me.

  “Mr. Haller, can I talk to you?”

  “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing sneaking around people’s cars?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking around. I saw you and cut between the other cars, that’s all. I work for the Times and was wondering if I could talk to you about Jerry Vincent.”

  I shook my head and blew out my breath.

  “You scared the shit out of me. Don’t you know he got killed in this garage by somebody who came up to his car?”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I was just—”

  “Forget it. I don’t know anything about the case and I have to get to court.”

  “But you’re taking over his cases, aren’t you?”

  Signaling him out of the way, I moved to the door of my car.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Our court reporter got a copy of the order from Judge Holder. Why did Mr. Vincent pick you? Were you two good friends or something?”

  I opened the door.

  “Look, what’s your name?”

  “Jack McEvoy. I work the police beat.”

  “Good for you, Jack. But I can’t talk about this right now. You want to give me a card, I’ll call you when I can talk.”

  He made no move to give me a card or to indicate he’d understood what I said. He just asked another question.

  “Has the judge put a gag order on you?”

  “No, she hasn’t put out a gag order. I can’t talk to you because I don’t know anything, okay? When I have something to say, I’ll say it.”

  “Well, could you tell me why you are taking over Vincent’s cases?”

  “You already know the answer to that. I was appointed by the judge. I have to get to court now.”

  I ducked into the car but left the door open as I turned the key. McEvoy put his elbow on the roof and leaned in to continue to try to talk me into an interview.

  “Look,” I said, “I’ve got to go, so could you stand back so I can close my door and back this tank up?”

  “I was hoping we could make a deal,” he said quickly.

  “Deal? What deal? What are you talking about?”

  “You know, information. I’ve got the police department wired and you’ve got the courthouse wired. It would be a two-way street. You tell me what you’re hearing and I’ll tell you what I’m hearing. I have a feeling this is going to be a big case. I need any information I can get.”

  I turned and looked up at him for a moment.

  “But won’t the information you’d be giving me just end up in the paper the next day? I could just wait and read it.”

  “Not all of it will be in there. Some stuff you can’t print, even if you know it’s true.”

  He looked at me as though he were passing on a great piece of wisdom.

  “I have a feeling you’ll be hearing things before I do,” I said.

  “I’ll take my chances. Deal?”

  “You got a card?”

  This time he took a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. I held it between my fingers and draped my hand over the steering wheel. I held the card up and looked at it again. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a line on inside information on the case.

  “Okay, deal.”

  I signaled him away again and pulled the door closed, then started the car. He was still there. I lowered the window.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just remember, I don’t want to see your name in the other papers or on the TV saying stuff I don’t have.”

  “Don’t worry. I know how it works.”

  “Good.”

  I dropped it into reverse but thought of something and kept my foot on the brake.

  “Let me ask you a question. How tight are you with Bosch, the lead investigator on the case?”

  “I know him, but nobody’s really tight with him. Not even his own partner.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked.”

  “Well, is he any good at it?”

  “At clearing cases? Yes, he’s very good. I think he’s considered one of the best.”

  I nodded and thought about Bosch. The man on a mission.

  “Watch your toes.”

  I backed the Lincoln out. McEvoy called out to me just as I put the car in drive.

  “Hey, Haller, love the plate.”

  I waved a hand out the window as I drove down the ramp. I tried to remember which of my Lincolns I was driving and what the plate said. I have a fleet of three Town Cars left over from my days when I carried a full case load. But I had been using the cars so infrequently in the last year that I had put all three into a rotation to keep the engines in tune and the dust out of the pipes. Part of my comeback strategy, I guess. The cars were exact duplicates, except for the license plates, and I wasn’t sure which one I was driving.

  When I got down to the parking attendant’s booth and handed in my stub, I saw a small video screen next to the cash register. It showed the view from a camera located a few feet behind my car. It was the camera Cisco had told me about, designed to pick up an angle on the rear bumper and license plate.

  On the screen I could see my vanity plate.

  IWALKEM

  I smirked. I walk ’em, all right. I was heading to court to meet one of Jerry Vincent’s clients for the first time. I was going to shake his hand and then walk him right into prison.

  Nine

  Judge Judith Champagne was on the bench and hearing motions when I walked into her courtroom with five minutes to spare. There were eight other lawyers cooling their heels, waiting their turn. I parked my roller bag against the rail and whispered to the courtroom deputy, explaining that I was there to handle the sentencing of Edgar Reese for Jerry Vincent. He told me the judge’s motions calendar was running long but Reese would be first out for his sentencing as soon as the motions were cleared. I asked if I could see Reese, and the deputy got up and led me through the steel door behind his desk to the court-side holding cell. There were three prisoners in the cell.

  “Edgar Reese?” I said.

  A small, powerfully built white man came over to the bars. I saw prison tattoos climbing up his neck and felt relieved. Reese was heading back to a place he already knew. I wasn’t going to be holding the hand of a wide-eyed prison virgin. It would make things easier for me.

  “My name’s Michael Haller. I’m filling in for your attorney today.”

  I didn’t think there was much point in explaining to this guy what had happened to Vincent. It would only make Reese ask me a bunch of questions I didn’t have the time or knowledge to answer.

  “Where’s Jerry?” Reese asked.

  “Couldn’t make it. You ready to do this?”

  “Like I got a choice?”

  “Did Jerry go over the sentence when you pled out?”

  “Yeah, he told me. Five years in state, out in three if I behave.”

  It was more like four but I wasn’t going to mess with it.

  “Okay, well, the judge is finishing some stuff up out there and then they’ll bring you out. The prosecutor will read you a bunch of legalese, you answer yes that you understand it, and then the judge will enter the sentence. Fifteen minutes in and out.”

  “I don’t care how long it takes. I ain’t got nowhere to go.”

  I nodded and left him there. I tapped lightly on the metal door so the deputy—bailiffs in L.A. County are sheriffs’ deputies—in the courtroom would hear it but hopefully not the judge. He let me out and I sat in the first row of the gallery. I opened up my case and pulled out most of the files, putting them down on the bench next to me.

  The top file was the Edgar Reese file. I had already reviewed this one in preparation for the sentencing. Reese was one of Vincent’s repeat clients. It was a garden-variety drug case. A sel
ler who used his own product, Reese was set up on a buy-bust by a customer working as a confidential informant. According to the background information in the file, the CI zeroed in on Reese because he held a grudge against him. He had previously bought cocaine from Reese and found it had been hit too hard with baby laxative. This was a frequent mistake made by dealers who were also users. They cut the product too hard, thereby increasing the amount kept for their own personal use but diluting the charge delivered by the powder they sold. It was a bad business practice because it bred enemies. A user trying to work off a charge by cooperating as a CI is more inclined to set up a dealer he doesn’t like than a dealer he does. This was the business lesson Edgar Reese would have to think about for the next five years in state prison.

  I put the file back in my bag and looked at what was next on the stack. The file on top belonged to Patrick Henson, the painkiller case I had told Lorna I would be dropping. I leaned over to put the file back in the bag, when I suddenly sat back against the bench and held it on my lap. I flapped it against my thigh a couple times as I reconsidered things and then opened it.

  Henson was a twenty-four-year-old surfer from Malibu by way of Florida. He was a professional but at the low end of the spectrum, with limited endorsements and winnings from the pro tour. In a competition on Maui, he’d wiped out in a wave that drove him down hard into the lava bottom of Pehei. It crimped his shoulder, and after surgery to scrape it out, the doctor prescribed oxycodone. Eighteen months later Henson was a full-blown addict, chasing pills to chase the pain. He lost his sponsors and was too weak to compete anymore. He finally hit bottom when he stole a diamond necklace from a home in Malibu to which he’d been invited by a female friend. According to the sheriff’s report, the necklace belonged to his friend’s mother and contained eight diamonds representing her three children and five grandchildren. It was listed on the report as worth $25,000 but Henson hocked it for $400 and went down to Mexico to buy two hundred tabs of oxy over the counter.