The Burning Room Read online

  Bosch backed up and replayed the shooting portion of the video several times, watching Merced strumming his instrument until the impact of the bullet embedding in his spine knocked him backwards off the table to the ground. He then finally let the video continue and intently watched the action that followed the shooting. The images were murky because of the distance and the writing on the music shop’s window. The focus of the camera was also obviously set on the interior of the store as opposed to the activities across the street.

  At the moment of the bullet’s impact, Merced was surrounded by his bandmates. He sat on the table with his feet on the bench seat. On his right side sat the accordion player, and standing to his left and a step back was the guitarist. Moving into position behind the table was the trumpet player, who was holding his instrument in two hands and bringing it up to his mouth to play.

  Again, Harry watched the shot knock Merced backwards off the table. The trumpet player immediately ran to the right of the frame and out of the picture, while the guitar player started to duck under the side of the table, turning his guitar so it shielded his body. The accordion player seemed confused by what had just happened. It appeared by his body language that he did not realize at first that Merced had been shot. It was only when he saw the guitar player ducking under the table that he too slid down and moved under its shelter. After a long moment, both men moved from the table and over to Merced to help him. The trumpet player came back into the frame and also knelt down next to his fallen comrade.

  Bosch continued to watch the video. Soon people came running up to the picnic table and gathered around the shooting victim. It became hard to see Merced in the middle of all the others and the activity.

  Over the next thirty minutes Bosch watched as paramedics and police responded to the shooting call. Merced was initially treated while lying on the pavement and then hoisted onto a gurney and wheeled out of the frame. The picnic table and immediate area were cordoned off with yellow crime scene ribbon and officers started corralling witnesses for detectives. The video ended at that point and Bosch wondered if Rodriguez and Rojas had edited the video or if there was more that had come from the music store.

  Bosch checked the two other videos but neither was as interesting or as useful to him. Both had time codes that allowed him to sync up the moment of the shooting but they provided little new information. One was from a parking lot camera at Poquito Pedro’s at least a block away. It did not actually show much of Mariachi Plaza but rather showed the intersection of Boyle and 1st. Bosch saw no apparent drive-by vehicle pass on the tape, no gang hoopty speeding through the intersection in the seconds after the shooting went down.

  The third surveillance video came from the suicide camera on the 1st Street bridge. It was several blocks from the plaza and its view of the shooting was blocked by the old hotel at the corner of Boyle and 1st. Bosch watched it once, dismissed its usefulness, and ejected it from the laptop.

  He thought about things for a moment. He knew he should set up an appointment with Rodriguez and Rojas to sit down and go over many details of the case rather than do it piecemeal, but he picked up the phone anyway and called the detective bureau at Hollenbeck. He asked specifically for Rodriguez even though Rojas might be more forthcoming.

  “This is Detective Rodriguez.”

  “This is Bosch. How are you doing?”

  No answer. Bosch waited a moment and pressed on.

  “I just finished a review of your case files on Merced.”

  He paused. Still nothing.

  “I’m not going to blow smoke up your ass by telling you how thorough you guys were. You already know that. But I have a few questions. I could have asked for Rojas because he wasn’t a prick today but I asked for you. This is your book, Rodriguez. I can tell. I figure you’re the one I need to talk to. Can you help me out?”

  No answer again but this time Bosch waited. Eventually Rodriguez responded.

  “What do you want to know, Bosch?”

  Harry nodded. His instinct was right. The good ones all had that hollow space inside. The empty place where the fire always burns. For something. Call it justice. Call it the need to know. Call it the need to believe that those who are evil will not remain hidden in darkness forever. At the end of the day Rodriguez was a good cop and he wanted what Bosch wanted. He could not remain angry and mute if it might cost Orlando Merced his due.

  7

  After the phone call Bosch went on the computer and started to type up his first report on the Merced case. It was primarily an update on the case, including a cause of death report and an evaluation of existing evidence and investigative leads. He was twenty minutes in when his desk phone rang. He picked it up without looking at the display, assuming it was Soto calling in after her psych session.

  “Bosch.”

  “Yes, I want to register for the reward.”

  Bosch realized it was a call spawned by the ex-mayor’s announcement. As he responded, he pulled up the Internet window on his computer and went to the Los Angeles Times website.

  “What do you mean, ‘register,’ sir? It’s not a lottery. Do you have information that can help us?”

  Sure enough, there was a story already up on the front page of the news site, complete with a photo of Zeyas at the press conference, announcing the reward.

  “Yeah, I got information,” the caller said. “The shooter is named Jose. You can mark it down.”

  “Jose what?”

  “I don’t know that part. I just know it’s Jose.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I just do.”

  “He was the shooter.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know this man? Do you know why he did it?”

  “No, but I’m sure you will get all of that once you arrest him.”

  “Where do I arrest him?”

  The man on the other end of the line seemed to scoff at the question.

  “I don’t know that. You’re the detective.”

  “Okay, sir, so you are saying that I need to go out and find and arrest a man named Jose. No last name, no known whereabouts. Do you know what he looks like?”

  “He looks Mexican.”

  “Okay, sir, thank you.”

  Bosch hung up the phone, banging it hard into the cradle.

  “Douche bag,” he said to himself.

  The phone rang again while his hand was still on it. He answered it with an annoyed tone in his voice.

  “Bosch.”

  “Yes, I have a question on the reward.”

  It was a different man’s voice.

  “What is the question?”

  “If I turn myself in, do I get the reward?”

  Bosch paused for a moment. His instinct was that this was as bogus as the first call.

  “Good question,” he said. “I don’t see why not. The reward is for information leading to a conviction. I think a confession would qualify. Do you plan to confess?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But we would have to be able to prove you did it. Can’t just take your word for it, you know what I mean?”

  “I understand.”

  “So why’d you do it?”

  “Because I hate that mariachi shit. This is America. You come here, you should play American music.”

  “I see. And what weapon did you use?”

  “My Smith and Wesson. I’m a good shot.”

  Bosch nodded to himself, instinct confirmed.

  “I’m sure you are. Thanks for the call.”

  He hung up, then stared at the phone for a long moment, expecting it to ring right away. Sure enough it did, but he could see on the display that it was an internal call. He picked it up.

  “Bosch.”

  “Detective, this is Gwen in the PBX.”

  One of the in-house operators. Bosch wasn’t exactly sure where she was located in the building. The PBX operators handled all calls that came in on the general lines—like the main Robbery-Hom
icide Division number that was included in the Times story—and distributed them as required.

  “Yes, Gwen.”

  “I’ve got a Spanish speaker now for the Merced reward. Do you want to take it?”

  Bosch shook his head. The onslaught he warned Crowder and Samuels about was beginning.

  “I don’t have a Spanish speaker right now. Get a name and number and someone will call them back.”

  “Will do.”

  Bosch hung the phone up a little more gently this time. He switched over to the La Opinión website, clicked on the Locales page, and, sure enough, saw another photo of Zeyas and a story on the Merced case and the accompanying reward offer. He was a bit stunned by how fast the media were moving on the story.

  He went back to the report he was writing and picked up the pace. He wanted to get out of the office, whether Soto got back soon or not. He had a feeling that the phone would soon become an anchor wrapped around his neck. He would drown in these calls. Before he finished typing, the phone rang one more time, and it was the very first caller again.

  “Hey, you didn’t take my name for the reward.”

  “That’s correct, sir. I don’t want your name.”

  “Well, what about the reward?”

  “There is no reward. Not for you.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s a guy name Jose. He did it.”

  “If we arrest a guy named Jose, you call me back, okay?”

  This time Bosch slammed the phone down so hard in its cradle, he drew the attention of detectives in the other cubicles. He didn’t offer any explanation. While his hand was still on the phone, it rang again. He picked it up and gruffly said, “What?”

  “It’s Gwen from PBX?”

  “Oh. Yes, Gwen, what is it?”

  “I just wanted you to know that the Spanish speaker refused to give me her name or number.”

  “Okay, Gwen. I guess that’s one call I don’t need to worry about. Thank you.”

  After that, Bosch quickly wrapped up the report he was writing, printed it out on three-hole-punch paper, and clipped it into the murder book. He then picked up the phone, called the PBX number, and asked for Gwen.

  “Gwen, it’s Detective Bosch. I’m going to be out in the field and my partner is not available. Can you forward any calls that come in regarding the Merced case and the reward to Lieutenant Samuels?”

  “Lieutenant Samuels. Yes, I can.”

  “Good. Thank you. Why don’t you make a note there that all such calls should go to the lieutenant until further notice from me.”

  “Will do, Detective. Have a good day.”

  “You, too, Gwen.”

  Bosch stood up, checking the clock on the wall over the doorway to the squad. Soto’s psych sessions generally lasted an hour, with a half-hour travel time on either side of it. Even if she went by the crime lab to pick up the slug from Gun Chung, she should have been back by now. This annoyed him because Soto had a tendency to disappear or lose track of time. He wanted to keep things moving but she was missing in action. He didn’t want to call her cell in case she was still in session with Dr. Hinojos, the Department’s head shrink. But he was frustrated because Soto hadn’t bothered to shoot him a text saying she had been held up. He should not be the one sending out texts and making where-are-you calls, anyway.

  He grabbed his keys and the video discs. At the sign-out board on the wall next to the door he wrote Lab next to his name and headed out.

  Rodriguez had told him that he and Rojas had not taken the surveillance recordings to the lab to see if any enhancements could be made to the visuals. He’d explained that it didn’t seem to be a worthwhile move considering that the videos did not capture the shooter. Additionally, ten years ago video forensics amounted to little more than a lab rat taking a second look at the footage the detective had already studied.

  Today was different. There was a dedicated video-and-data-imaging unit with experts who could amplify sound and visuals, often bringing forward information that was not apparent during casual viewing. The last decade had seen an explosion in the use of videos as tools of investigations. L.A. was a city of cameras, public and private, and it was standard case protocol now to look for cameras at a crime scene in the same way it had always been standard to knock on doors and look for witnesses. This necessitated the formation of the VFU—the Video Forensics Unit. Not all cameras were created equal and it took some expertise to maximize the potential of images and sounds captured at or near crime scenes.

  It took Bosch twenty minutes to get over to the lab. On the way, Soto called him and told him she had just finished her psych session.

  “She was backed up with new shooters,” she said. “But I’m on my way to the lab now to pick up the slug.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bosch said. “I’m on my way there now with the videos. I’ll go see Gun and pick up the slug.”

  “I thought . . .”

  She didn’t finish but Bosch knew what she was going to ask.

  “Right, yeah, I looked at them all and there wasn’t a whole lot there,” he said. “The camera in the music shop picked up Merced getting hit but it’s all pretty murky. I’m hoping the video unit can do something with it.”

  “Okay.”

  She didn’t sound mollified.

  “If you want I can wait, let you take a look before running it over.”

  “No, no, go ahead. You might as well. Are you coming back to the squad after?”

  “Actually I’m trying to stay away from the squad. The exmayor’s reward has already hit the media sites and the calls are coming in. I want to work the case, not the phones.”

  Bosch pulled into the parking lot outside the crime lab building and started looking for an open slot.

  “But what if we get the right call?”

  “It’s a million to one, you ask me. But if someone really can deliver the shooter, they’ll get to us. Anyway, right now I have all the calls going to Samuels. Maybe that will light a fire and get him to put somebody on the calls so we can work the case.”

  “Okay, so what time do you want me to set up the ballistics trajectory for tomorrow?”

  Bosch had forgotten about that. Now he thought it might be too soon.

  “I want to hold off on that now. Let’s see what they come up with in video. It might help set the trajectory.”

  “Okay. Where do you want me to go now?”

  “Give me thirty minutes and meet me at Mariachi Plaza. Let’s see if the media’s left the place alone.”

  “That’ll give me time to hit Starbucks. You want something?”

  Bosch thought a moment about his caffeine level.

  “No, I’m good. I’ll just see you there.”

  Bosch parked and got out. While he was walking toward the glass doors of the lab building, his phone rang again. It was Lieutenant Samuels.

  “Bosch, where the hell are you?”

  “About to go into the lab—I wrote it on the board. What’s up?”

  “What’s up is the phone is starting to go crazy with tip calls.”

  “What do you want me to do about it, L-T? I’m working the case. I’ve got two stops in the lab here and then I’m meeting my partner at the crime scene. I told you this was going to happen.”

  “Where’s Lucky Lucy right now?”

  “She has her psych session on Wednesday afternoons. Anything good coming in?”

  “How the hell should I know? You set this up, Bosch!”

  “I didn’t set up anything. I didn’t want any reward put out there in the first place. I knew—”

  “Never mind. I’ll put someone on the phones. Starting tomorrow morning.”

  Samuels hung up before Bosch could respond. But he was smiling when he pushed through the doors to the crime lab.

  8

  Lucia Soto was already at Mariachi Plaza when Bosch got there. There was no obvious sign that anybody from the media was still on the scene. Bosch crossed the plaza, taking it all in. It was beg
inning to get crowded with musicians hoping to pick up evening gigs. The sidewalk parking spaces running along Boyle Avenue were bumper to bumper with vans brightly painted with the names and phone numbers of bands. The benches and tables in the plaza were all occupied.

  Soto was talking to three men squeezed onto a single bench, their instruments in cases at their feet. They were wearing matching black half coats with gold brocade and white blouses with string ties. Bosch nodded to them as he joined his partner. Soto was holding some kind of iced-coffee drink with whipped cream at the top.

  “Harry, these men were here the day Merced was shot,” Soto said excitedly.

  “What do they remember?” he asked.

  “They were sitting right here. They jumped up and went behind the statue when they heard the shot.”

  Bosch looked behind the bench at the bronze statue of a woman, hands on her hips, wearing a shawl over a patterned dress. The statue was on a large concrete-and-wooden pedestal. The plaque on the base of the statue identified the woman as Lucha Reyes, the queen of the mariachis, who lived and performed in L.A. in the 1920s. She was from Guadalajara.

  “Were they interviewed at the time?”

  Soto spoke to the men in Spanish and then translated their answers to Bosch even though he understood a lot of what was said.

  “Yes, they gave statements.”

  Bosch nodded but he could not remember any of the statements from the murder book involving witnesses reporting that they had used the statue for cover. They had probably been left out as inconsequential.

  “Ask them to show us where they hid by the statue.”

  Soto asked the men, and one got up and went to the statue. He crouched down, put his hands on the pedestal, and acted like he was looking around the legs of the statue to see who was shooting. He was looking toward Boyle Avenue.