The Crossing Page 9

  Bosch pointed to the overturned photo.

  “A crime like that, no judge and no jury’s going to have a second thought about giving you the death penalty. You’ll go the way Tookie went.”

  He let that sink in for a moment before continuing in a softer voice.

  “You want me to help you, Da’Quan? I need to know everything. Good and bad. You can lie to your lawyer but you can’t lie to me. I can read it. So one more time, where were you? You don’t tell me and I’m out of here. What’s it going to be?”

  Foster lowered his eyes to the table. Bosch waited him out. He could tell Foster was about to break and tell the story.

  “All right,” he said. “This is the deal. I was up there in Hollywood. And I was with someone, not my wife.”

  “Okay,” Bosch said. “Who is she?”

  “Not a she,” Foster said.

  12

  Haller missed the entire session with Foster. He was either a celebrity lawyer or a notorious lawyer, depending on how you looked at it. He had received the ultimate imprimatur of L.A. acceptance—a movie about one of his cases starring no less than Matthew McConaughey. He had also run for district attorney in the last election cycle and lost the race because of a scandal that erupted when a client he had previously cleared of a DUI charge killed two people and himself while driving drunk. So either way he was news, and the officers at city jail helpfully stalled his release until the media could be fully notified of his arrest, his mug shot could be uploaded to the Internet, and an assemblage of reporters, photographers, and videographers could muster outside the jail’s release door to document his walk of shame.

  Bosch accompanied Jennifer Aronson, acting as Haller’s lawyer, into the jail to warn him about what awaited outside. She had a plan that involved Bosch pulling up to the door in his Cherokee and allowing Haller to step out quickly and jump in the back. Bosch would then speed away. But Haller said he wanted no part in such a cowardly exit. Once he collected his personal property, he pulled the tie out of his suit pocket and clipped it on. He smoothed it down on his chest and then stepped through the release door with his chin held high. He walked directly to the media cluster, waited a beat until all lenses were focused and microphones positioned, and then started speaking.

  “I just want to say that I have been the target of law enforcement intimidation practices,” he began. “But I am not intimidated. I was set up and taken down. I was not driving while intoxicated and there is no evidence that I was. I’ll be fighting these charges and will ultimately be proven innocent. They will not deter me from the work I do defending the underdogs of our society. Thank you.”

  There was a clamor of voices as questions were hurled at him. Bosch heard one woman’s deep voice drown out the others.

  “Why are they trying to intimidate you?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Haller said. “I have a number of cases in which I plan to put the police on trial in defense of my client. They know that. This could have come from any quarter, as far as I’m concerned.”

  The same woman yelled a follow-up.

  “Could it have anything to do with the Lexi Parks case?”

  “I don’t know,” Haller said. “I just know that what was done to me was not right. And it will be corrected.”

  Another reporter called out. Bosch recognized him from the Times but couldn’t remember his name. But he had sources in the police department and usually had valid information.

  “Your blood was drawn at Queen of Angels,” he said. “The blood-alcohol content was measured at point-one-one, according to the LAPD. That is beyond the legal limit.”

  Haller nodded as though he knew what was coming and relished the chance to attack the accusation.

  “The measurement was point-oh-six—check your source on that, Tyler,” he said. “The LAPD then used a faulty B-A-C extrapolation formula to push it past to the point-oh-eight threshold at the time of arrest. This formula will not bear the scrutiny of the courts and I will be exonerated.”

  Bosch needed to go get the car and bring it around but he wanted to watch Haller work. He had such ease and control with the crowd of reporters. Unintimidated, undaunted. Bosch marveled at it. No wonder he was a killer in front of a jury.

  “But you have been arrested for DUI in the past, isn’t that so?”

  It was a question from a different reporter. Haller shook his head.

  “This isn’t about the past,” he said. “This is about right now and the question of whether we want our police department to be targeting law-abiding citizens. The intrusion of the government into our lives is pervasive. Where do we make a stand? I’m making mine right here.”

  The questions started getting repetitive or bizarrely far afield. It was pretty clear the reporters weren’t going to run out of things to ask until Haller ran out of responses. The assemblage was a mixture of legitimate local news media and softer entertainment reporters. Haller was one of those rare people with a foot in both camps. The last question Bosch heard before turning a corner to head toward the parking garage was someone asking Haller if he had been in touch with Matthew McConaughey and if there would be a sequel to The Lincoln Lawyer film.

  Haller said he didn’t know.

  13

  Haller was starved, having passed on the baloney sandwich and apple offered at the jail for breakfast. But he wanted to get his car and cell phone back before eating.

  Aronson split off to go back to work on her own courthouse caseload and Bosch drove Haller to the Official Police Garage in Hollywood to reclaim his Lincoln Town Car. Along the way Haller told him about the arrest and how he was sure the plainclothes officers who popped him had been lying in wait. Nothing Bosch heard in the story supported that and it appeared to him to be a pure case of paranoia. He did think it was curious that he had been pulled over by officers in plain clothes. He wondered if Haller had strayed into a vice operation.

  The OPG contract belonged to Hollywood Tow on Mansfield Avenue. Haller paid the impound fees without dispute and the attendant handed him his car keys. Haller stared at them in his hand and then looked at the attendant.

  “Did you people break into my car?” he asked.

  The man looked at the document Haller had just signed.

  “No, sir, we didn’t,” the man said. “No broken locks, it says the vehicle was OOA—open on arrival. We track that sort of stuff, sir. You want to challenge that or make a complaint, I can give you the paperwork to fill out.”

  “Really? I bet they’d jump right on it. Tell you what, just tell me where the car is.”

  “Space twenty-three. Down the main aisle and on your left.”

  Bosch followed Haller to the car. The first thing he did was grab his phone off the front seat and check to see if it had been tampered with. It was password locked and appeared to have been untouched. He then popped the trunk and looked through three side-by-side file boxes, ticking the tabs with his finger as if to make sure all the files were there. He then went to the backseat and grabbed his briefcase. He opened it on the roof of the car and checked its contents.

  “They had plenty of time to copy anything they wanted,” he said.

  “They?” Bosch asked. “Who?”

  “Whoever. The cops that pulled me over. Whoever sent them.”

  “You sure you want to play it this way?”

  “How else should I play it?”

  “I think you’re being a little paranoid. You were in there drinking for three hours by my count.”

  “I was pacing myself and I wasn’t inebriated and certainly wasn’t impaired. When they pulled me over I got out and locked the car. With the keys inside it. Now the guy in there tells me it was unlocked when the tow truck arrived. Explain that.”

  Bosch said nothing. Haller snapped the briefcase closed and looked at him.

  “Welcome to the other side of the aisle, Harry. Let’s go eat. I’m fucking starved.”

  He stepped over and closed the trunk. Bosch saw that the license
plate said IWALKEM.

  He reminded himself that he never wanted to be seen riding in the car with Haller.

  They drove separately to Pink’s on La Brea and grabbed one of the tables in the back room after getting their food. It was early for lunch and the line was manageable. While Haller ravenously ate his foot-long, Bosch told him about his visit with Da’Quan Foster and what Foster had said about his broken alibi. Haller didn’t bother to wipe the mustard off his mouth until he had finished the hot dog.

  “Hard to believe he’d be willing to go to prison over a secret like that,” Bosch said.

  “He’s a proud guy and he’s got standing in the community. Plus the wife and kids. He didn’t want to see all of that undone. Besides, I think when you’re innocent, you always think deep down that you’ll be saved, that the truth will set you free and all of that bullshit. Even an old gangbanger like him believes the fantasy.”

  Bosch pushed his untouched hot dog across the table to Haller and shook his head.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I know it is.”

  “No, I’m not talking about the truth setting you free. I’m talking about your bullshit.”

  “Me? What bullshit?”

  “Come on. This whole thing was a setup. You set me up.”

  “I’m not seeing that.”

  “You led me down the path, Mick. Put the scent in my nose and knew I’d eventually follow it to county and talk to Da’Quan. You knew they have a witness who knocks down his alibi. But you already knew the real story. You knew it all along.”

  Haller paused after a bite of the second hot dog. He tried to smile with his mouth full. Then he swallowed and wiped the mustard off his mouth with a napkin.

  “How ’bout next time you give me your hot dog you don’t put so much mustard on it?”

  “I’ll remember that. Don’t change the subject. What I don’t understand is, if Da’Quan told you the truth about his alibi, why’d he start out lying to me about it?”

  “Maybe he didn’t trust you at first. Maybe he was taking your measure.”

  “That’s just more bullshit. But it does make me wonder about you not telling me either. You had to take my measure, too?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I did it because I had to get you invested.”

  “Invested? Bullshit. You used me.”

  “Maybe. But maybe I saved you.”

  “Saved me from what?”

  “You’re a homicide investigator. The Los Angeles Police Department decided it didn’t need you anymore. There are places—people—that still do.”

  Bosch shook his head and brought his hands up on the table.

  “Why didn’t you just lay it out for me as it is, then let me make a choice?”

  “What, you mean lay out for you that I had a guy accused of the most heinous murder this town’s seen since Nicole Simpson got butchered and that his DNA just happens to be inside the victim and he just happened to lie about his alibi because his real alibi was that he was shacked up in a motel room with a transvestite who goes by the name Sindy as in S-I-N Sindy? Yeah, I guess that would’ve worked if I’d played it that way.”

  Bosch didn’t say anything because he sensed there was more. He was right.

  “And here’s the kicker. That alibi, as crazy as it is, is impossible to prove now, because Sindy got himself murdered in an alley in Hollywood before I could get to him.”

  Bosch leaned forward as his body tensed. Foster hadn’t told him that piece of information.

  “When was this?” he asked.

  “Back in March,” Haller said.

  “Before or after Foster was arrested for Parks?”

  “After.”

  “How long after?”

  “A few days, I think.”

  Bosch thought about that for a moment before asking the next question.

  “Anybody picked up for it?”

  “I don’t know. Not as of the last time I checked. This is why I need an investigator, Harry. A homicide investigator. Cisco was just getting into it when he laid his bike down and fucked himself up.”

  “You should’ve told me all of this.”

  “I just did.”

  “I should have known earlier.”

  “Well, you know it all now. So are you in, or are you out?”

  14

  Bosch thought he would die soon. There was no physical or health threat that caused him to think this. He was actually in good shape for a man his age. He had worked a case years before in which a murder involved the theft of radioactive material. He had been exposed and treated, the twice-annual chest X-rays had been cut to annual checks in recent years and each time the film came back clear. It wasn’t that or anything else from the job he’d held for more than three decades.

  It was his daughter who made him think this way. Bosch had been a step-in father. He didn’t know he had a child until she was almost four, and she didn’t come to live with him until she was thirteen. It had only been five years since then but he had come to believe that parents see their children not only as they are but as they hope they will be in the future. Happy, fulfilled, not afraid. When Maddie first came to live with him Bosch didn’t have this vision right away, but soon enough he earned it. When he closed his eyes at night, he saw her older: beautiful and confident, happy and healed. Not scared of anything.

  Time had passed and his daughter had gotten to the age of that young woman in his vision. But the vision went no further. It didn’t grow older, and he believed this was because one of them would not be around to see it. He didn’t want it to be her so he believed it was he who would not be there.

  When Bosch got home that evening he decided he had to tell his daughter what he was doing. Her bedroom door was closed. He texted her and asked her to come out for a few minutes to talk.

  When she emerged from the room, she was already in her sleeping clothes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like you’re going to bed.”

  “I just got ready. I want to go to bed early to stock up on my sleep.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, like hibernating. I doubt I’m going to get any sleep when we go camping.”

  “You finish packing yet?”

  “I have a few things left. So what’s up?”

  “Are you going to eat dinner?”

  “No, I’m trying to be healthy.”

  Bosch knew this meant she had probably looked at herself in the mirror and, seeing something no one else could see, determined she had to lose weight.

  “Skipping meals is not healthy, Maddie,” Bosch said.

  “You should talk,” she said. “What about all the times on cases you didn’t eat?”

  “That was because I couldn’t get food or didn’t have time. You could eat dinner and be healthy about it.”

  She made her end-of-conversation face.

  “Dad, let me do this. Is that all you wanted?”

  Bosch frowned.

  “Well, no,” he said. “I was going to tell you something about what I’m doing but I can tell you later.”

  “No, tell me,” she said, eager to move on from discussing her eating habits.

  Bosch nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “Well, remember a while ago when we were talking about my work and how I thought what I did—the homicide work—was like a calling and how I could never work for a defense lawyer like your uncle?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “Why?”

  Bosch hesitated and then decided to just get it over with.

  “Well, I wanted to tell you that Mickey came to me with a case,” he said. “A murder case. A case where he felt sure that the client was innocent and that he had been framed.”

  He held there but she didn’t say anything.

  “He asked me to look into the case,” he continued. “You know, to see if there was evidence that he was framed. A
nd so…I’ve agreed to do that.”

  Maddie stared at him for a long moment and then finally spoke.

  “Who was murdered?” she asked.

  “A woman,” Bosch said. “It was very brutal, awful.”

  “You said you could never do this.”

  “I know what I said. But with this case, I thought, if there is a possibility that this man didn’t do it, then somebody is still out there who did. And that bothers me—that somebody like this could be still out there in the world with you and everybody else. So I told Mickey today I would look into it. And I just thought you should know.”

  She nodded and dropped her eyes from Bosch’s. That hurt him more than what she said next.

  “Is he in jail?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Bosch said. “Two months now.”

  “So the opposite of what you’re saying is that you may be working to put a very bad person back out into the world with me and everybody else.”

  “No, Mads, I wouldn’t do that. I’ll stop before that happens.”

  “But how can you know for sure?”

  “I guess nothing can be known for sure.”

  She shook her head at that response.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said.

  She turned from him and rounded the corner into the hallway.

  “Come on, Mads. Don’t be like that. Let’s talk about it.”

  He heard her bedroom door close and lock. He stood still and considered her response. He expected news of what he was doing to bring a large backlash from those he knew in law enforcement. But he hadn’t expected it from his daughter.

  He decided that he, too, had no appetite for dinner.

  15

  Bosch got up early to review his notes and the reports in the murder book. He waited to call Lucia Soto at precisely twenty minutes after eight. He knew that if she had not deviated from her routine since she had served as his partner in the last few months of his LAPD career, then she would be walking to the Starbucks on First Street, a block from the PAB.