Echo Park (11 page)

“When do we go?” Bosch asked.

“I’ll go see the judge today. We’ll go tomorrow morning if you want.”

“Wait a minute,” Olivas said. “What about the other seven? We still have a lot to talk to this bastard about.”

O’Shea held one hand up in a calming motion.

“Let’s make Gesto the test case. He either puts up or shuts up with this one. Then we’ll go from there.”

O’Shea turned and looked directly at Bosch.

“You going to be ready for this?” he asked.

Bosch nodded.

“I’ve been ready for thirteen years.”

13

T
HAT NIGHT, RACHEL
brought dinner up to the house after calling first to see if Bosch was home. Bosch put some music on the stereo, and Rachel laid the dinner out on the dining room table on plates from the kitchen. The dinner was pot roast with a side of creamed corn. She’d brought a bottle of Merlot, too, and it took Bosch five minutes of hunting through kitchen drawers to find a corkscrew. They didn’t talk about the case until they were sitting across from each other at the table.

“So,” she said, “how did it go today?”

Bosch shrugged before answering.

“It went okay. Your take on everything was very helpful. Tomorrow’s the field trip, and in Rick O’Shea’s words, it will be put-up or shut-up time.”

“Field trip? Where to?”

“The top of Beachwood Canyon. He says that’s where he buried her. I drove up there today after the interview and looked around—couldn’t find anything, even using his description. Back in ’ninety-three we had the cadets looking in the canyon for three days and they found nothing. The woods are thick up there but he says he can find the spot.”

“Do you believe he’s the guy?”

“It looks like it. He’s convinced everybody else and there’s that call he made to us back then. That’s pretty convincing.”

“But what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s my ego not being ready to accept I was so wrong, that for thirteen years I was looking at one guy and I was wrong about him. Nobody wants to face that, I guess.”

Bosch concentrated on eating for a few moments. He then chased a mouthful of pot roast with some wine and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Man, this stuff is great. Where’d you get it?”

She smiled.

“Just another restaurant.”

“No, this is the best pot roast I think I’ve ever had.”

“It’s a place called Jar. They say it stands for Just Another Restaurant.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“It’s off Beverly near my place. They’ve got a long bar where you can eat. After moving out here I ate there a lot at first. Alone. Suzanne and Preech always take care of me. They let me take food to go and it’s not that kind of place.”

“They’re the cooks?”

“Chefs. Suzanne’s also the owner. I love sitting there at the bar and watching the people come in, watching their eyes scanning the place to see who’s who. A lot of celebrities go there. You also get the foodies and you get the regular people. They’re the most interesting.”

“Somebody once said that if you circle around a murder long enough you get to know a city. Maybe it’s the same with sitting at the counter in a restaurant.”

“And easier to do. Harry, are you changing the subject or are you going to tell me about Raynard Waits’s confession?”

“I’m getting to it. I thought we’d finish eating first.”

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s not that. I think I just need a break from it. I don’t know.”

She nodded like she understood. She poured more wine into their glasses.

“I like the music. Who is this?”

Bosch nodded, his mouth full once again.

“I call this ‘miracle in a box.’ It’s John Coltrane and Thelonious Monk at Carnegie Hall. The concert was recorded in nineteen fifty-seven and the tape sat in an unmarked box in archives for almost fifty years. Just sat there, forgotten. Then some Library of Congress guy was going through all the boxes and performance tapes and recognized what they had there. They finally put this out last year.”

“It’s nice.”

“It’s more than nice. It’s a miracle to think it was there all that time. It took the right person to find it. To recognize it.”

He looked at her eyes for a moment. He then looked down at his plate and saw he was down to his last bite.

“What would you have done for dinner if I hadn’t called?” Rachel asked.

Bosch looked back at her and shrugged. He finished eating and started telling her about Raynard Waits’s confession.

“He’s lying,” she said when he was finished.

“About the name? We’ve got that covered.”

“No, about the plan. Rather, the lack of a plan. He tells you he just saw her in the Mayfair, followed her and grabbed her. Uh-uh, no way. I don’t buy that. The whole thing doesn’t feel like a spur-of-the-moment thing. There was a plan to this, whether he’s telling you or not.”

Bosch nodded. He had the same misgivings about the confession.

“We’ll know more tomorrow, I guess,” he said.

“I wish I could be there.”

Bosch shook his head.

“I can’t make a federal case out of this. Besides, it’s not what you do anymore. Your own people wouldn’t let you go, even if you were invited.”

“I know. I can still wish.”

Bosch got up and started clearing the plates. They worked side by side at the sink and after everything was cleaned and put away they took the bottle out on the deck. There was enough left for them each to have a half glass.

The evening chill drew them close to one another as they stood at the railing and looked down at the lights in the Cahuenga Pass.

“Are you staying tonight?” Bosch asked.

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to call, you know. I’ll give you a key. Just come up.”

She turned and looked at him. He put his arm around her waist.

“That fast? Are you saying all is forgiven?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. The past is past and life’s too short. You know, all of those clichés.”

She smiled and they sealed it with a kiss. They finished their wine and went inside to the bedroom. They made love slowly and quietly. At one point Bosch opened his eyes and looked at her and lost his rhythm. She noticed.

“What?” she whispered.

“Nothing. It’s just that you keep your eyes open.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“No, you’re not.”

She smiled and turned her face away from him.

“This is sort of an awkward time for a discussion,” she said.

He smiled and used his hand to turn her face to his. He kissed her and they both kept their eyes open now. Halfway through the kiss they started laughing.

Bosch craved the intimacy and reveled in the escape it brought. He knew she knew this, too. Her gift to him was in taking him away from the world. And that was why the past no longer mattered. He closed his eyes but didn’t stop smiling.

Part Two

THE FIELD TRIP

14

I
T SEEMED TO BOSCH
to take forever to amass the motorcade, but by 10:30 Wednesday morning the entourage was finally pulling out of the basement garage of the Criminal Courts Building.

The first car in line was unmarked. It was driven by Olivas. A sheriff’s deputy from the jail division was riding shotgun, while in the back, Bosch and Rider were positioned on either side of Raynard Waits. The prisoner was in a bright orange jumpsuit and was bound by shackles on his ankles and wrists. The manacles on his wrists were secured in front to a chain that went around his waist.

Another unmarked car, driven by Rick O’Shea and carrying Maury Swann and a DA’s office evidence videographer, was second in the motorcade. It was followed by two vans, one from the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division and the other from the coroner’s office. The group was prepared to locate and disinter the body of Marie Gesto.

In was a perfect day for a field trip. A brief overnight rain shower had cleared the sky and it was a brilliant blue with just the last wisps of upper-level clouds in view. The streets were still wet and shiny. The precipitation had also kept the temperature from climbing with the sun’s ascent. Though there can never be a good day to dig up the body of a twenty-two-year-old woman, the glory of the weather would offer a counterbalance to the grim duty at hand.

The vehicles stayed in a tight formation as they made their way onto the North 101 Freeway off the Broadway ramp. Traffic was heavy in downtown and moving at a slower than usual pace because of the wet streets. Bosch asked Olivas to crack a window to let in some fresh air and hopefully wash out the funk of Waits’s body odor. It had become apparent that the admitted killer had not been allowed a shower or issued a laundered jumpsuit that morning.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and light up, Detective?” Waits said.

Since they were sitting shoulder to shoulder Bosch had to turn awkwardly to look at Waits.

“I want the window open because of you, Waits. You stink. I haven’t had a smoke in five years.”

“I’m sure.”

“Why do you think you know me? We’ve never met. What makes you think you know me, Waits?”

“I don’t know you. I know your type. You have an addictive personality, Detective. Murder cases, cigarettes, maybe even the alcohol I smell coming out of your pores. You’re not that hard to read.”

Waits smiled and Bosch looked away. He thought about things for a moment before speaking again.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Are you talking to me?” Waits asked.

“Yes, I’m talking to you. I want to know. Who are you?”

“Bosch,” Olivas quickly interjected from the front. “The deal is, we don’t question him without Maury Swann being present. So leave him alone.”

“This isn’t an interrogation. I’m just making conversation back here.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care what you want to call it. Don’t.”

Bosch could see Olivas looking at him in the rearview mirror. They held each other’s stare until Olivas had to put his eyes back on the road.

Bosch leaned forward so that he could turn and look past Waits and over at Rider. She rolled her eyes at him. It was her don’t-make-trouble look.

“Maury Swann,” Bosch said. “Yeah, he’s a good goddamn lawyer, all right. Got this man the deal of a lifetime.”

“Bosch!” Olivas said.

“I’m not talking to him. I’m talking to my partner.”

Bosch leaned back, deciding to drop it. Next to him the manacles clinked as Waits tried to adjust his position.

“You didn’t have to take the deal, Detective Bosch,” he said quietly.

“It wasn’t my choice,” Bosch said without looking at him. “If it had been, we wouldn’t be doing this.”

Waits nodded.

“An eye for an eye, man,” he said. “I could have guessed. You’re the kind of man who would—”

“Waits,” Olivas said sharply. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

Olivas reached toward the dash and turned on the radio. Loud mariachi music blared from the speakers. He immediately slapped the button to kill the sound.

“Who the fuck was driving this last?” he asked of no one in particular.

Bosch knew Olivas was covering up. He was embarrassed that he had not changed the channel or lowered the volume when he brought the car back last time.

The car remained silent. They were cutting through Hollywood now, and Olivas put on his turn signal and moved into the exit lane for Gower Avenue. Bosch turned around to look out the back window and see if they still had the other three vehicles with them. The group remained intact. But Bosch could now see a helicopter trailing above the motorcade. It had a large number 4 on its white underbelly. Bosch jerked back around and looked at Olivas in the rearview.

“Who called out the media, Olivas? Was that you or your boss?”

“My boss? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Olivas glanced at him in the mirror but then quickly back at the road. It was too furtive a move. Bosch knew he was lying.

“Yeah, right. What’s in this for you? Ricochet’s going to make you chief of investigations after he wins? Is that it?”

Now Olivas held his eyes in the mirror.

“I’m not getting anywhere in the department. I might as well go where I’m respected and my skills are valued.”

“What, is that the line you say to yourself in the mirror each morning?”

“Fuck you, Bosch.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Waits said. “Can’t we all just get along here?”

“Shut up, Waits,” Bosch said. “You might not care that this is being turned into a commercial for Candidate O’Shea, but I do. Olivas, pull over. I want to talk to O’Shea.”

Olivas shook his head.

“No way. Not with a custody in the car.”

They were coming down the exit ramp to Gower. Olivas took a quick right and they came to the light at Franklin. It turned green as they got there and they crossed Franklin and started up Beachwood Drive.

Olivas would not have to stop until they got to the top. Bosch pulled out his cell phone and called the number O’Shea had given everyone in the CCB garage that morning before heading off.

“O’Shea.”

“It’s Bosch. I don’t think it was a smart thing to call the media out on this.”

O’Shea held for a moment before answering.

“They’re a safe distance. They’re in the air.”

“And who’s going to be waiting for us at the top of Beachwood?”

“No one, Bosch. I was very specific with them. They could track us from the air but anyone on the ground would compromise the operation. You don’t have to worry. They are working with me. They know they have to establish the relationship.”

“Whatever.”

Bosch closed his phone and jammed it back into his pocket.

“You need to calm down, Detective,” Waits said.

“And, Waits, you need to keep quiet.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

The car turned silent again. Bosch decided that his anger over the trailing media chopper and everything else was a distraction he didn’t need. He tried to put it out of his mind and think about what was ahead.

Beachwood Canyon was a quiet neighborhood on the slope of the Santa Monica Mountains between Hollywood and Los Feliz. It didn’t have the rustic, wooded charm of Laurel Canyon to the west but it was preferred by its inhabitants because it was quieter, safer, and self-contained. Unlike most of the canyon passes to the west, Beachwood reached a dead end at the top. It was not a route for going over the mountains, and consequently, the traffic in Beachwood did not consist of people just passing through. It consisted of people who belonged. That made it feel like a real neighborhood.

As they ascended, they saw that the Hollywood sign atop Mount Lee was directly in view through the windshield. It had been put up on the next ridge more than eighty years ago to advertise the Hollywoodland real-estate development at the top of Beachwood. The sign was eventually shortened and now advertised a state of mind more than anything else. The only official indication left of Hollywoodland was the fortresslike stone gateway halfway up Beachwood.

The gateway, with its historical plaque commemorating the development, led to a small village circle with shops, a neighborhood market and the enduring Hollywoodland real-estate office. Further up, at the dead end at the top, was the Sunset Ranch, the starting point of more than fifty miles of horse trails that stretched over the mountains into and throughout Griffith Park. This was where Marie Gesto traded menial work in the stables for time on horseback. This was where the grim motorcade of investigators, body recovery experts and a manacled killer finally came to a stop.

The Sunset Ranch parking lot was merely a level clearing located on the slope below the ranch itself. Gravel had been dumped and spread. Visitors to the ranch had to park here and then leg it up to the stables at the top. The parking lot was isolated and surrounded by dense woods. It could not be seen from the ranch and that was what Waits had counted on when he had stalked and abducted Marie Gesto.

Bosch waited impatiently in the car until Olivas disabled the rear door locks. He then got out and looked up at the helicopter circling above. He had to work hard to keep his anger in check. He closed the car door and made sure it was locked. The plan was to leave Waits locked inside until everyone was sure the area was secure. Bosch walked directly to O’Shea as he was getting out of his car.

“Call your contact at Channel Four and ask them to take the chopper up another five hundred feet. The noise is a distraction we don’t—”

“I already did, Bosch. Okay? Look, I know you don’t like the media presence but it is an open society we live in and the public has a right to know what is going on here.”

“Especially when it can help with your election, right?”

O’Shea spoke to him impatiently.

“Educating voters is what a campaign is all about. Excuse me, we have a body to find.”

O’Shea abruptly walked away from him and over to Olivas, who was maintaining a vigil next to the car containing Waits. Bosch noticed that the sheriff’s deputy was also standing guard at the rear of the car. He was holding a shotgun at ready position.

Rider came up to Bosch.

“Harry, are you all right?”

“Never better. Just watch your back with these people.”

He was watching O’Shea and Olivas. They were now conferring about something. The sound of the helicopter’s rotor blades prevented Bosch from hearing their exchange.

Rider put her hand on his arm in a calming gesture.

“Let’s just forget about the politics and get this over with,” Rider said. “There’s something more important than all of that. Let’s find Marie and bring her home. That’s what is important.”

Bosch looked down at her hand on his arm, realized she was right and nodded.

“Okay.”

A few minutes later O’Shea and Olivas convened everyone except Waits in a circle in the gravel parking lot. In addition to the lawyers, investigators, and the sheriff’s deputy, there were two body recovery experts from the coroner’s office, along with a forensic archaeologist named Kathy Kohl and an LAPD forensic tech, as well as the videographer from the DA’s office. Bosch had worked with almost all of them before.

O’Shea waited until the videographer had his camera going before he addressed the troops.

“Okay, people, we are here on a grim duty, to find and collect the remains of Marie Gesto,” he said somberly. “Raynard Waits, the man in the car, is going to lead us to the place where he has told us he buried her. Our primary concern here is the security of the suspect and the safety of all of you people at all times. Be careful and be alert. Four of us are armed. Mr. Waits will be manacled and under the watchful eyes of the detectives and Deputy Doolan, with the shotgun. Mr. Waits will lead the way and we all will be watching his every move. I would like the video and the gas probe to go along with us while the rest of you wait here. When we find the location and confirm the body we will back away until we can secure Mr. Waits and then all of you will come to the location, which will, of course, be handled as the crime scene it is. Any questions so far?”

Maury Swann raised his hand.

“I am not staying here,” he said. “I am going to be with my client at all times.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Swann,” O’Shea said. “But I don’t think you are dressed for it.”

It was true. Inexplicably, Swann had worn a suit to a body excavation. Everyone else was dressed for the job. Bosch wore blue jeans, hiking boots, and an old academy sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves. Rider wore similar attire. Olivas was in jeans, a T-shirt, and nylon windbreaker that said
LAPD
across the back. The others in the troop were dressed the same way.

“I don’t care,” Swann said. “If I ruin my shoes I’ll write them off as a business expense. But I stay with my client. Not negotiable.”

“Fine,” O’Shea said. “Just don’t get too close or get in the way.”

“Not a problem.”

“Okay, then, people, let’s do this.”

Olivas and the deputy went to the car to retrieve Waits. Bosch heard the noise of the circling helicopter getting louder as the news crew came down for a better angle and a closer look with their camera.

After Waits was helped up out of the car, his manacles were checked by Olivas and he was led into the clearing. The deputy stayed six feet behind him at all times with the shotgun up and ready. Olivas kept a grip on Waits’s upper left arm. They stopped when they reached the others in the group.

“Mr. Waits, fair warning,” O’Shea said. “If you make an attempt to run, these officers will shoot you down. Do you understand that?”

“Of course,” Waits said. “And they would do it gladly, I’m sure.”

“Then we understand each other. Lead the way.”