Lost Light (28 page)

“I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,” he said. “You want something?”

“I think I’ll be fine. But thanks.”

He nodded and went out, closing the door behind him. The moment it clicked I was up out of my seat and moving behind the desk. I sat down and dove into the file.

For the most part, Szatmari’s file was filled with documents I had already seen before. There were also copies of contracts and directives between Global and its client BankLA that were new, as well as summaries of interviews with several bank and film company employees. Szatmari had conducted interviews with every one of the security transport men who had been on the scene the day of the shoot-out and heist.

But there was no interview with me. As usual the LAPD had put up a wall. Szatmari’s request to interview me never even got to me. Not that I would have accepted the request if I had seen it. I had an arrogance then that I hoped I had now lost.

I scanned the interviews and summaries as fast as I could, paying particular attention to the reports pertaining to the three bank employees I hoped to talk to later in the day, Gordon Scaggs, Linus Simonson and Jocelyn Jones. The subjects did not give Szatmari much. Scaggs was the one who handled everything and he was very specific as to the steps he had taken and the planning of the one-day loan of $2 million in cash. The interviews with Simonson and Jones depicted them as worker bees who did what they were told. They could have just as easily been putting labels on cans as counting twenty thousand hundred-dollar bills and writing down eight hundred serial numbers while they were at it.

My curiosity meter jumped when I came across documents pertaining to the financial backgrounds of Jack Dorsey, Lawton Cross and myself. Szatmari had pulled TRW reports on all of us. He had apparently called our banks and credit-card companies. He wrote short summaries on each of us, my record coming out cleanest, while Cross and Dorsey did not fare as well. According to Szatmari, both men carried huge credit-card debt, with Dorsey in the most difficult financial position because he was divorced but still supporting four children, two of whom were in college.

The door to the office opened and the secretary looked in, just about to say something to Szatmari when she saw it was me behind his desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for Mr. Szatmari. He went to get a coffee.”

She put her hands on her ample hips, the international sign of indignation.

“Did he tell you to go behind his desk and start reading that file?”

It was incumbent upon me not to leave Szatmari in a potential jam.

“He told me to wait. I’m waiting.”

“Well, you get right back around to the other side of that desk. I’ll be informing Mr. Szatmari about what I saw.”

I closed the file, got up and came around the desk as instructed.

“You know, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t do that,” I said.

“I don’t care what you’d appreciate, I’m telling him.”

She then disappeared, leaving the door open in her wake. A few minutes went by and Szatmari stormed in and closed the door sharply. He then lost his anger as he turned to face me. He was carrying a coffee mug with steam rising out of it.

“Thanks for playing it that way,” he said. “I just hope you got whatever you needed because now to make good on the little fit I had out there I have to throw you out.”

“No problem,” I said, standing up. “I’ve got one question, though.”

“Go ahead.”

“Was that just routine to do the background financials on the cops on the case? Me, Jack Dorsey and Lawton Cross.”

Szatmari folded his brow as he tried to remember the reason for the financial checks. Then he shrugged.

“I forgot about that. I think I just thought that with the money that was at stake I should check everybody out. Especially you, Bosch, with the coincidence of you being there at the set at the right moment.”

I nodded. It sounded like a solid investigative move.

“Are you angry about it?”

“Me? No, not mad. I was just curious about where it came from, that’s all.”

“Anything else helpful?”

“Maybe, you never know.”

“Good luck then. If you don’t mind, keep me informed of any progress.”

“I will. I’ll let you know.”

We shook hands. On my way out I passed by the indignant secretary and told her to have a nice day. She didn’t respond.

 

T
he interview with Gordon Scaggs went quickly and smoothly. He met me at the agreed-upon time at the BankLA tower in downtown. His forty-second-floor office faced east and had one of the best views of the city’s smog I had ever seen. His recounting of his involvement in the ill-fated $2 million loan to Eidolon Productions deviated in no noticeable way from his statement in the murder book. He negotiated a $50,000 fee for the bank, the costs of security included. The money was to go out in the morning on the day of filming and come back before 6
P.M
. closing time.

“I knew there was a risk,” Scaggs told me. “But I saw a nice, quick profit for the bank. I guess you could say that clouded my vision.”

Scaggs turned the money transport issues over to Ray Vaughn, head of bank security, while he turned his attention to the chores of insuring the one-day operation through Global Underwriters and then gathering together the $2 million in cash. It would have been highly unusual for a single bank—even the downtown flagship—to have that much money in cash available on one day. So in the days before the loan took place Scaggs had to arrange for cash shipments from various BankLA branches to the downtown location. On the day of the loan the money was loaded into an armored vehicle and driven from downtown to the movie set in Hollywood. Ray Vaughn rode in a lead car. He was in constant radio contact with the driver of the armored truck and led him on a meandering course through Hollywood in an effort to determine if they were being followed.

When they arrived at the set location they were met by more armed security and Linus Simonson, one of the assistants who had helped Scaggs pull the cash together and had created the list of serial numbers the insurance company had demanded.

And, of course, the bank entourage was met by the hooded and heavily armed robbers as well.

One thing new I got from Scaggs during the initial part of the interview was that bank policy had changed since the heist. BankLA no longer engaged in what he called boutique cash loans to the movie industry.

“What is that saying?” he asked. “Once burned is an education. Twice burned is just plain stupidity. Well, we’re not stupid here, Mr. Bosch. We’re not going to get burned by those people again.”

I nodded in agreement.

“So you feel confident it was ‘those people’ where this came from? The heist originated over there and not here within the bank?”

Scaggs looked indignant at the very thought of anything else.

“I should say so. Look at the poor girl who was murdered. She worked for them, not me.”

“True. But her murder could have been part of the plan. To throw suspicion on the movie production instead of the bank.”

“Impossible. The police have been over this place with a fine-tooth comb. Same with the insurance company. We received a clean bill of health from everyone involved. We are absolutely one-hundred-percent clean on this.”

I nodded again.

“Then I guess you won’t mind if I talk to your employees, too. I’d like to speak to Linus Simonson and Jocelyn Jones.”

Scaggs realized he’d been cornered. How could he not let me speak to employees after that ringing endorsement of honesty and innocence on the bank’s behalf?

“The answer is yes and no,” he said. “Jocelyn is still with us. She’s an assistant branch manager now in West Hollywood. I don’t think there will be a problem talking to her.

“And Linus Simonson?”

“Linus never came back to us after that awful day. I guess you know he got shot up by those bastards. Him and Ray. Ray didn’t make it but Linus did. He was in the hospital and then he was on sick leave and then he didn’t want to come back at all and I can’t see as I blame him.”

“He quit?”

“That’s right.”

I had not seen mention of this in the murder book or even in Szatmari’s records. I knew the investigation was most intense in the days and weeks after the heist. This was probably when Simonson was still recovering and still technically an employee. The investigative records generated at this time would have no reason to mention his leaving employment at the bank.

“Do you know where he went from here?”

“I used to. I don’t now. But to lay it all out there for you, Linus went and got himself a lawyer who started making liability claims. You know, that the bank put Linus in harm’s way and all of this nonsense. None of the claims mentioned that he volunteered to be out there that day.”

“He wanted to be there?”

“Sure. He was a young guy. He grew up in town and probably had Hollywood aspirations at one time or another. Everybody does. He thought spending the day on the set, being the guy in charge of the money, would be a good deal. He volunteered and I said fine, go. I wanted somebody from my office there anyway. Besides Ray Vaughn, I mean.”

“So did Simonson actually sue the bank or just make noise with his lawyer?”

“He made noise. But he made enough noise that legal settled him out. They gave him a chunk of cash and he went away. I heard he used it to buy a nightclub.”

“How much they give him?”

“I don’t know. One time I asked our attorney, Jim Foreman, what the kid got and he wouldn’t tell me. He said terms of the settlement were confidential. But from what I understand, this club he bought, it was a nice one. One of those Hollywood-type places.”

I thought of the portrait I had looked at in the legal library while waiting to see Janis Langwiser.

“Your lawyer is James Foreman?”

“Not my lawyer. The bank’s lawyer. Outside counsel. They decided not to keep it in-house because of the possible conflict.”

I nodded.

“Do you know the name of the club he bought?”

“No, I don’t.”

I sat there looking past Scaggs at the smog through the window behind him. I was seeing but not seeing. I had gone inside where I was feeling the first stirrings of instinct and excitement, of the state of grace that comes with my religion.

“Mr. Bosch?” Scaggs said. “Don’t disappear on me. I’ve got an officers’ meeting in five minutes.”

I came out of it and looked at him.

“Sorry, sir. I’m done here. For now. But before your meeting can you call Jocelyn Jones and tell her I’m coming out to see her? I need to know where the branch is, too.”

“That will be no problem.”

 

O
n the way to the West Hollywood branch of BankLA to see Jocelyn Jones I had some time to kill so I drove west on Hollywood Boulevard. I had not been down there much since my retirement and I wanted to see the old beat. According to the newspaper it was changing and I wanted to see this for myself.

The asphalt on the boulevard still glittered in the sunlight but the storefronts and office buildings near Vine still slumbered beneath the patina of a half century of smog. No difference there. But once past Cahuenga and onto Highland I saw where the new Hollywood was springing to life. New hotels—and I’m not talking about the type with hourly rates—and theaters, people centers with popular up-style restaurant franchises anchoring them. The streets and sidewalks were crowded, the brass stars imbedded in the sidewalks were polished. It was safer and cleaner but less genuine. Still, the word that popped into my head was
hope.
There was a sense of hope and vigor. There was a definite vibe coming off the street and I guess I liked it. The idea, I knew, was that the vibe would spread from this core area and move down the boulevard like an earthquake wave, leaving renovation and reinvention in its wake. A few years ago I would have been first to say the plan had no chance. But maybe I was wrong.

Still feeling lucky from Vegas I decided to let the vibe ride and dropped down Fairfax to Third and pulled into the farmer’s market to grab something to eat.

The market was another remake job I had stayed away from. There was a new parking garage and open-air people center built next to the old clapboard market with its comforting combination of good, cheap food and kitsch. I think I liked it better when you could just pull into a parking space next to the newsstand but I had to admit they had done it right. It was the old and new sitting side by side and getting along. I walked through the new section, past the department stores and the biggest bookstore I had ever seen and into the old. Bob’s Donuts was still there and every other place that I remembered. It was crowded. People were happy. It was too late in the day for a doughnut so I picked up a BLT and change for a dollar at the Kokomo Café and ate the sandwich in one of the old-time phone booths that they had left in place next to the Dupar’s. I called Roy Lindell first and caught him eating at his desk.

“What do you have?”

“Tuna on rye with pickles.”

“That’s sick.”

“Yeah, what do you have?”

“BLT. Double-smoked bacon from Kokomo’s.”

“Well, that beats me all to hell. What do you want, Bosch? Last time I saw you, you wanted nothing to do with me. In fact, I thought you went to Vegas.”

“I did go but I’m back. And things are smoothing out now. You could say I’ve come to an understanding with your pals on the ninth floor. You want back in on this thing or you want to pout about it?”

“You got something?”

“Maybe. Not much more than a feeling at the moment.”

“What do you want from me?”