Michael Connelly (108 page)

He wondered now if he was doing just that, disturbing the balance. He had lied to her. He was involved in the new case to
some degree, but he was done for the day and was going home. He had lied because he felt the need to be alone. With his thoughts.
With the Dollmaker.

He flipped through the second binder to the back where there were clear plastic Ziploc pouches for holding documentary evidence.
In these were copies of the Dollmaker’s previous letters. There were three of them. The killer had begun sending them after
the media firestorm started and he had been christened with the name Dollmaker. One had gone to Bosch, prior to the eleventh
killing — the last. The other two had gone to Bremmer at the
Times
after the seventh and eleventh killings. Harry now studied the photocopy of the envelope that was addressed to him in a printed
script of block letters. Then he looked at the poem on the folded page. It also had been printed in the same oddly slanted
block script. He read the words he already knew by heart.

I feel compelled to forewarn and forsake.

T’night I’m out for a snack — my lust partake.

    Another doll for the shelf, as it were’t.

    She breathes her last — just as I squirt.

A little late mommy and daddy weeple

    A fine young miss ’neath my steeple.

As I tight the purse strings ’fore preparing the wash.

    I hear the last gasp — a sound like Boschhhhh!

Bosch closed the binders and put them in his briefcase. He turned off the TV and headed out to the back parking lot. He held
the station door for two uniform cops who were wrestling with a handcuffed drunk. The drunk threw a kick out at him but Harry
stepped outside of its reach.

He pointed the Caprice north and took Outpost Road up to Mulholland, which he then took to Woodrow Wilson. After pulling into
the carport, he sat with his hands on the wheel for a long time. He thought about the letters and the signature the Dollmaker
had left on each victim’s body, the cross painted on the toenail. After Church was dead they figured out what it had meant.
The cross had been the steeple. The steeple of a Church.

In the morning, Bosch sat on the rear deck of his house and watched the sun come up over the Cahuenga Pass. It burned away
the morning fog and bathed the wildflowers on the hillside that had burned the winter before. He watched and smoked and drank
coffee until the sound of traffic on the Hollywood Freeway became one uninterrupted hiss from the pass below.

He dressed in his dark blue suit with a white shirt that had a button-down collar. As he put on a maroon tie dotted with gold
gladiator helmets in front of the bedroom mirror, he wondered about how he must appear to the jurors. He had noticed the day
before that when he made eye contact with any of the twelve, they were always the first to look away. What did that mean?
He would have liked to ask Belk what it meant but he did not like Belk and knew he would feel uncomfortable asking his opinion
on anything.

Using the same hole poked through it before, he secured the tie in place with his silver tie tack that said “187” — the California
penal code for murder. He used a plastic comb to put his brown-and-gray hair, still wet from the shower, in place and then
combed his mustache. He put Visine drops in his eyes and then leaned close to the glass to study them. Red-rimmed from little
sleep, the irises as dark as ice on asphalt. Why do they look away from me, he wondered again. He thought about how Chandler
had described him the day before. And he knew why.

He was heading to the door, briefcase in hand, when it opened before he got there. Sylvia stepped in while pulling her key
out of the lock.

“Hi,” she said when she saw him. “I hoped I’d catch you.”

She smiled. She was wearing khaki pants and a pink shirt with a button-down collar. He knew she did not wear dresses on Tuesday
and Thursday because those were her assigned days as a schoolyard rover. Sometimes she had to run after students. Sometimes
she had to break up fights. The sun coming through the porch door turned her dark blonde hair gold.

“Catch me at what?”

She came to him smiling still and they kissed.

“I know I’m making you late. I’m late, too. But I just wanted to come and say good luck today. Not that you need it.”

He held on to her, smelling her hair. It had been nearly a year since they met, but Bosch still held to her sometimes with
the fear that she might abruptly turn and leave, declare her attraction to him a mistake. Perhaps he was still a substitute
for the husband she’d lost, a cop like Harry, a narcotics detective whose apparent suicide Bosch had investigated.

Their relationship had progressed to a point of complete comfortableness but in recent weeks he had felt a sense of inertia
begin to set in. She had, too, and had even talked about it. She said the problem was he could not drop his guard completely
and he knew this was true. Bosch had spent a lifetime alone, but not necessarily lonely. He had secrets, many of them buried
too deep to give up to her. Not so soon.

“Thanks for coming by,” he said, pulling back and looking down into her face to see the light still there. She had gotten
a fleck of lipstick on one of her front teeth. “You be careful in the yard today, huh?”

“Yes.” Then she frowned. “I know what you said, but I want to come and watch court — at least one day. I want to be there
for you, Harry.”

“You don’t have to be there to be there. Know what I mean?”

She nodded but he knew his answer didn’t satisfy her. They dropped it and small-talked for a few minutes more, making plans
to get together that night for dinner. Bosch said he would come to her place in Bouquet Canyon. They kissed again and headed
out, he to court and she to the high school, both places fraught with danger.

• • •

There was always an adrenaline rush at the start of each day as the courtroom fell silent and they waited for the judge to
open his door and step up to the bench. It was 9:10 and still no sign of the judge, which was unusual because he had been
a stickler for promptness during the week of jury selection. Bosch looked around and saw several reporters, maybe more than
the day before. He found this curious since opening arguments were always such a draw.

Belk leaned toward Bosch and whispered, “Keyes is probably in there reading the
Times
story. Did you see it?”

Running late because of Sylvia, Bosch had had no time to read the paper. He’d left it on the mat at the front door.

“What’d it say?”

The paneled door opened and the judge came out before Belk could answer.

“Hold the jury, Miss Rivera,” the judge said to his clerk. He dropped his girth into his padded chair, surveyed the courtroom
and said, “Counsel, any matters for discussion before we bring the jury in? Ms. Chandler?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Chandler said as she walked to the lectern.

Today she had on the gray suit. She had been alternating among three suits since jury selection began. Belk had told Bosch
that this was because she didn’t want to give the jurors the idea that she was wealthy. He said women lawyers could lose women
jurors over something like that.

“Your Honor, the plaintiff asks for sanctions against Detective Bosch and Mr. Belk.”

She held up the folded Metro section of the
Times
. Bosch could see the story had caught the bottom right corner, same as the story the day before. The headline said CONCRETE
BLONDE TIED TO DOLLMAKER. Belk stood but did not say anything, for once observing the judge’s strict decorum of noninterruption.

“Sanctions for what, Ms. Chandler?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, the discovery of this body yesterday has a tremendous evidentiary impact on this case. As an officer of the court,
it was incumbent upon Mr. Belk to bring this information forward. Under Rule 11 of discovery, defendant’s attorney must —”

“Your Honor,” Belk interrupted, “I was not informed of this development until last night. My intention was to bring the matter
forward this morning. She is —”

“Hold it right there, Mr. Belk. One at a time in my courtroom. Seems you need a daily reminder of that. Ms. Chandler, I read
that story you are referring to and though Detective Bosch was mentioned because of this case, he was not quoted. And Mr.
Belk has rather rudely pointed out that he knew nothing about this until after court yesterday. Frankly, I don’t see a sanctionable
offense here. Unless you’ve got a card you haven’t played.”

She did.

“Your Honor, Detective Bosch was well aware of this development, whether quoted or not. He was at the scene during yesterday’s
lunch break.”

“Your Honor?” Belk tried timidly.

Judge Keyes turned but looked at Bosch, not Belk.

“That right, Detective Bosch, what she says?”

Bosch looked at Belk for a moment and then up at the judge. Fucking Belk, he thought. His lie had left Bosch holding the bag.

“I was there, Your Honor. When I got back here for the afternoon session, there was no time to tell Mr. Belk about the discovery.
I told him after court last night. I didn’t see the paper yet this morning and I don’t know what it says, but nothing has
been confirmed about this body in regard to the Doll-maker or anyone else. There isn’t even an ID yet.”

“Your Honor,” Chandler said, “Detective Bosch has conveniently forgotten that we had a fifteen-minute break during the afternoon
session. I should think that was ample time for the detective to fill in his attorney on such important information.”

The judge looked at Bosch.

“I wanted to tell him during the break but Mr. Belk said he needed the time to prepare his opening statement.”

The judge eyed him closely for several seconds without saying anything. Bosch could tell the judge knew he was pushing the
edge of the envelope of truth. Judge Keyes seemed to be making some kind of decision.

“Well, Ms. Chandler,” he finally said. “I don’t rightly see the conspiracy that you do here. I’m going to let this go with
a warning to all parties; withholding evidence is the most heinous crime you can commit in my courtroom. If you do it and
I catch ya, you’re gonna wish you never took the LSAT. Now, do we want to talk about this new development?”

“Your Honor,” Belk said quickly. He moved to the lectern. “In light of this discovery less than twenty-four hours ago, I move
for a continuance so that this situation can be thoroughly investigated so that it can be determined exactly what it means
to this case.”

Now he finally asks, Bosch thought. He knew there was no way he’d get a delay now.

“Uh, huh,” Judge Keyes said. “What do you think about that, Ms. Chandler?”

“No delay, Your Honor. This family has waited four years for this trial. I think any further delay would be perpetuating the
crime. Besides, who does Mr. Belk propose investigate this matter, Detective Bosch?”

“I am sure the defense counselor would be satisfied with the LAPD handling the investigation,” the judge said.

“But I wouldn’t.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Ms. Chandler, but that’s not your concern. You said yourself yesterday that the wide majority of police
in this city are good, competent people. You’ll just have to live by your own words….But I am going to deny the request for
a continuation. We’ve started a trial and we’re not going to stop. The police can and should investigate this matter and keep
the court informed but I’m not going to stand by. This case will continue until such time that these events need to be addressed
again. Anything else? I’ve got a jury waiting.”

“What about the story in the newspaper?” Belk asked.

“What about it?”

“Your Honor, I’d like the jury to be polled to see if anyone read it. Also, they should be warned again not to read the papers
or watch the TV news tonight. All of the channels will likely follow the
Times
.”

“I instructed jurors yesterday not to read the paper or watch the news but I plan to poll them anyway about this very story.
Let’s see what they say and then, depending on what we hear, we can clear ’em out again if you want to talk about a mistrial.”

“I don’t want a mistrial,” Chandler said. “That’s what the defendant wants. That’ll just delay this another two months. This
family has already waited four years for justice. They —”

“Well, let’s just see what the jury says. Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Chandler.”

“Your Honor, may I be heard on sanctions?” Belk said. “I don’t think you need to be, Mr. Belk. I denied her motion for sanctions.
What more’s to be said?”

“I know that, Your Honor. I would like to ask for sanctions against Miss Chandler. She has defamed me by alleging this cover-up
of the evidence and I —”

“Mr. Belk, sit down. I’ll tell you both right now; quit with the extracurricular sparring because it doesn’t get you anywhere
with me. No sanctions either way. One last time, any other matters?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Chandler said.