Michael Connelly (40 page)

Bosch felt better. The Mercedes turned west and then north again on the Golden State Freeway toward Los Angeles. The traffic
crept slowly into downtown, and then the gold car went west on the Santa Monica Freeway, exiting on Robertson at twenty minutes
before five. They were heading into Beverly Hills. Wilshire Boulevard was lined with banks from downtown to the ocean. As
the Mercedes turned west, Bosch felt they had to be close. Tran would keep his treasure at a bank near his home, he thought.
The gamble had been right. He relaxed a bit and finally got around to asking Eleanor what Rourke had said when she called
in.

“He confirmed through the Orange County clerk’s office that Jimmie Bok is Nguyen Tran. They had a fictitious name filing.
He changed his name nine years ago. We should’ve checked Orange County. I forgot about Little Saigon.

“Also,” she said, “if this guy Tran had diamonds, he might have used them all up already. Property recs show he owns two more
shopping centers like that one back there. In Monterey Park and Diamond Bar.”

Bosch told himself it was still possible. The diamonds could be the collateral for the real estate empire. Just like with
Binh. He kept his eyes on the Mercedes, only a block ahead now because rush hour was in full force and he didn’t want to get
cut off. He watched the black windows of the car move along the rich street, and he told himself it was heading to the diamonds.

“And I saved the best for last,” Wish announced then. “Mr. Bok, also known as Mr. Tran, controls his many holdings through
a corporation. The title of said corporation, according to the records check by Special Agent Rourke, is none other than Diamond
Holdings, Incorporated.”

They passed Rodeo Drive and were in the heart of the commercial district. The buildings lining Wilshire took on more stateliness,
as if they knew they had more money and class in them. Traffic slowed to a crawl in some areas, and Bosch got as close as
two car lengths behind the Mercedes, not wanting to lose the car on a missed light. They were almost to Santa Monica Boulevard
and Bosch was beginning to figure they were headed to Century City. Bosch looked at his watch. It was four-fifty. “If this
guy is going to a bank in Century City, I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

Just then the Mercedes made a right turn into a parking garage. Bosch slowed to the curb and without saying a word Wish jumped
out and walked into the garage. Bosch took the next right and went around the block. Cars were pouring out of office parking
lots and garages, cutting in front of him again and again. When he finally got around, Eleanor was standing at the curb at
the same spot where she had jumped out. He pulled up and she leaned into the window.

“Park it,” she said, and she pointed across the street and down half a block. There was a rounded structure that was built
out to the street from the first floor of a high-rise office building. The walls of the semicircle were glass. And inside
this huge glass room Bosch saw the polished steel door of a vault. A sign outside the building said Beverly Hills Safe & Lock.
He looked at Eleanor and she was smiling.

“Was Tran in the car?” he asked.

“Of course. You don’t make mistakes like that.”

He smiled back. Then he saw a space open up at a meter just ahead. He drove up and parked.

• • •

“Since we started thinking there would be a second vault hit, my whole orientation was banks,” Eleanor Wish said. “You know,
Harry? Maybe a savings and loan. But I drive by this place a couple times a week. At least. I never considered it.”

They had walked down Wilshire and were standing across the street from Beverly Hills Safe & Lock. She was actually standing
behind him and peeking at the place over his shoulder. Tran, or Bok as he was now known, had seen her earlier, and they couldn’t
risk his spotting her here. The sidewalk was clogged with office types that were pouring through the revolving glass doors
of the buildings, heading to parking garages and trying to get even a five-minute jump on the traffic, on the holiday weekend.

“It fits though,” Bosch said. “He comes here, doesn’t trust banks, like your friend at State was talking about. So he finds
a vault without a bank. Here it is. But even better. As long as you have the money to pay, these places don’t need to know
who you are. No federal banking regulations because it isn’t a bank. You can rent a box and only identify yourself with a
letter or a number code.”

Beverly Hills Safe & Lock had all the appearances of a bank but was far from it. There were no savings or checking accounts.
No loan department, no tellers. What it offered was what it showed in the front window. Its polished steel vault. It was a
business that protected valuables, not money. In a town like Beverly Hills, this was a precious commodity. The rich and famous
kept their jewels here. Their furs. Their prenuptial agreements.

And it all sat out there in the open. Behind glass. The business was the bottom floor of the fourteen-story J. C. Stock Building,
a structure unnotable save for the glass vault room that protruded in a half circle from the first-floor facade. The entrance
to Beverly Hills Safe & Lock was on the side of the building at Rincon Street, where Mexicans in short yellow jackets stood
ready to valet a client’s car.

After Bosch had dropped Eleanor off and gone around the block, she had watched Tran and two bodyguards get out of the gold
Mercedes and walk to the safe and lock. If they thought they might be followed, they hadn’t shown it. They never looked behind
them. One of the bodyguards carried a steel briefcase.

Eleanor said, “I think I made at least one of the bodyguards as carrying. The other’s coat was too baggy. Is that him? Yeah,
there he is.”

Tran was being escorted by a man in a dark-blue banker’s suit into the vault room. A bodyguard trailed behind with the steel
briefcase. Bosch saw the heavy man’s eyes sweep the sidewalk outside until Tran and Banker’s Suit disappeared through the
vault’s open door. The man with the briefcase waited. Bosch and Wish also waited, and watched. It was about three minutes
before Tran came out, followed by the suit, who carried a metal safe-deposit box about the size of a woman’s shoe box. The
bodyguard took up the rear, and the three men walked out of the glass room, out of sight.

“Nice, personal service,” Wish said. “Beverly Hills all the way. He’s probably taking it into a private sitting room to make
the transfer.”

“Think you can get ahold of Rourke and get a crew over here to follow Tran when he leaves?” Bosch asked. “Use a landline.
We have to stay off the air in case the people underground have someone up top listening to our frequencies.”

“I take it we’re staying here with the vault?” she asked, and Bosch nodded. She thought a moment and said, “I’ll make the
call. He’ll be glad to know we found the place. We’ll be able to put the tunnel crew down.”

She looked about, saw a pay phone next to a bus stop on the next corner and made a move to walk that way. Bosch held her arm.

“I’m going to go inside, see what’s up. Remember, they know you, so stay out of sight until they’re gone.”

“What if they split before reinforcements come?”

“I’m staying with that vault. I don’t care about Tran. You want the keys? You can take the car and tail him.”

“No, I’ll stay with the vault. With you.”

She turned and headed toward the phone. Bosch crossed Wilshire and went in the safe and lock, passing an armed security guard
who had been walking toward the door with a key ring in his hand.

“Closing up, sir,” said the guard, who had the swagger and gruffness of an ex-cop.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Bosch said without stopping.

Banker’s Suit, who had led Tran into the vault, was one of three young, fair-haired men sitting at antique desks on the plush
gray carpet in the reception area. He glanced up from some papers on his desk, sized up Bosch’s appearance and said to the
younger of the other two, “Mr. Grant, would you like to help this gentleman.”

Though his unspoken answer was no, the one called Grant stood up, came around his desk and with the best phony smile in his
arsenal approached Bosch.

“Yes, sir?” the man said. “Thinking of opening a vault account with us?”

Bosch was about to ask a question when the man stuck out his hand and said, “James Grant, ask me anything. Though we are running
a little short of time. We are closing for the weekend in a few minutes.”

Grant drew up his coat sleeve to check his watch to confirm closing time.

“Harvey Pounds,” Bosch said, taking his hand. “How did you know I don’t already have a vault account?”

“Security, Mr. Pounds. We sell security. I know every vault client on sight. So do Mr. Avery and Mr. Bernard.” He turned slightly
and nodded at Banker’s Suit and the other salesman, who solemnly nodded back.

“Not open weekends?” Bosch asked, trying to sound disappointed.

Grant smiled. “No, sir. We find our clients are the type of people who have well-planned schedules, well-planned lives. They
reserve the weekend for pleasures, not errands like these others you see. Scurrying to the banks, the ATMs. Our clients are
a measure above that, Mr. Pounds. And so are we. You can appreciate that.”

There was a sneer in his voice when he said this. But Grant was right. The place was as slick as a corporate law office, with
the same hours and the same self-important front men.

Bosch took an expansive look around. In an alcove to the right where there was a row of eight doors he saw Tran’s two bodyguards
standing on each side of the third door. Bosch nodded at Grant and smiled.

“Well, I see you have guards all over the place. That’s the kind of security I’m looking for, Mr. Grant.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pounds, those men are merely waiting for a client who is in one of the private offices. But I assure
you our security provision can’t be compromised. Are you looking for a vault with us, sir?”

The man had more creepy charm than an evangelist. Bosch disliked him and his attitude.

“Security, Mr. Grant, I am looking for security. I want to lease a vault but I need to be assured of the security, from both
outside and inside problems, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course, Mr. Pounds, but do you have any idea of the cost of our service, the security we provide?”

“Don’t know and don’t care, Mr. Grant. See, the money is not the object. The peace of mind is. Agreed? Last week my next-door
neighbor, I’m talking about just three doors down from the former president, had a burglary. The alarm was no obstacle to
them. They took very valuable things. I don’t want to wait for that to happen to me. No place is safe these days.”

“Truly a shame, Mr. Pounds,” Grant said, an unbridled note of excitement in his voice. “I didn’t realize it was getting that
way in Bel Air. But I couldn’t agree more with your plan of action. Have a seat at my desk and we can talk. Would you like
coffee, perhaps some brandy? It is near the cocktail hour, of course. Just one of the little services we provide that a banking
institution cannot.”

Grant laughed then, silently, with his head nodding up and down. Bosch declined the offer and the salesman sat down, pulling
his chair in behind him. “Now, let me tell you the basics of how we work. We are completely nonregulated by any government
agency. I think your neighbor would be happy about that.”

He winked at Bosch, who said, “Neighbor?”

“The former president, of course.” Bosch nodded and Grant proceeded. “We provide a long list of security services, both here
and for your home, even an armed security escort if needed. We are the complete security consultant. We —”

“What about the safe-deposit vault?” Bosch cut in. He knew Tran would be coming out of the private office at any moment. He
wanted to be in the vault by then.

“Yes, of course, the vault. As you saw, it is on display to the world. The glass circle, as we call it, is perhaps our most
brilliant security ploy. Who would attempt to breach it? It is on display twenty-four hours a day. Right on Wilshire Boulevard.
Genius?”

Grant’s smile was wide with triumph. He nodded slightly in an effort to prompt agreement from his audience.

“What about from underneath?” Bosch asked, and the man’s mouth dropped back into a straight line.

“Mr. Pounds, you can’t expect me to outline our structural security measures, but rest assured the vault is impregnable. Between
you, me and the lamppost, you won’t find a bank vault in this town with as much concrete and steel in the floor, in the walls,
in the ceiling of that vault. And the electrical? You couldn’t — if you excuse the expression — break wind in the circle room
without setting off the sound, motion and heat sensors.”

“May I see it?”

“The vault?”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

Grant adjusted his jacket and ushered Bosch toward the vault. A glass wall and a mantrap separated the semicircular vault
room from the rest of Beverly Hills Safe & Lock. Grant waved his hand at the glass and said, “Double-plated tempered glass.
Vibration alarm tape between the sheets of glass to make tampering impossible. You’ll find this on the exterior windows as
well. Basically, the vault room is sealed in two plys of three-quarter-inch glass.”

Using his hand again like a model pointing out prizes on a game show, Grant indicated a boxlike device beside the door to
the mantrap. It was about the size of an office water fountain, and a circle of white plastic was inlaid on top. On the circle
was the black outline of a hand, its fingers splayed.

“To get in the vault room, your hand must be on file. The bone structure. Let me show you.”

He placed his right hand on the black silhouette. The device began to hum and the white plastic inlay was lit from inside
the machine. A bar of light swept below the plastic and Grant’s hand, as if it were a Xerox machine.

“X ray,” Grant said. “More positive than fingerprints, and the computer can process it in six seconds.”

In six seconds the machine emitted a short beep and the electronic lock on the first door of the trap snapped open. “You see,
your hand becomes your signature here, Mr. Pounds. No need for names. You give your box a code and you put the bone structure
of your hand on file with us. Six seconds of your time is all we need.”