Michael Connelly - The Wrong Side of Goodbye

Bosch assumed Lopez was the desk officer. It was good to know that Valdez had at least investigated the complaint Bosch had written before he released Creighton.

“When did you kick him loose?” he asked.

“He just walked out the door,” Valdez said. “And he wasn’t happy. Where the hell are you and why’d you leave?”

“I’m working a case, Chief, and it doesn’t involve San Fernando. I had to keep moving.”

“It involves us now. Cretin says he going to sue you and us.”

It was good to hear Valdez use the name the rank and file had christened Creighton with. It told Bosch that the chief was ultimately in his corner. Bosch thought of Mitchell Maron, the mailman, who was threatening a lawsuit as well.

“Yeah, well, tell him to get in line,” he said. “Chief, I gotta go.”

“I don’t know what you are doing, but watch yourself out there,” Valdez said. “Guys like Cretin, they’re no good.”

“I hear you,” Bosch said.

The freeway opened wide when he finally crossed into San Diego County. By 2:30 he had parked underneath the section of the 5 that was elevated over Logan Barrio and was standing in Chicano Park.

The Internet photos didn’t do the murals justice. In person the colors were vibrant and the images startling. The sheer number of them was staggering. Pillar after pillar, wall after wall of paintings greeted the eye from every angle. It took him fifteen minutes of wandering through to find the mural that listed the names of the original artists. The wreath of zinnias was now hiding even more of the lower mural — and the names of the artists. Bosch squatted down and used his hands to part the flowers and read the names.

While many of the murals in the park looked like they had been repainted over the years to keep the colors and messages vibrant, the names behind the flowers had faded and were almost unreadable. Bosch took out his notebook. He was thinking that he might need to write down the names he could read and then hope those artists could be contacted and lead him to Gabriela. But then he saw the tops of letters from names that were below the soil line. He put down the notebook, reached in and started pulling back the dirt and uprooting the zinnias.

The first name he uncovered was Lukas Ortiz. He moved right and continued his trenching, his hands getting dirty with the dark, moist soil. Soon he uncovered the name Gabriela. He excitedly picked up the pace and was just clearing the dirt from the last name Lida when a booming voice struck him from behind.

“Cabrón!”

Bosch startled, then turned and looked over his shoulder to see a man behind him with his arms stretched wide in the universal stance that says, What the fuck are you doing! He was wearing a green work uniform.

Bosch jumped up.

“Hey, sorry,” he said. “Lo siento.”

He started wiping the dirt off his hands but both were caked with wet soil and it wasn’t going anywhere. The man in front of him was midfifties with graying hair and a thick, wide mustache to go with a thick, wide body. An oval patch over the pocket of his shirt said Javier . He wore sunglasses but they didn’t hide his angry stare at Bosch.

“I wanted to see...” Bosch began.

He turned and pointed down toward the bottom of the pillar.

“Uh, los nombres? ” he said. “Under — uh, debajo la tierra? ”

“I can speak English, fool. You’re fucking up my garden. What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry, I was looking for a name. An artist who was one of the originals here.”

“There was a lot of them.”

Javier walked past Bosch and squatted down where Bosch had been. He started using his own hands to carefully put the uprooted flowers back into place, handling each one far more gently than Bosch had.

“Lukas Ortiz?” he asked.

“No, the other,” Bosch said. “Gabriela Lida. Is she still around?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m a private invest—”

“No, who wants to know?”

Bosch understood.

“If you can help me, I’d like to pay for the damage I did there.”

“How much you pay?”

It was time for Bosch to reach into his pocket for his money but his hands were dirty. He looked around and saw a tiled fountain that was part of the centerpiece of the park.

“Hold on,” he said.

He walked over and dipped his hands into the fountain’s pool and rubbed the dirt off. He then shook them and reached into his pocket. He checked his money fold and chose three of the four twenties he had. He went back to Javier. He hoped he wasn’t about to spend sixty bucks to be told Gabriela Lida was dead and in the ground like her name on the pillar.

Javier shook his head when Bosch got back to him.

“Now you fucked up my fountain,” he said. “The dirt gets in the filter and I gotta clean it.”

“I’ve got sixty bucks,” Bosch said. “It covers everything. Where can I find Gabriela Lida?”

He held the money out and Javier took it with a dirty hand.

“She use to work here and was in charge of the collective,” he said. “But now she’s retired. Last I heard, she still lived in the Mercado.”

“She lives in a market?” Bosch asked.

“No, cabrón , the Mercado. It’s a housing complex, man. Over there on Newton.”

“Her last name is still Lida?”

“That’s right.”

That’s all Bosch needed. He headed back to his car. Ten minutes later he parked in front of the main entrance of a sprawling complex of nicely kept low-income apartments in a neo-adobe style. He checked a residents’ listing in the entryway and soon afterward knocked on a freshly painted green door.

Bosch was holding the cardboard folder from Flashpoint Graphix down by his side. He raised his other hand to knock again just as the door was pulled open by a statuesque woman who, by Bosch’s calculations, had to be at least seventy but looked younger. She had sharply defined cheekbones and startling dark eyes set against still-smooth brown skin. Her hair was long and silver. Polished turquoise hung from her ears.

Bosch slowly lowered his hand. He had no doubt that this was the woman from the photo, all these years later.

“Yes?” she said. “Are you lost?”

“I don’t think so,” Bosch said. “Are you Gabriela Lida?”

“Yes, I am. What is it you want?”

Haller had told Bosch it would be his call to make when the moment arose. That moment was now and Bosch felt there was no need and no time to run a game with this woman.

“My name’s Harry Bosch,” he said. “I’m an investigator down from L.A. and I’m looking for Dominick Santanello’s daughter.”

The mention of the name seemed to sharpen her eyes. Bosch saw equal parts curiosity and concern.

“My daughter doesn’t live here. How do you know she is Dominick’s daughter?”

“Because I started with him and it brought me to you. Let me show you something.”

He brought up the folder, took the elastic band off it, and opened it in front of her, holding it like a music stand so she could see the photos and page through them. He heard her breath catch in her throat as she reached forward and lifted the 8 x 10 of her holding the baby. Bosch saw tears start to show in her eyes.

“Nick took these,” she whispered. “I never saw them.”

Bosch nodded.

“They were in his camera in an attic for many years,” he said. “What is your daughter’s name?”

“We called her Vibiana,” Gabriela said. “It was the name he wanted.”

“After his mother.”

Her eyes came up off the photo to his.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“If I could come in, there is a lot I need to tell you,” Bosch said.