Michael Connelly - The Wrong Side of Goodbye

“Uh, no, I haven’t told him where we’re going,” Haller said. “I haven’t spoken about it in the car. What’s going on?”

“You are probably under surveillance,” Bosch said. “And he might be in on it. I just saw him nod to somebody.”

“Fucking A. Then his ass is grass. I’ll—”

“Hold on a second. Let’s think about this. Do you—”

“Wait.”

Haller put his hand up to stop Bosch from speaking. He then moved his laptop and folded up the desk. He got up and leaned over the seat toward the steering wheel. Bosch heard the air compression thump of the car’s trunk opening.

Haller got out of the car and went to the trunk. Soon Bosch heard it slammed shut and Haller got back into the car with a briefcase. He opened the case and then opened a secret compartment inside it. There was an electronic device secreted in the space and he turned on a switch, then put the case down on the seat between them.

“It’s an RF jammer,” he said. “I take this baby in with me to every client meeting I have in the jail — you never know who’s listening. If anybody’s listening to us now, they’re getting an earful of white noise.”

Bosch was impressed.

“I just bought one of those,” he said. “But it wasn’t in a fancy briefcase.”

“Took it as a partial fee payment from a former client. A cartel courier. He wasn’t going to need it where he was going. So what’s your plan?”

“Do you know of another place to take the swabs?”

Haller nodded.

“California Coding up in Burbank,” he said. “It was down to them or CellRight and CellRight agreed to the push.”

“Give me back the package,” Bosch said. “I’ll take the tubes to CellRight. You take a phony package to California Coding. Make them think that’s where we’re doing the analysis.”

Bosch took the extra tubes containing swabs from Vibiana and Gabriela out of his coat pocket. He didn’t have an extra from Whitney Vance, so, to sell the misdirection in case the tubes fell into the wrong hands, he used the Sharpie to change the initials marked on the tubes. He turned V–V into W-V and G-L to the randomly chosen G-E . He then signaled for the padded envelope. He removed the tubes containing swabs from Vance, Lida, and Veracruz and put them into his coat pocket. He then put the two altered tubes into the envelope and handed it back.

“You take that to California Coding and ask for a blind comparison,” he said. “Don’t let on to your driver or anybody else you think you’re being followed. I’ll go to CellRight.”

“Got it. I still want to kick his ass. Look at him over there.”

Bosch checked the driver again. He was no longer looking across the street.

“There will be time for that later. And I’ll help.”

Haller was writing something on a legal pad. He finished, tore the page off the pad, and handed it to Bosch.

“That’s CellRight and my contact there,” Haller said. “He’s expecting the package.”

Bosch recognized the address. CellRight was out near Cal State L.A., where the LAPD lab was located. He could get there in ten minutes but would take thirty to make sure he wasn’t followed.

He opened his door and turned to look back at Haller.

“Keep that cartel briefcase close,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Haller said. “I will.”

Bosch nodded.

“After I drop this I’m going up to see Ida Townes Forsythe,” he said.

“Good,” Haller said. “We want her on our side.”

Bosch got out just as Boyd came around to the driver’s door. Bosch said nothing to him. He went back to his own car and sat behind the wheel and watched the intersection as Haller’s Lincoln pulled onto Cesar Chavez and headed west. There was a lot of traffic moving through the intersection, but Bosch saw no vehicle that he thought was suspicious or that might be tailing the Lincoln.

The drop-off at CellRight went down without incident after Bosch took antisurveillance measures that included driving completely around Dodger Stadium in Chavez Ravine. After hand delivering the three tubes to Haller’s contact, Bosch made his way over to the 5 freeway and headed north. Along the way he diverted at the Magnolia exit in Burbank to continue his circuitous driving patterns and to grab a submarine sandwich at Giamela’s. He ate in the car and kept his eyes on the comings and goings in the parking lot.

He was putting the empty sandwich wrap back in the bag when his phone chirped and he took a call from Lucia Soto, his former partner at LAPD.

“How is Bella Lourdes?” she asked.

Word had spread fast for a name not released publicly.

“You know Bella?” he asked.

“A little. From Las Hermanas .”

Bosch remembered that Soto was part of an informal group made up of Latina police detectives from all of the departments in the county. There weren’t many, so the group forged some tight bonds.

“She never told me she knew you,” he said.

“She didn’t want you to know she was checking you out with me,” Soto said.

“Well, she went through a lot. But she’s tough. I think she’ll be okay.”

“I hope so. It’s an awful story.”

She waited a beat for him to start telling her the details but Bosch kept quiet. She finally got the picture.

“I heard you filed on the guy today,” she said. “I hope you’ve got him dead to rights.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Bosch said.

“Good to hear. So, Harry, when are we going to have lunch and catch up? I miss you.”

“Damn, I just ate. But we’ll do it soon — next time I’m downtown. I miss you too.”

“I’ll see you, Harry.”

Bosch pulled out of the lot and followed a roundabout route west toward South Pasadena. He drove by Ida Townes Forsythe’s home on Arroyo Drive four times over a spread of thirty minutes, each time noting the cars parked on the street and anything else that might indicate that Whitney Vance’s longtime secretary and assistant was being watched. He saw no indicators of surveillance and after a couple passes in the alley behind the house he decided it was safe to knock on the door.

He parked on a side street and walked around to Arroyo and up to the house. Forsythe’s home was much nicer in person than on his viewing on Google street view. It was a classic California Craftsman that had been meticulously cared for. He stepped up onto a wide, long front porch and knocked on a coffered wood door. He had no idea whether Forsythe was home or still had duties to perform inside the Vance home. If that was the case, he was prepared to wait until she returned.

But he didn’t have to knock a second time. The woman he had come to see swung the door open and looked at him with eyes that did not register any familiarity.

“Mrs. Forsythe?”

“It’s Ms.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Forsythe. Do you remember me? Harry Bosch? I came to see Mr. Vance last week?”

The recognition was there now.

“Of course. Why are you here?”

“Uh, well, first I wanted to express my sympathies. I know you and Mr. Vance worked together a long time.”

“Yes, we did. It’s been quite a shock. I know he was old and ill, but you don’t expect a man of such power and presence to suddenly be gone. What can I do for you, Mr. Bosch? I guess whatever it is Mr. Vance had you investigating doesn’t really matter anymore.”

Bosch decided that the best move would be the head-on approach.

“I’m here because I want to talk to you about the package Mr. Vance had you mail to me last week.”

The woman in the doorway stood frozen for almost ten seconds before answering. She looked fearful.

“You know that I am being watched, right?” she said.