Michael Connelly - The Wrong Side of Goodbye

“No, I don’t know that,” Bosch said. “Before knocking I looked and didn’t see anyone. But if that’s the case you should invite me in. I parked around the corner. Right now, standing out front is the only giveaway that I’m here.”

Forsythe frowned but then stepped back and opened the door wider.

“Come in,” she said.

“Thank you,” Bosch said.

The entry room was broad and deep. She led Bosch down the length of it and then into a rear sitting room off the kitchen where there were no windows facing the street. She pointed to a chair.

“What is it you want, Mr. Bosch?”

Bosch sat down, hoping it would persuade her to do the same but she remained standing. He did not want this to be an adversarial conversation.

“Well, first, I need to confirm what I said at the door,” he said. “You did send that package to me, didn’t you?”

Her arms were folded now.

“I did,” she said. “Because Mr. Vance asked me to.”

“Did you know what was in it?” Bosch asked.

“I didn’t at the time. I do now.”

This immediately concerned Bosch. Had the corporate minders asked her about it?

“How do you know now?” he asked.

“Because after Mr. Vance passed and his body was taken I was told to secure his office,” she said. “In doing so I noticed that his gold pen was missing. That was when I remembered the heavy object in that package he asked to be sent to you.”

Bosch nodded with relief. She knew about the pen. But if she didn’t know about the will, then perhaps no one else did yet. That would give Haller an edge when he made his move with it.

“What did Mr. Vance tell you when he gave you the package for me?”

“He told me to put it in my purse and to take it home with me. He said he wanted me to take it to the post office and mail it the next morning before coming to work. I did as I was told.”

“Did he ask you about it?”

“Yes, first thing when I came in that morning. I told him I had just been to the post office and he was pleased.”

“If I showed you the envelope that was addressed and sent to me, do you think you could identify it?”

“Probably. It had his handwriting on it. I would recognize that.”

“And if I write all of this as you have recounted it into an affidavit, would you be willing to sign it in front of a notary?”

“Why would I do that? To prove that was his pen? If you’re going to sell it, I would like the opportunity to buy it from you. I would pay above market price.”

“It’s not that. I’m not selling the pen. There was a document in the package that may become contested and I may need to prove, as well as I can, how it came into my possession. The pen, which was a family heirloom, will be helpful in that process but a signed affidavit from you would also be.”

“I don’t want to get mixed up with the board of directors, if that’s what you’re talking about. Those people are animals. They’ll sell their own mothers for a piece of all that money.”

“You wouldn’t be pulled in any deeper than you are already going to be, Ms. Forsythe.”

She finally moved to one of the other chairs in the room and sat down.

“What do you mean by that?” she said. “I have nothing to do with all of that.”

“The document in the package was a handwritten will,” Bosch said. “It names you as a beneficiary.”

He studied her reaction. She seemed puzzled.

“Are you saying I get money or something?” she asked.

“Ten million dollars,” Bosch said.

Bosch saw her eyes flare for a moment at the realization that she was in line for some of the riches. She brought her right arm up and held a fist against her chest. Her chin came down but Bosch could still see her lips tremble as tears came. Bosch wasn’t sure how to read it.

It was a long moment before she looked up at him and spoke.

“I didn’t expect anything,” she said. “I was an employee. I wasn’t family.”

“Have you been going to the house this week?” he asked.

“No, not since Monday. The day after. That was when I was informed that my services were no longer needed.”

“And you were there Sunday when Mr. Vance died?”

“He called me and asked me to come in. He said he had some letters he wanted to write. He told me to come in after lunch and I did. I was the one who found him in his office when I got there.”

“You were allowed to go back there unescorted?”

“Yes, I’ve always had that privilege.”

“Did you call for an ambulance?”

“No, because he was clearly dead.”

“Was he at his desk?”

“Yes, he died at his desk. He was slumped forward and to the side a little bit. It looked like he went fast.”

“So you called security.”

“I called Mr. Sloan and he came in and called someone on staff who had medical training. They tried CPR but it didn’t work. He was dead. Mr. Sloan then called the police.”

“Do you know how long Mr. Sloan worked for Vance?”

“A long time. At least twenty-five years, I would say. He and I were there the longest.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue that seemed to Bosch to have materialized out of nowhere.

“When I met with Mr. Vance he gave me a phone number and told me it was a cell phone,” Bosch said. “He said to call him if I made any headway with my investigation. Do you know what happened to that phone?”

She shook her head immediately.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said.

“I called a few times and left messages,” Bosch said. “And Mr. Sloan called me on it as well. Did you see him take anything from the desk or the office after Mr. Vance was dead?”

“No, he told me to secure the office after they removed the body. And I didn’t see a cell phone.”

Bosch nodded.

“Do you know what Mr. Vance hired me to do?” he asked. “Did he discuss it with you?”

“No, he didn’t,” she said. “Nobody knew. Everybody in the house was curious but he didn’t tell anybody what you were doing.”

“He hired me to find out if he had an heir. Do you know if he had anyone watching me?”

“Why would he do that?”

“I’m not sure, but the will he wrote and had you send to me clearly assumes that I had found a living heir. But we never talked again after that day I visited him at the mansion.”

Forsythe squinted her eyes as though she had trouble tracking the story.

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “You said you called that number he gave you and left messages. What did you tell him?”

Bosch didn’t answer her. He remembered now that he had left a carefully worded message that could be ascribed to the cover story of finding James Aldridge. But it could also have been taken as a message that Bosch had found an heir.

He decided to end the conversation with Forsythe.

“Ms. Forsythe,” he said. “You should look into hiring an attorney who will represent you in this. It’s probably going to get nasty when the will gets filed with the probate court. You need to protect yourself. I’m working with an attorney named Michael Haller. Have whoever you hire contact him.”

“I don’t know any lawyers I could call,” she said.

“Ask your friends for a recommendation. Or your banker. Bankers probably deal with probate lawyers all the time.”

“Okay, I will.”

“And you never answered about the affidavit. I’ll write it up today and bring it back tomorrow for you to sign. Will that be okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

Bosch stood up.

“Have you actually seen someone watching you or the house?”

“I have seen cars out there that don’t belong. But I can’t be sure.”

“Do you want me to go out the back?”