Michael Connelly: The Wrong Side of Goodbye

“So these were handwritten letters she was coming in to write for him?”

“I didn’t ask specifically. But the stationery and his fancy pen were there and ready to go. I think that was the plan. Where are you going with this, Bosch?”

“You said a fancy pen?”

Poydras looked at him for a long moment.

“Yeah, you didn’t see it? Solid gold pen in a holder on his desk.”

Bosch reached over and tapped a finger on the black binder.

“You got a photo in there?” he asked.

“I might,” Poydras said. “What’s so special about the pen?”

“I want to see if it’s the one he showed me. He told me it was made of gold that his great-grandfather prospected.”

Poydras opened the binder and flipped through to a section of clear plastic sleeves containing 8 x 10 color photos of the Vance death scene. He kept flipping pages until he found a shot he deemed appropriate and then turned the book around to show Bosch. In the photo Whitney Vance’s body was on the floor next to his desk and his wheelchair. His shirt was open, his ivory chest exposed, and it was clear the photo was taken after unsuccessful efforts had been made to revive him.

“Right here,” Poydras said.

He tapped the top left side of the photo where the desk was in the background. On the desk was a sheaf of pale yellow stationery that matched the stationery Bosch had received in the package from Vance. And there was a gold pen in a holder that looked like the pen that had also been in the package.

Bosch leaned back and away from the binder. The pen being in the photo did not make sense because it had been sent to him before the photo was taken.

“What is it, Bosch?” Poydras asked.

Bosch tried to cover.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just seeing the old guy dead like that... and the empty chair.”

Poydras turned the binder to look at the photo himself.

“They had a house medical officer,” he said. “I use that term loosely. On Sundays it was a security guard with EMT training. He conducted CPR but got no response.”

Bosch nodded and tried to act composed.

“You said you went back after the autopsy and took more photos and measurements as cover,” he said. “Where are those photos? You put them in the book?”

Bosch reached toward the murder book but Poydras pulled it back.

“Hold your horses,” he said. “They’re in the back. Everything’s chronological.”

He flipped further into the binder and came to a new set of photos of the office, at almost the same angle, but with no body of Whitney Vance on the floor. Bosch told Poydras to hold on the second photo he turned to. It showed the full top of the desk. The pen holder was there but not the pen.

Bosch pointed it out.

“The pen’s gone,” he said.

Poydras turned the binder so he could see it better. Then he flipped back to the first photo to make sure.

“You’re right,” he said.

“Where’d it go?” Bosch asked.

“Who knows? We didn’t take it. We didn’t seal the office, either, after the body was removed. Maybe your pal Ida knows what happened to the pen.”

Bosch didn’t say how close he thought Poydras was to the truth with that suggestion. He reached over and pulled the binder across the table so he could look at the photo of the death scene again.

The appearance and disappearance of the pen was the anomaly, but it was the empty wheelchair that held Bosch’s eyes and told him what he had been missing all along.

The next morning Bosch was sitting in his car on Arroyo Drive by nine thirty. He had already called and talked at length to Mickey Haller. He had already been to the evidence lockup at the San Fernando Police Department. And he had already been to Starbucks, where he happened to notice that Beatriz Sahagun was back at work behind the brewer as a barista.

He now sat and watched Ida Townes Forsythe’s home and waited. He saw no activity at the house and no indication as to whether she was home. The garage was closed and the place was still, and Bosch wondered if she would be there when they knocked. He kept his eyes on the mirrors and saw no indications of police surveillance in the neighborhood either.

At nine forty-five Bosch saw Mickey Haller’s Town Car enter his rearview mirror. He was behind the wheel. He had told Bosch earlier that he had parted ways with Boyd and no longer had a driver.

This time Haller got out of his car and came up to sit in Bosch’s. He carried his own cup of coffee with him.

“That was quick,” Bosch said. “You just breezed into the courthouse and they let you look at the probate file?”

“Actually, I breezed in on the Internet,” Haller said. “All case filings are updated online within twenty-four hours. The wonder of technology. Not sure my office needs to be in a car anymore. They’ve closed half the courthouses in L.A. County because of budget cutbacks, and most of the time the Internet gets me where I need to go.”

“So, the codicil?”

“Your Pasadena Police friends were on the mark. The will filed in ’92 was amended the following year. The amendment establishes standing for a blood heir should one come forth at the time of Vance’s death.”

“And no other will has surfaced?”

“Nothing.”

“So Vibiana is covered.”

“She’s covered, but with an asterisk.”

“Which is?”

“The amendment grants a blood heir standing as a recipient of a share of the estate. It doesn’t specify what or how much that share is. Obviously when he added this, he and his lawyer both thought that a blood heir was a long shot. They added the codicil just in case.”

“Sometimes long shots pay off.”

“If this is the will the court accepts, then we would declare Vibiana’s standing and that’s when the fight begins. And it will be a hell of a fight, because it’s not clear what she’s entitled to. We’re going to go in like gangbusters, say she gets it all, and then go from there.”

“Yeah, well, I called Vibiana this morning to tell her what was happening. She said she’s still not sure she’s up for this.”

“She’ll change. It’s like winning the lottery, man. Found money, more than she’ll ever need.”

“And I guess that’s the point. More than she’ll ever need. You ever read those stories about people who win the lottery and how it ruins their lives? They can’t adjust, they meet people with their hands out wherever they go. She’s an artist. Artists are supposed to stay hungry.”

“That’s bullshit. That’s a myth invented to keep the artist down because art is powerful. You give an artist both money and power and they’re dangerous. Anyway, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Vibiana is the client and ultimately she makes the call. Our job right now is to put her in the best position to make the call.”

Bosch nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “So you ready to proceed with the plan?”

“I’m ready,” Haller said. “Let’s do it.”

Bosch pulled his phone and called the Pasadena Police. He asked for Detective Poydras and nearly a minute went by before he was connected.

“It’s Bosch.”

“I was just thinking about you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Just thinking about how I know you’re hiding something from me. You got more than you gave yesterday and that won’t happen again.”

“I don’t expect it to. How’s your morning looking?”

“For you my morning’s wide open. Why?”

“Meet me at Ida Forsythe’s house in a half hour. You’ll get the big give then.”

Bosch glanced over at Haller, who was spinning a finger like he was rolling something forward. He wanted more time.

“Make it an hour, actually,” he said into the phone.