Майкл Коннелли - Dark Sacred Night

Bosch calmed a bit as he came to understand the logic of the answer. Cespedes had a team watching Maddie — just as he had a team on Bosch and on the spot where Tranquillo Cortez had supposedly gone underground. If there was any sort of deviation in Maddie’s moves — like a U-turn on a trip up to L.A. — then it could tip someone else who might be watching or tailing her.

“Are we okay?” Cespedes said into the silence.

“Just let me know when she gets back safe to her house.”

“Not a problem. Check your mailbox on your way out.”

“Why?”

“We put a phone in there for you. So next time we can contact you when we need to. Don’t use it for anything else. It’s monitored.”

Bosch paused as he thought about that. He knew that every move the SIS made was monitored and analyzed. It came with the territory.

He changed the subject.

“What’s the latest with Cortez?”

“Still underground. We’re going to goose him after it gets dark, see what that gets us.”

“I want to be there.”

“Not going to happen, Bosch. Not how we work.”

“He was going to feed me to his dogs. I want to be there.”

“And that is exactly why you won’t be. You’re emotionally involved. We can’t have that cluttering things. You just keep that phone handy. I’ll call you when the time is right.”

Cespedes disconnected. Bosch was still bothered but not too much. He had a plan for crashing the SIS surveillance.

Bosch retrieved the messages on the landline and started clearing them one by one. They went back months and most were inconsequential. He rarely used the landline anymore and let the messages pile up over time. When he got to the messages his daughter had left yesterday, he couldn’t bring himself to delete them. Her emotions were raw, her fear for him real. He felt terrible about what she had just gone through but knew the messages were too pure to lose. The last one had no words. It was just Maddie’s breathing, hopeful that he would simply pick up and rescue her from her fears.

After hanging up he called his own cell number. The phone had been destroyed but he knew the number would still keep collecting messages. Nine had accumulated over the last thirty-six hours. Four were from his daughter and three were from Ballard, all left when his whereabouts were unknown. As with the landline messages, Bosch did not delete these. There was also one message from Cisco, saying he had nothing new to report on Elizabeth and asking Bosch whether he did. The last message, which had come in only an hour before, was from Mike Echevarria, and it was a call Bosch didn’t want to get.

Echevarria was an investigator with the Medical Examiner’s Office. Bosch had worked many homicide scenes with him and they were professionally, if not personally, close. Bosch had called him the night he was out looking for Elizabeth Clayton to see if she was in the morgue. She wasn’t but now Echevarria had left a message — just asking Bosch to call him back.

He right to the point when Bosch returned the call.

“Harry, this woman you’ve been looking for? I think we have her here under a Jane Doe.”

Bosch dropped his chin to his chest and leaned against the kitchen counter for support. He closed his eyes as he spoke.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Okay, let’s see,” Echevarria said. “Female, midfifties found in the Sinbad Motel on Sunset Boulevard two days ago. She’s got the R-I-P tattoo on her rear shoulder that you described with the name Daisy.”

Bosch nodded to himself. It was Elizabeth. Echevarria continued.

“Autopsy won’t be till Monday or Tuesday but all signs point to opiate overdose. According to the summary, she was found on the bed by the manager. She had paid for one night and he was going to shoo her out. Instead, he found her dead. Had her clothes on, body on top of the sheets. No foul play suspected. No homicide callout. Signed off on by a patrol sergeant and M.E. staff on scene.”

“She didn’t have ID?”

“No ID in the room — that’s why I didn’t connect it when you called. A lot of these people hide their stuff outside their rooms because they’re afraid of getting ripped off after they fix and pass out or whatever. She have a car?”

“No. What about pills? Any extra pills?”

“An empty prescription bottle. The prescription scratched off. They do that too. In case they get popped. It protects the doctor, because as soon as they hit the streets again, they’re going to see that same doctor. Creatures of habit.”

“Right.”

“Sorry, Harry. Sounds like you knew her.”

“I did. And it’s better knowing than not knowing, Mike.”

“Any chance I can get you down here to make a formal ID? Or I could shoot you a picture.”

Bosch thought about that.

“I’m not on a cell. How about I come in tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s good. I’m off Sundays but I’ll let them know.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Talk to you, Harry.”

Bosch hung up and walked through the house and out to the deck. He leaned on the railing and looked down at the freeway. He was not fully surprised by the news about Elizabeth but was still taken aback. He wondered whether the overdose was intentional. The empty pill bottle indicated she had taken everything she’d gotten.

The details made no difference either way to Bosch, because he considered her death a murder. It was a nine-year-old murder, and whoever had taken Daisy had also taken Elizabeth. Never mind that the killer had never met or even seen Elizabeth. He took everything that mattered away from her. He had killed her just as plainly as he had killed her daughter. Two for the price of one.

Bosch made a promise to himself. Elizabeth might be gone now but he would renew his efforts to put a name to the killer. He would find him and make him pay.

He went back into the house, closed the slider, and walked down the hall to his bedroom. He changed clothes, dressing in dark pants and shirt and adding an old army-green jacket. He threw some backup clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag because he didn’t know how long it would be until he could return.

He sat down on the bed and picked up the landline. He dialed Cisco Wojciechowski’s number from memory and got it right. The big man answered after four rings, a cautious tone in his voice, probably because he didn’t recognize the number.

“Yeah?”

“Cisco, it’s Bosch. I’ve got bad news on Elizabeth.”

“Tell me.”

“She’s didn’t make it. They found her in a motel room in Hollywood. Looks like an OD.”

“Shit...”

“Yeah.”

They stayed silent for a long moment before Cisco broke the silence.

“I thought she was stronger, you know? That week I spent with her — her breaking it off cold — I saw something. I thought she could go the distance.”

“Yeah, me too. But I guess you never know, right?”

“Right.”

After a few more minutes of small talk, Bosch thanked him for all he had done for Elizabeth and finished the call.

He went back down the hall to the closet next to the front door, where there was a steel gun box. His abductors had taken his firearm but Bosch had a spare weapon, a Smith & Wesson Combat Masterpiece, the six-shot revolver he had carried as a patrol officer almost forty years before. He had cleaned and maintained it regularly ever since. It was in a clip-on holster now and Bosch attached it to his belt under the jacket.

The keys to the house and Cherokee were on the kitchen counter where Bosch had left them two nights before. He exited the house through the front door and pulled the phone Cespedes had left for him out of the mailbox. He took another look around the street, checking for the surveillance, but saw nothing beyond the marked car from North Hollywood Division. He went into the carport, where the Cherokee awaited.