Michael Connelly: The Crossing

Bosch decided to read the next story in the digital queue in hopes of getting more detail about the case. The headline promised he would: Investigators: Lexi Parks Murder a Sex Crime . The story, published one day after the first, reported that Sheriff’s homicide investigators were looking at the murder as a home invasion in which Parks was attacked in her bed as she slept, sexually assaulted, and then brutally beaten with a blunt object. The story did not say what the object was or whether it was recovered. It made no mention of any evidence that had been collected at the scene. After these scant few details of the investigation were revealed, the story transitioned into a report on the reaction to the crime among those who knew Parks and her husband, as well as the horror the crime had invoked in the community. It was reported that Vincent Harrick had taken a leave of absence to deal with the grief arising from his wife’s murder.

After reading the second story, Bosch looked back at the list of stories and scanned the headlines. The next dozen or so didn’t sound promising. The case remained in the news on a daily and then weekly basis but the headlines carried a lot of negatives. No Suspects in Parks Murder, Investigators Drawing Blanks on Parks, WeHo Offers 100K Reward in Parks Case . Bosch knew that going out with a reward was in effect announcing that you had nothing and were grasping at straws.

And then they got lucky. The fifteenth story in the queue, published thirty-eight days after the murder, announced the arrest of forty-one-year-old Da’Quan Foster for the murder of Lexi Parks. Bosch opened the story and learned that the connection to Foster seemingly came out of the blue, a match made on DNA evidence collected at the scene of the crime. Foster was arrested with the help of a team of LAPD officers at the Leimert Park artists’ studio where he had just finished teaching a painting class as part of an after-school program for children.

That last piece of information gave Bosch pause. It didn’t fit with his idea of what a gang shot caller was all about. He wondered if Foster was booking community-service hours as part of a criminal sentence. He kept reading. The story said that DNA collected at the Parks crime scene had been entered into the state’s data bank and was matched to a sample taken from Foster following his arrest in 2004 on suspicion of rape. No charge was ever filed against him in that case but his DNA remained on file in the state Department of Justice data bank.

Bosch wanted to read more of the stories in the coverage but was running out of time if he wanted to meet Virginia Skinner. He saw one headline that came a few days after Foster’s arrest: Parks Suspect Had Turned Life Around . He opened the story and quickly scanned it. It was a community-generated story that held that Da’Quan Foster was a reformed Rollin’ 40s Crips member who had straightened his life out and was giving back to his community. He was a self-taught painter who had work hanging in a Washington, DC, museum. He ran a studio on Degnan Boulevard where he offered after-school and weekend programs for area children. He was married and had two young children of his own. To balance the story, the Times reported that he had a criminal record that included several drug arrests in the ’90s and a four-year stint in prison. But he paroled out in 2001 and other than his arrest on the rape case, for which no charge was ever filed, he had not run afoul of the law in more than a decade.

The story included statements from many locals who expressed either disbelief at the charges or outright suspicion that Foster had somehow been set up. No one quoted in the article believed he had killed Lexi Parks or been anywhere near West Hollywood on the night in question.

From what he had read, it was unclear to Bosch whether Foster even knew the victim in the case or why he had targeted her.

Harry closed the laptop. He would read all of the stories later, but he didn’t want to leave Virginia Skinner waiting for him — wherever it was she would choose to meet. They needed to talk. The relationship had been strained as of late, largely because she was busy with her work and Bosch had not been busy with anything other than restoring a motorcycle that was as old as he was.

He got up from the table and went back to his bedroom to put on a fresh shirt and nicer shoes. Ten minutes later he was driving down the hill to the freeway. Once he joined the steel river and cleared the pass he pulled out his phone and hooked up the earpiece so he’d be legal. When he carried a badge, he used to not care about such minor things, but now he dutifully buckled his seat belt and put in his earpiece. He could be ticketed for talking on a cell while driving.

From the background sound, he guessed he had caught Haller in the backseat of the Lincoln. They were both on the road, going somewhere.

“I’ve got questions about Foster,” Bosch said.

“Shoot,” Haller said.

“What was the DNA — blood, saliva, semen?”

“Semen. A deposit on the victim.”

“ On or in?”

“Both. In the vagina. On the skin, upper thigh on the right. Some on the sheets, too.”

Bosch drove in silence for a few moments. The freeway was elevated as it cut through Hollywood. He was passing by the Capitol Records Building. It was built to look like a stack of records but that was a different time. Not many people listened to records anymore.

“What else?” Haller asked. “I’m glad you’re thinking about the case.”

“How long have you known this guy?” Bosch asked.

“Almost twenty years. He was my client. He was no angel but there was something gentle about him. He wasn’t a killer. He was either too smart or too soft for that. Maybe both. Anyway, he turned things around and got out of the life. That’s why I know.”

“Know what?”

“That he didn’t do this.”

“I read some of the stories online. What about the rape arrest?”

“It was bullshit. I’ll show you the file. They brought him and about twenty other guys in. Let him go in less than a day.”

“Where are you in discovery? Did you get the murder book yet?”

“I got it. But if you are getting interested in this, I think you need to talk to my client. You read the book, and you’re going to get the other side’s case. You’re not going to—”

“I don’t care. It’s all about the book. It begins and ends with the book. When can I get a copy?”

“I can get it put together by tomorrow.”

“Good. Call me and I’ll come get it.”

“So then you’re in?”

“Just call me when you have the book ready.”

Bosch clicked off the call. He thought about the conversation and what he was feeling after reading the newspaper stories. He had made no commitment yet. He had crossed no line. But he couldn’t deny that he was getting close to the line. He also could not deny the growing feeling that he was about to get back on the mission.

Bosch and Skinner met at the Factory Kitchen off Alameda. It was a trendy Italian place in the Arts District. It was her style and her choice. His suggestions had been shot down.

It was crowded and voices echoed and clattered off the old factory’s brick walls. It was definitely the wrong kind of place to discuss the dissolution of a relationship but that was what they did.

Over a shared plate of tagliatelle with duck ragù, Skinner told Bosch that their time together as a couple was at an end. She was a reporter who had spent almost thirty years covering police and politics. She had a direct, sometimes abrupt delivery when discussing any subject, including romance and the fulfillment of her needs. She told Bosch he had changed. He was too consumed by the loss of his career and finding his place as a man without a badge to keep the relationship on the front burner.