Michael Connelly: The Drop

Bosch wished her good luck and then he and Chu left. Before they reached the car, Irvin Irving came out the front door and called to them.

“You were just going to leave without checking with me?”

Bosch handed the keys to Chu and told him to back the car out of the driveway. He waited until he and Irving were alone before speaking.

“Councilman, we need to get something straight here. I’m going to keep you informed but I don’t report to you. There’s a difference. This is a police investigation, not a city hall investigation. You were a cop but you’re not anymore. You’ll hear from me when I have something to report to you.”

He turned and started walking toward the street.

“Remember, I want an update by the end of the day,” Irving called after him.

Bosch didn’t respond. He kept on walking like he didn’t hear.

Bosch told Chu to drive north toward Panorama City.

“We’re up here,” he said. “We might as well go get a look at Clayton Pell. If he’s where he’s supposed to be.”

“I thought the Irving case was the priority,” Chu said.

“It is.”

Bosch offered no further explanation. Chu nodded but had something else on his mind.

“What about something to eat?” he asked. “We worked right through lunch and I’m starving, Harry.”

Bosch realized he was hungry, too. He checked his watch and saw it was almost three.

“The halfway house is way up Woodman,” he said. “There used to be a pretty good taco truck that parked on Woodman at Nordhoff. I had a trial a few years ago at the San Fernando Courthouse and my partner and I used to hit that truck every day at lunch. It’s kind of late but if we’re lucky he’ll still be there.”

Chu was a semi-vegetarian but usually liked the idea of Mexican food.

“Think they’ll have a bean burrito on that truck?”

“Most likely. If not, they’ve got shrimp tacos. I’ve had them.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He goosed the car’s accelerator.

“Was that Ignacio?” Chu eventually asked. “The partner, I mean.”

“Yeah, Ignacio,” Bosch said.

Bosch contemplated the fate of his last partner, who was murdered in the back room of a food market two years earlier while working the case that introduced Harry to Chu. The two current partners maintained silence the rest of the way.

The halfway house that Clayton Pell was assigned to was in Panorama City, which was the expansive neighborhood at the geographic center of the San Fernando Valley. Spawned by post — World War II prosperity and enthusiasm, it was the first planned community of Los Angeles, replacing miles of orange groves and dairy lands with the seemingly unending sprawl of inexpensive and prefabricated tract housing and low-rise apartments that soon defined the look of the Valley. Anchored by the nearby industries of the General Motors plant and the Schlitz brewery, the development represented the epoch of Los Angeles autotopia. Every man with a job and a commute. Every home with a garage. Every view a panorama of the surrounding mountains. Only American-born white people need apply.

At least that was the way they were spinning it in 1947 when the grid work was set and the lots went up for sale. However, over the decades since the glorious ribbon cutting on the community of tomorrow, both GM and Schlitz pulled out and the views of the mountains grew hazy with smog. The streets got crowded with people and traffic, the crime rate went up at a steady pace and people started living in a lot of those garages. Iron bars went over bedroom windows and the courtyard apartment buildings put security gates across the once wide and welcoming entrances. Graffiti marked gang turf and, finally, whereas once the name Panorama City represented a future as wide and unlimited as its 360-degree views, it was now more of a cruel irony. A place with a name that reflected very little of what was actually there. Residents in parts of the once proud suburban nirvana routinely organized to try to break away to the adjoining neighborhoods of Mission Hills, North Hills and even Van Nuys so as not to be associated with Panorama City.

Bosch and Chu were in luck. The Tacos La Familia truck was still parked at the curb on Woodman and Nordhoff. Chu found a space at the curb just two cars behind it and they got out. The taquero was cleaning up inside and putting stuff away but he still waited on them. There were no burritos, so Chu took shrimp tacos while Bosch went with carne asada. The man handed a squeeze bottle filled with salsa through the window. They each took a bottle of Jarritos Pineapple to wash it down, and lunch for both of them was eight bucks total. Bosch gave the man a ten and told him to keep the change.

There were no other customers about, so Bosch took the bottle of salsa with him back to the car. He knew that when it came to truck tacos it was all about the salsa. They ate on either side of the front hood, leaning over it so as not to drip salsa or juice on their clothes.

“Not bad, Harry,” Chu said, nodding as he ate.

Bosch nodded back. His mouth was full. Finally he swallowed and squeezed more salsa onto his second taco and then handed the bottle across the hood to his partner.

“Good salsa,” Harry said. “You ever been to the El Matador truck in East Hollywood?”

“No, where’s it at?”

“Western and Lex. This is good but El Matador, I think they’re the best. He’s only there at night, though, and everything tastes better at night, anyway.”

“Isn’t it weird how Western Avenue is in East Hollywood?”

“I never thought about it. The point is, next time you’re over there after work, try El Matador and tell me what you think.”

Bosch realized he had not been down to the El Matador truck since his daughter had come to live with him. At the time, he didn’t think eating in or on cars and getting food from trucks had been right for her. Now maybe things were different. He thought she might enjoy it.

“What are we going to do with Pell?” Chu asked.

Brought back to the reality of the present, Bosch told his partner that he did not want to reveal their true interest in Clayton Pell yet. There were too many unknowns in the case. He wanted to first establish that Pell was where he was supposed to be, get a look at him and maybe engage him in conversation if possible without raising the sex offender’s suspicions.

“Hard to do,” Chu said, his mouth full with his last bite.

“I have an idea.”

Bosch outlined the plan, then balled up all the foil and napkins and took them to the trash can by the back of the taco truck. He put the squeeze bottle of salsa on the window counter and waved to the taquero .

“ Muy sabroso .”

“ Gracias .”

Chu was behind the wheel when he got back to the car. They made a U-turn and started down Woodman. Bosch’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen. It was a number out of the PAB but he didn’t recognize it. He took the call. It was Marshall Collins, the commander of the media relations unit.

“Detective Bosch, I’m holding them at bay, but we’re going to need to put something out on Irving today.”

“There’s nothing yet to put out.”

“Can you give me anything? I’ve gotten twenty-six calls here. What can I tell them?”

Bosch thought for a moment, wondering if there was a way to use the media to help the investigation.

“Tell them that cause of death is under investigation. Mr. Irving dropped from the seventh-floor balcony of his room at the Chateau Marmont. It is unknown at this time whether it was accident, suicide or homicide. Anyone with information about Mr. Irving’s last hours at the hotel or before should contact the Robbery-Homicide Division. Et cetera, et cetera, you know how to put it.”