Michael Connelly - Lost Light

As I made the turn into the doorway I saw a square table positioned in the middle of the interrogation room. Sitting at the table, his back to me, was a man wearing a black shirt and jeans. He had close-cropped blond hair. As I entered I looked over his heavily muscled shoulder and saw he was reading an open investigative file. He closed it and looked up as I moved around the table to the other chair, opposite him.

It was Roy Lindell. He smiled at my reaction.

“Harry Bosch,” he said. “Long time no see there, podjo.”

I paused for a moment but then pulled the chair out and sat down. Meantime, Nunez closed the door, leaving me alone with Lindell.

Roy Lindell was about forty now. The heavy muscles I remembered were still in place, pressing his shirt to its boundaries. He still had the Las Vegas tan and the bleached teeth to go with it. I had first met him on a case that took me to Vegas and right into the middle of an undercover FBI operation. Forced to work together, we had managed to put aside jurisdictional and agency animosities to a certain extent and we closed the case, the bureau taking all the credit of course. That had been six or seven years earlier. I ran into him on a case in L.A. once after that, but we never stayed in touch. Not because the bureau had thieved the credit on that first case. Because cops and feds just don’t mix.

“Almost didn’t recognize you without the ponytail, Roy.”

He stuck his big hand across the table and I slowly reached out and shook it. He had the confident demeanor that big men often have. And he had the rascal’s smile that often comes with it. The ponytail line had been a crack. When I first met him-and before I knew his status as an undercover agent-I took the liberty of cutting the tail off the back of his head with a penknife.

“How you been? You told Nunez you’re retired, huh? I hadn’t heard about that.”

I nodded but otherwise didn’t respond. This was his play. I wanted to let him make all the first moves.

“So what’s it like being retired from the force?”

“I’m not complaining.”

“We ran a check. You’re a licensed private eye now, huh?”

Big day in Sacramento.

“Yeah, I got a license. For the hell of it.”

I almost gave him the same story I gave Keisha Russell about it being part of the letting-go process but decided not to bother.

“Must be nice to have a little business, make your own hours, work for whoever you want to work for.”

That was enough for me as far as preliminaries went.

“Tell you what, let’s not talk about me, Roy. Let’s get to the point. What am I doing here?”

Lindell nodded as if to say fair enough.

“Well, what happened is that you called up and asked about an agent who used to work here, and doing that sort of raised a bunch of flags for us.”

“Martha Gessler.”

“That’s right. Marty Gessler. So you knew who you were calling about when you told Nunez you didn’t know who you were calling about?”

I shook my head.

“No. I put it together off his reaction. I remembered a female agent who went missing without a trace. Took me a while, then I remembered her name. What’s the latest with her? Gone but not forgotten, I suppose.”

Lindell leaned forward and brought his massive arms together over the closed file. His wrists were as thick as the legs of the table. I remembered the struggle I had putting cuffs on them. Back in Vegas when he was under and I still didn’t know it.

“Harry, I consider us to be like old friends. We haven’t talked in a while but we’ve sort of been through a battle or two together so I don’t want to jerk you around too bad here. But the way this is going to work is that I’m going to ask you the questions. That okay?”

“To a point.”

“We’re talking about a missing agent here. A female.”

“And you’re not fucking around.”

Paraphrasing the warning from Kiz Rider. Lindell didn’t seem to appreciate it.

“Let’s start with the reason you called,” he said. “What are you up to?”

I waited for a long moment, trying to work out how I should handle this. I wasn’t working for anybody other than myself. There was no confidentiality agreement. But I had always been resistant to bending over for the imperialist forces of the FBI. It had been part of the inbred LAPD culture. It wasn’t going to change now. I respected Lindell-like he said, we had been in the trenches together and I knew he ultimately would deal fairly with me. But the agency he worked for liked to play with a marked deck. I had to be careful. I had to remember that.

“I told Nunez what I was doing when I called. I’m just checking out a case that I worked a few years back and that has always sort of stuck with me. There a problem with that?”

“Who’s your client?”

“I don’t have one. I got the private license right after I pulled the pin to keep my options open. But I started looking into this thing for myself.”

He didn’t believe me. I could read it in his eyes.

“But this movie caper thing wasn’t even your case.”

“It was. For about four days. Then I got pulled. But I still remember the girl. The victim. I didn’t think anybody cared anymore so I started poking around.”

“So who told you to call the bureau?”

“Nobody.”

“You just thought it up on your own.”

“Not exactly. But you asked me who told me to call. Nobody told me to call. I did it all on my own, Roy. I learned about the call Gessler made to one of the detectives on the case. This was information that was new to me and I’m not sure it was ever followed up. It may have sort of fallen through the cracks. So I made a call to check it out. I didn’t have a name at the time. I talked to Nunez and here I am.”

“How do you know that Gessler called one of the detectives on the case?”

It seemed to me that the answer would be obvious. It also would mean nothing to Lawton Cross if I told Lindell about something that he freely had told me and that was probably part of the official investigative file.

“I was told about your agent’s call by Lawton Cross. He was one of the Robbery-Homicide guys who took the case from me once it blew up big. He told me his partner, Jack Dorsey, was the one who got the call from your agent.”

Lindell was writing the names down on a piece of paper he had pulled out of the file. I continued.

“This was well into the case when Gessler called him up. Months. Cross and Dorsey weren’t even working it full-time at that point. And it didn’t sound like they were too impressed with whatever it was Gessler had to say.”

“You talk to Dorsey about this?”

“No, Roy. Dorsey’s dead. Killed in a robbery in a bar in Hollywood. Cross was hit, too. He’s in a wheelchair with tubes in his arms and up his nose.”

“When was this?”

“About three years ago. It was big news.”

Lindell’s eyes showed his mind working. He was doing the math, checking dates. It reminded me that I had to put together a timeline for the case. It was getting too unwieldy.

“What’s the prevailing theory on Gessler? Dead or alive?”

Lindell looked down at the file on the table and shook his head.

“I can’t answer that, Harry. You are not a cop, you have no standing. You’re just some guy who can’t let go of his badge and gun, out there running around like a loose cannon. I can’t bring you into this.”

“Fine. Answer me one question then. And don’t worry. It won’t be giving anything away.”

He shrugged his shoulders. His answer would depend on the question.

“Was my call today the first connection you’ve come across between the movie money thing and Gessler?”