Michael Connelly - Angels Flight

“He was just a normal-looking guy. He…”

Bosch was growing impatient but wasn’t sure why. The guard seemed to be doing the best he could. It was routine in police work to find witnesses unable to describe people they had gotten a good look at. Bosch took the search warrant out of the guard’s hand and handed it back to Dellacroce. Langwiser asked to see it and began reading it while Bosch continued with the guard.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert Courtland. I’m on the waiting list for the academy.”

Bosch nodded. Most security guards in this town were waiting for a police job somewhere. The fact that Courtland, a black man, was not already in the academy told Bosch that there was a problem somewhere in his application. The department was going out of its way to attract minorities to the ranks. For Courtland to be wait-listed there had to be something. Bosch guessed he had probably admitted smoking marijuana or didn’t meet the minimum educational requirements, maybe even had a juvenile record.

“Close your eyes, Robert.”

“What?”

“Just close your eyes and relax. Think of the man you saw. Tell me what he looks like.”

Courtland did as he was told and after a moment came up with an improved but still sketchy description.

“He’s about the same height as Mr. Elias. But he had his head shaved. It was slick. He got one of them soul chips, too.”

“Soul chip?”

“You know, like a little beard under his lip.”

He opened his eyes.

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Bosch said in a friendly, cajoling tone. “Robert, how’re you going to make it into the cops. We need more than that. How old was this guy?”

“I don’t know. Thirty or forty.”

“That’s a help. Only ten years difference. Was he thin? Fat?”

“Thin but with muscles. You know, the guy was built.”

“I think he’s describing Michael Harris,” Rider said. Bosch looked at her. Harris was the plaintiff in the Black Warrior case.

“It fits,” Rider said. “The case starts Monday. They were probably working late, getting ready for court.”

Bosch nodded and was about to dismiss Courtland when Langwiser suddenly spoke while still reading the last page of the search warrant.

“I think we have a problem with the warrant.”

Now everyone looked at her.

“Okay, Robert,” Bosch said to Courtland. “We’ll be all right from here. Thanks for your help.”

“You sure? You want me to go up with you, unlock the door or something?”

“No, we have a key. We’ll be all right.”

“Okay, then. I’ll be in the security office around behind the stairs if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

Courtland started walking back the way he had come but then stopped and turned around.

“Oh, you know, all five of you better not take the elevator up at once. That’s probably too much weight on that old thing.”

“Thanks, Robert,” Bosch said.

He waited until the guard had gone around the staircase and was out of sight before turning back to Langwiser.

“Miss Langwiser, you probably haven’t gone out on too many crime scenes before,” he said. “But here’s a tip, never announce that there is a problem with a search warrant in front of somebody who isn’t a cop.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t – ”

“What’s wrong with the warrant?” Dellacroce said, his voice showing he was upset by the apparent challenge to his work. “The judge didn’t see anything wrong with it. The judge said it was fine.”

Langwiser looked down at the three-page warrant in her hand and waved it, its pages fluttering like a falling pigeon.

“I just think that with a case like this we better be damn sure of what we’re doing before we go in there and start opening up files.”

“We have to go into the files,” Bosch said. “That’s where most of the suspects will be.”

“I understand that. But these are confidential files relating to lawsuits against the police department. They contain privileged information that only an attorney and his client should have. Don’t you see? It could be argued that by opening a single file you’ve violated the rights of Elias’s clients.”

“All we want is to find the man’s killer. We don’t care about his pending cases. I hope to Christ that the killer’s name isn’t in those files and that it isn’t a cop. But what if it is and what if in those files Elias kept copies or notes on threats? What if through his own investigations he learned something about somebody that could be a motive for his killing? You see, we need to look at the files.”

“All of that is understandable. But if a judge later rules the search was inappropriate you won’t be able to use anything you find up there. You want to run that risk?”

She turned away from them and looked toward the door.

“I have to find a phone and make a call about this,” she said. “I can’t let you open that office yet. Not in good conscience.”

Bosch blew out his breath in exasperation. He silently chastised himself for calling in a lawyer too soon. He should have just done what he knew he had to do and dealt with the consequences later.

“Here.”

He opened his briefcase and handed her his cell phone. He listened as she called the DA’s office switchboard and asked to be connected to a prosecutor named David Sheiman, who Bosch knew was the supervisor of the major crimes unit. After she had Sheiman on the line she began summarizing the situation and Bosch continued to listen to make sure she had the details right.

“We’re wasting a lot of time standing around, Harry,” Rider whispered to him. “You want me to go pick up Harris and have a talk with him about last night?”

Bosch almost nodded his approval but then hesitated as he considered the possible consequences.

Michael Harris was suing fifteen members of the Robbery-Homicide Division in a highly publicized case set to begin trial on Monday. Harris, a car-wash employee with a record of burglary and assault convictions, was seeking $10 million in damages for his claims that members of the RHD had planted evidence against him in the kidnapping and murder of a twelve-year-old girl who was a member of a well-known and wealthy family. Harris claimed the detectives had abducted, held and tortured him over a three-day period in hopes of drawing a confession from him as well as learning the location of the missing girl. The lawsuit alleged that the detectives, frustrated by Harris’s unwillingness to admit his part in the crime or lead them to the missing girl, pulled plastic bags over Harris’s head and threatened to suffocate him. He further claimed that one detective pushed a sharp instrument – a Black Warrior No. 2 pencil – into his ear, puncturing the ear drum. But Harris never confessed and on the fourth day of the interrogation the girl’s body was found decomposing in a vacant lot just one block from his apartment. She had been sexually assaulted and strangled.

The murder became one more in a long line of crimes that gripped public attention in Los Angeles. The victim was a beautiful blond, blue-eyed girl named Stacey Kincaid. She had been spirited from her bed while she slept in her family’s large and seemingly safe Brentwood home. It was the kind of crime that sent a chilling message across the city: Nobody is safe.

As horrible as it was in itself, the murder of the little girl was exponentially magnified by the media. Initially, this was because of who the victim was and where she came from. She was the stepdaughter of Sam Kincaid, scion of a family that owned more automobile dealerships in Los Angeles County than it was possible to count on two hands. Sam was the son of Jackson Kincaid, the original “car czar,” who had built the family business from a single Ford dealership his father had passed on to him after World War II. Like Howard Elias after him, Jack Kincaid had seen the merit in local television marketing and in the 1960s became a fixture of late-night TV advertising. On camera, he showed a folksy charm, exuding honesty and friendship. He seemed as reliable and trustworthy as Johnny Carson and he was in the living rooms and bedrooms of Los Angeles just as often. If Los Angeles was seen as an “autotopia” then Jack Kincaid was certainly seen as its unofficial mayor.