Michael Connelly - Angels Flight

Bosch nodded and said, “Normally, that would be true. But these aren’t normal times. He wants to prevent the city from burning. Going with this, and going fast, might be the way. Irving’s smart enough to see that.”

“You have too much faith in human nature,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“The best way of cooling this city off is to arrest a cop. Irving’s already down there with Sheehan in the box. He isn’t going to want to hear this, Harry.”

“You think that if you arrest the car czar and say he did Elias that everybody will believe you and be cool,” Edgar added. “You don’t understand. There are people out there who need this to be a cop and they won’t listen to anything else. Irving’s smart enough to see that, too.”

Bosch thought of Sheehan downtown at Parker Center in a room. He was being measured as the department’s sacrificial lamb.

“Just work on the warrants,” he said. “I’ll worry about the rest.”

BOSCH looked out the window and down at the protesters lining the sidewalks in front of Parker Center and across Los Angeles Street. They moved in orderly lines, carrying signs that said JUSTICE NOW on one side and JUSTICE FOR HOWARD ELIAS on the other. The duplication of the signs attested to the careful orchestration of the protest for the benefit of the media. Bosch saw Reverend Preston Tuggins was one of the marchers. As he walked, reporters walked along with him, sticking microphones in front of him and focusing cameras at his face. Bosch didn’t see any signs that said anything about Catalina Perez.

“Detective Bosch,” Deputy Chief Irving said from behind him. “Run it down for us. You’ve told us what information you’ve accumulated. Now put it into perspective. Tell us what you think it means.”

Bosch turned around. He looked at Irving, then at Lindell. They were in Irving’s office. Irving was ensconced behind his desk, sitting ramrod straight in his full uniform – an indication he would be appearing at a press conference later. Lindell sat in one of the chairs across the desk. Bosch had just recounted for them what Rider had come up with and the steps his team had taken to that point. Irving now wanted his interpretation of it all.

Bosch composed his thoughts as he stepped back to the desk and took the seat next to Lindell.

“I think Sam Kincaid killed his stepdaughter or had something to do with it. There never was an abduction. That was the story he cooked up. Then he got lucky. He caught a big break when those fingerprints happened to point to Harris. After that was discovered he was practically home free.”

“Start at the start.”

“Okay. You start with Kincaid being a pedophile. He married Kate six years ago, probably as a cover. And to get at her daughter. The girl’s body was too decomposed for the coroner to determine if there was indication of long-term sexual abuse. But I’m saying there was. And at – ”

“The mother knew?”

“I don’t know. She found out at some point but when that was is the question.”

“Go on. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Something happened last summer. Maybe the girl threatened to tell someone – her mother, if she didn’t know yet – or maybe go to the authorities. Or maybe Kincaid simply grew tired of her. Pedophiles target a specific age group. They’re not interested in children older than their target group. Stacey Kincaid was about to turn twelve. She may have been too old for her stepfather’s… tastes. If she was no longer of use to him in that way, she was only a danger to him.”

“This conversation is turning my stomach, Detective. We are talking about an eleven-year-old girl.”

“What do you want me to do about it, Chief? It’s turning mine, too. I’ve seen the pictures.”

“Then move on please.”

“So something happened and he killed her. He hid the body and jimmied the window. He then let events take place. In the morning the mother finds her gone and calls the cops. The abduction story starts to unfold.”

“He then gets lucky,” Lindell said.

“Right. He catches a nice piece of luck. Of all the prints collected in the girl’s room and the rest of the house, the computer spits out a match with Michael Harris, ex-convict and all-around dirtbag. RHD was off to the races then. Like they were wearing blinders. They dropped everything and Harris became the only focus. They picked him up and did their thing with him. Only a funny thing happened on the way to a conviction. Harris didn’t confess and there was no other evidence to go with those fingerprints. Meantime, Harris’s name was leaked to the media. It became known that the cops had a suspect. Kincaid found out where Harris lived – maybe he got it from a friendly cop who was just keeping the parents of the victim informed. However it happened, he knew where Harris lived. He went to the spot where he’d hidden the body and moved it. My guess is that it was in the trunk of a car all along. Probably on one of his car lots. Anyway, he took the body to Harris’s neighborhood and dumped it in a trash lot a couple blocks from the suspect’s apartment. When it was found the next morning, the cops finally had another piece of evidence – circumstantial as it was – to go with the fingerprints. But all Harris was was a patsy.”

“His prints had been left when he washed Mrs. Kincaid’s car,” Irving said.

“Right.”

“So what about Elias?” Lindell asked. “How did he get himself killed?”

“I think Mrs. Kincaid did that. By mistake. At some point since she put her daughter in the ground I think she started seeing ghosts. She was feeling guilty about her daughter and maybe tried to make it right. She knew what her husband was capable of, maybe he had even threatened her outright, so she tried to do it on the sly. She started sending anonymous letters to Elias, to help him along. It did. Elias was able to get to the secret web site, Charlotte’s Web. Once he saw those pictures of the girl, he knew who the real killer probably was. He was going about it very quietly. But he was going to subpoena Kincaid and spring it on him in court. Only he made a mistake and showed his hand. He left a trail on the web site. Kincaid or the operators of the site learned they had been compromised.”

“They sent out a gun,” Lindell said.

“I seriously doubt it was Kincaid himself. But probably somebody working for him. He’s got a security guy. We’re checking him out.”

They all sat silent for a long moment. Irving clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. There was nothing on top of it. It was just polished wood.

“You have to cut Sheehan loose,” Bosch said. “He didn’t do it.”

“Don’t worry about Sheehan,” Irving said. “If he’s clean he goes home. I want to know how we proceed with Kincaid. It seems so…”

Bosch ignored his hesitancy.

“We do what we’re doing,” he said. “We get search warrants signed and ready to go. I’m supposed to meet Mrs. Kincaid tomorrow morning at the old house. I go, try to play her, try to get an admission. I think she’s fragile, maybe ready to be flipped. Either way, we spring the warrants. We use everybody and hit all places at once – the homes, the cars, the offices. We see what they bring. We also have to pull records on his dealerships. Find out what cars Kincaid was using back in July. Richter, too.”

“Richter?”

“He’s the security guy.”

Irving got up and went to the window this time.

“You’re talking about a member of a family that helped build this city,” he said. “The son of Jackson Kincaid.”

“I know that,” Bosch replied. “The guy’s from a powerful family. He’s even proprietary about the smog. He looks at it like it’s a family accomplishment. But that doesn’t matter, Chief. Not after what he’s done.”