Michael Connelly - The Closers

“Yeah, it might work. Whatever you want to do. Just call me and we’ll set it up. The Daily News ? I’ve got connections there. It’s the Valley paper.”

Bosch nodded.

“Yeah, that’s what we were thinking,” he said.

“Good. Let me know. I’ve got to go.”

He quickly left the office. Rider and Bosch looked at each other and then followed. Out in the hallway, waiting for the elevator, Rider asked Bosch what he was doing when he asked him about planting the news story.

“He’d be perfect for the story because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“So, we don’t want that. We want to be careful.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll work.”

The elevator opened and they got on. No one else was in it. As soon as the door closed Rider was on him.

“Harry, let’s get something straight right now. We’re either partners or we’re not. You should have told me you were going to hit him with that. We should’ve talked about it first.”

Bosch nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’re partners. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.”

The elevator door opened and she stepped out, leaving Bosch behind.

HILLSIDE PREPARATORY SCHOOL was a structure of Spanish design nestled against the hills of Porter Ranch. Its campus was marked by magnificent green lawns and the daunting rise of mountains behind it. The mountains almost seemed to cradle the school and protect it. Bosch thought it looked like a place that any parent would want their child to go. He thought about his own daughter, just a year away from starting school. He would want her to go to a school that looked like this-on the outside, at least.

He and Rider followed signs that led them to the administration offices. At a front counter Bosch showed his badge and explained that they wanted to see if a student named Roland Mackey had ever attended Hillside. The clerk disappeared into a back office and soon a man emerged. His most notable features were a basketball-sized paunch and thick glasses shaded by bushy eyebrows. Across his forehead his hair left the perfect line of a toupee.

“I’m Gordon Stoddard, principal here at Hillside. Mrs. Atkins told me you are detectives. I’m having her check that name for you. It didn’t ring a bell with me and I’ve been here almost twenty-five years. Do you know exactly when he attended? It might help her with the search.”

Bosch was surprised. Stoddard looked like he was in his mid-forties. He must have come to Hillside fresh from his own schooling and never left. Bosch didn’t know if that was a testament to what they paid teachers here or Stoddard’s own dedication to the place. But from what he knew about teachers private and public, he doubted it was the pay.

“We’d be talking about the eighties, if he went here. That’s a long time ago for you to remember.”

“Yes, but I have a memory for the students that have come through. Most of them. I haven’t been principal for twenty-five years. I was a teacher first. I taught science and then I was dean of the science department.”

“Do you remember Rebecca Verloren?” Rider asked.

Stoddard blanched.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I taught her science. Is that what this is about? Have you arrested this boy, Mackey? I mean, I guess he’d be a man now. Is he the one?”

“We don’t know that, sir,” Bosch said quickly. “We’re reviewing the case and his name came up and we need to check on it. That’s all.”

“Did you see the plaque?” Stoddard asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Outside on the wall in the main hallway. There is a plaque dedicated to Rebecca. The students in her class collected the funds for it and had it made. It is quite nice but of course it is also quite sad. But it does serve its purpose. People around here remember Rebecca Verloren.”

“We missed it. We’ll look at it on our way out.”

“A lot of people still remember her. This school might not pay that well, and most of the faculty might have to work two jobs to make ends meet, but it has a very loyal faculty nonetheless. There are several teachers still here who taught Rebecca. We have one, Mrs. Sable, who was actually a student with her and then returned here to teach. In fact, Bailey was one of her good friends, I believe.”

Bosch glanced at Rider, who raised her eyebrows. They had a plan for approaching Becky Verloren’s friends but here was an opportunity presenting itself. Bosch had recognized the name Bailey. One of the three friends Becky Verloren had spent the evening with two nights before her disappearance was named Bailey Koster.

Bosch knew that it was more than an opportunity to question a witness in the case. If they didn’t get to Sable now she would likely hear about Roland Mackey from Stoddard. Bosch didn’t want that. He wanted to control the flow of information on the case to the players involved in it.

“Is she here today?” Bosch asked. “Could we talk to her?”

Stoddard looked up at the clock on the wall next to the counter.

“Well, she is in class now but school lets out for the day in about twenty minutes. If you don’t mind waiting I am sure you could talk to her then.”

“That’s no problem.”

“Good, I will send a message to her classroom and have her come to the office after school.”

Mrs. Atkins, the counter clerk, appeared behind Stoddard.

“Actually, if you don’t mind,” Rider said, “we’d rather go to her classroom to talk to her. We don’t want to make her uncomfortable.”

Bosch nodded. Rider was on the same frequency. They didn’t want a message of any kind going to Mrs. Sable. They didn’t want her thinking about Becky Verloren until they were right there watching and listening.

“Either way,” Stoddard said. “Whatever you want to do.”

He noticed Mrs. Atkins standing behind him and asked her to report her findings.

“We have no record of a Roland Mackey as a student here,” she said.

“Did you come across anyone with that last name?” Rider asked.

“Yes, one Mackey, first name Gregory, attended for two years in nineteen ninety-six and -seven.”

There was a long-shot possibility that it was a younger brother or a cousin. It might become necessary to check the name out.

“Can you see if there is a current address or contact number for him?” Rider asked.

Mrs. Atkins looked at Stoddard for approval and he nodded. She disappeared to go get the information. Bosch checked the wall clock. They had almost twenty minutes to kill.

“Mr. Stoddard, are there yearbooks from the late eighties that we could look at while we’re waiting to see Mrs. Sable?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, I will take you to the library and get those for you.”

On the way to the library Stoddard took them by the plaque Rebecca Verloren’s classmates had put on the wall of the main hallway. It was a simple dedication with her name, the years of her birth and death and the youthful promise of WE WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER.

“She was a sweet kid,” Stoddard said. “Always involved. Her family, too. What a tragedy.”

Stoddard used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the dust off the laminated photograph of the smiling Becky Verloren on the plaque.

The library was around the corner. There were few students at the tables or browsing the shelves as the end of the day drew near. In a whisper Stoddard told them to have a seat at a table and then he went off into the stacks. Less than a minute later he came back with three yearbooks and put them down on the table. Bosch saw that each book had the title Veritas and the year on the cover. Stoddard had brought yearbooks from 1986, 1987 and 1988.

“These are the last three years,” Stoddard whispered. “I remember she went here from grade one, so if you want earlier books just let me know. They’re on the shelf.”