Michael Connelly - EchoPark

He heard her breath catch and he immediately knew he had made a mistake. The recent arrest and court hearings involving Waits had made it into the media in Bakersfield. He should have known that Irene would have a keen eye on such things in L.A. She would know what Waits was accused of. She would know they were calling him the Echo Park Bagman.

“Irene?”

He guessed that her imagination had taken terrible flight.

“Irene, it’s not what you think. I’m just running some checks on this guy. It sounds like you’ve heard of him from the news.”

“Of course. Those poor young girls. Ending up like that. I…”

He knew what she was thinking, maybe not what she was feeling.

“Can you think back before you saw him on the news. The name. Do you remember if your daughter ever mentioned it?”

“No, I don’t remember it, thank God.”

“Is your husband there? Can you check with him?”

“He’s not here. He’s still at work.”

Dan Gesto had given everything of himself to the search for his missing daughter. After two years, when he had nothing left spiritually, physically or financially, he went home to Bakersfield and went back to work at a John Deere franchise. Selling farmers their tractors and tools kept him alive now.

“Can you ask him when he comes home and then call me back if he remembers the name?”

“I will, Harry.”

“One other thing, Irene. Marie’s apartment had that tall window in the living room. You remember that?”

“Of course. That first year we came down for Christmas instead of her coming up. We wanted her to feel like it was a two-way road. Dan put up the tree in that window and you could see its lights from up and down the block.”

“Yes. Do you know if she ever hired a window washer to keep that window clean?”

There was a long silence while Bosch waited. It was a hole in the investigation, an angle he should have followed thirteen years before but hadn’t even thought of.

“I don’t remember, Harry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Irene. It’s okay. Do you remember when you and Dan went back to Bakersfield and you took everything from the apartment?”

“Yes.”

She said it in a strangled voice. He knew that she was crying now and that the couple had felt that in some way they were abandoning their daughter as well as their hope when they had gone home after two years of searching and waiting.

“Did you keep it all? All the records and bills and all of the stuff we gave you when we were finished with it?”

He knew that if there had been a receipt for a window washer, it would have been a lead that was checked out. But he had to ask her anyway to confirm the negative, to make sure it hadn’t slipped through the cracks.

“Yes, we have it. It’s in her room. We have a room with her things in it. In case she…”

Ever came home. Bosch knew their hope would not be fully extinguished until Marie was found, one way or the other.

“I understand,” he said. “I need you to look through that box, Irene. If you can. I want you to look for a receipt from a window washer. Go through her checkbooks and see if she paid a window washer. Look for a company called ClearView Residential Glass Cleaners, or maybe an abbreviation of that. Call me if you find anything. Okay, Irene? Do you have a pen there? I think I got a new cell number since the last time I gave it to you.”

“Okay, Harry,” Irene said. “I have a pen.”

“The number is three-two-three, two-four-four, five-six-three-one. Thank you, Irene. I’m going to go now. Please give your husband my best.”

“I will. How’s your daughter, Harry?”

He paused. Over the years it seemed like he had told them everything about himself. It was a way of keeping solid the bond and his promise to find their daughter.

“She’s fine. She’s great.”

“What grade now?”

“Third, but I don’t get to see her that much. She’s living in Hong Kong with her mother at the moment. I went over last month for a week. They’ve got a Disneyland over there now.”

He didn’t know why he threw in that last line.

“It must be very special when you are with her.”

“Yes. She is also sending me e-mail now. She’s better at it than me.”

It was awkward speaking about one’s daughter to a woman who had lost her own and didn’t know where or why.

“I hope she comes back soon,” Irene Gesto said.

“Me, too. Good-bye, Irene. Call me on the cell whenever you want.”

“Good-bye, Harry. Good luck.”

She always said good luck at the end of every conversation. Bosch sat in the car and thought about the contradiction in his desire for his daughter to live here in Los Angeles with him. He feared for her safety in the far-off place where she lived now. He wanted to be close so that he could protect her. But would bringing her to a city where young girls disappeared without a trace or ended up in pieces in trash bags be a move toward safety? He knew deep down that he was being selfish and that he couldn’t really protect her no matter where she lived. Everybody had to make their own way in this world. It was Darwin’s rules out there and all he could do was hope that her path didn’t cut across the path of someone like Raynard Waits.

He gathered up the files and got out of the car.

BOSCH DIDN’T SEE THE CLOSED sign until he got to the door of Chinese Friends. It was only then that he realized the restaurant closed in the late afternoon before the dinner rush started. He opened his phone to call Rachel Walling but remembered she blocked her number when she had called him back. With nothing to do but wait he bought a copy of the Times out of a box at the curb and paged through it while leaning against his car.

He scanned the headlines quickly, feeling that he was somehow wasting time or losing momentum by reading the paper. The only story he read with any interest was a brief item reporting that district attorney candidate Gabriel Williams had picked up the endorsement of the South County Fellowship of Christian Churches. It wasn’t much of a surprise but it was significant because it was an early indication that the minority vote was going with Williams, the civil rights attorney. The story also mentioned that Williams and Rick O’Shea would be appearing the next night at a candidate forum being sponsored by another coalition representing the south side, the Citizens for Sensitive Leadership. The candidates would not debate each other but would give speeches and take questions from the audience. The CSL would announce its endorsement afterward. Also appearing at the forum would be city council candidates Irvin Irving and Martin Maizel.

Bosch lowered the paper and daydreamed for a moment about showing up at the forum and sandbagging Irving from the audience, asking him how his skills as a police department fixer qualified him for elective office.

He came out of the reverie when an unmarked federal cruiser pulled to the curb in front of his car. He watched Rachel Walling step out. She was dressed casually in black slacks and blazer with a cream-colored blouse. Her dark brown hair was down to her shoulders now and that was probably what was most casual of all. She looked good and Bosch jumped back to that night in Vegas.

“Rachel,” he said, smiling.

“Harry.”

He walked toward her. It was an awkward moment. He didn’t know whether to hug her or kiss her or just shake her hand. There was that night in Vegas but it had been followed by that day in L.A., on the back deck of his house, when everything had come apart and things had ended before they really started.

She saved him from making a choice by reaching out and touching him lightly on the arm.