Angels Flight

Chapter 27

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.”

Irving’s eyes dropped and Bosch knew he was looking down at the protest march.

“The city’s held together…”

He didn’t finish. Bosch knew what he was thinking. That those people down on the sidewalks were expecting news of charges being filed – against a cop.

“Where are we with Detective Sheehan?” Irving asked.

Lindell looked at his watch.

“We’ve been talking to him for six hours now. When I left he had yet to say a single self-incriminating word in regard to the murder of Howard Elias.”

“He previously threatened the victim in the manner in which the victim was killed.”

“That was a long time ago. Plus, it was said in public, in front of witnesses. It’s been my experience that people who make threats like that usually don’t carry them out. They are blowing off steam most of the time.”

Irving nodded, his face still to the window.

“What about ballistics?” he asked.

“Nothing yet. The autopsy on Elias was supposed to start this afternoon. I sent Detective Chastain over. They’ll dig the slugs out and he’ll take them over to your firearms people. It will take too long to send them to my people in Washington. But remember, Chief, Sheehan volunteered his gun. He said, ‘Do the ballistics.’ Yes, he carries a nine but I kinda think he wouldn’t have offered the gun if he didn’t know the gun wouldn’t match the bullets.”

“And his home?”

“We searched it top to bottom – again, with his permission. Nothing. No other weapons, no hate notes about Elias, nothing.”

“Alibi?”

“Only place he’s hurting. He was home alone Friday night.”

“What about his wife?” Bosch asked.

“The wife and kids were up in Bakersfield,” Lindell said. “Apparently they’ve been up there a good long time.”

It was one more surprise about Sheehan. Bosch wondered why Sheehan hadn’t mentioned it when Bosch had asked about his family.

Irving remained silent and Lindell continued.

“I guess what I’m saying is that we can hold him and wait till tomorrow when we’ve got the ballistics report to clear him. Or we can hop on Harry’s wagon and kick him loose now. But we keep him overnight and the expectations out on the street will just rise that much further…”

“And if we release him without explanation we could touch off a riot,” Irving said.

Irving continued to stare at the window, brooding. This time Lindell waited.

“Kick him loose at six,” Irving finally said. “At the five o’clock briefing I will say he is being released pending further investigation. I can hear the howls already from Preston Tuggins and his people.”

“That’s not good enough, Chief,” Bosch said. “You have to say he’s clear. ‘Pending further investigation’? You might as well say we think he did it but we don’t have the evidence to charge him yet.”

Irving wheeled from the window and looked at Bosch. “Do not dare to tell me what is good enough, Detective. You do your job and I will do mine. Speaking of which, the briefing is in an hour. I want your two partners there for it. I am not going to stand up there with a bunch of white faces behind me and say we are letting a white cop go pending further investigation. I want your people there this time. And absolutely no excuse will be acceptable.”

“They’ll be there.”

“Good. Now let’s talk about what we will say to the media about the direction the investigation is heading in.”

The press conference was short. This time there was no sign of the chief of police. It was left to Irving to explain that the investigation was continuing and widening. He also said that the police officer who had been interviewed for several hours was being released. This brought an immediate chorus of shouted questions from the reporters. Irving raised his hands as if the action might in some way control the crowd. He was wrong.

“We are not going to turn this into a shouting match,” he barked. “I will take a handful of questions and that is it. We have an investigation to get back to. We – ”

“What do you mean by released, Chief?” Harvey Button called out. “Are you saying he has been cleared or you just don’t have evidence to hold him?”

Irving looked at Button for a moment before answering.

“What I am saying is that the investigation is now moving into other areas.”

“Then Detective Sheehan has been cleared, correct?”

“I am not getting into naming people we talk to.”

“Chief, we all know the name. Why can’t you answer the question?”

Bosch thought it was amusing in a cynical sort of way to watch this exchange because Lindell had convinced him it was Irving who had first leaked Frankie Sheehan’s name to the media. Now the deputy chief was trying to act insulted that it was out there.

“All I am saying is that the police officer we have talked to provided satisfactory answers at this time. He is going home and that is all I am – ”

“What other directions is the investigation going in?” another reporter called out.

“I cannot get into detail,” Irving said. “Suffice it to say we will be turning over every stone.”

“Can we ask the FBI agent questions?”

Irving glanced at Lindell, who was standing at the rear of the stage next to Bosch, Edgar and Rider. He then looked back at the crowd of lights, cameras and reporters.

“The FBI and the LAPD have decided this will best be handled by funneling information through the police department. If you have a question, ask me.”

“Are other cops being questioned?” Button called out.

Irving had to think again to make sure he put the right words in the right order.

“Yes, police officers are being questioned in a routine manner. At this point there are no police officers that we would classify as suspects.”

“Then you are saying Sheehan is not a suspect.”

Button got him. Irving knew it. He had talked himself into a logic corner. But he took the easy, if not disingenuous, way out.

“No comment.”

“Chief,” Button continued, above the din of other reporters, “the murders are almost forty-eight hours old. Are you saying there are no solid suspects at this time?”

“We’re not going to get into what suspects there may or may not be. Next.”

Irving quickly pointed to another reporter in order to steer things away from Button. The questioning went on for another ten minutes. At one point Bosch looked over at Rider and she gave him a look that said, What are we doing here? And Bosch returned a look that answered, We are wasting our time.

When it was finally over, Bosch huddled on the stage with Edgar and Rider. They had arrived from Hollywood station just as the press conference had begun and he hadn’t had time to talk to them.

“So where are we on the search warrants?” he asked.

“Almost done,” Edgar said. “It didn’t help that we had to come down here for the dog and pony show.”

“I know.”

“Harry, I thought you were going to steer us clear of this stuff,” Rider said.

“I know. It was selfish. Frankie Sheehan is a friend. What they did to him, leaking his name like that, was bullshit. I was hoping that having you two here might add some credibility to the announcement that he was being let go.”

“So you used us the way Irving wanted to yesterday,” she said. “You wouldn’t let him do it but it was okay for yourself.”

Bosch studied her face. He could tell she was genuinely angry at being used in such a way. Bosch knew that it was a betrayal. A small one in his mind, but a betrayal just the same.

“Look, Kiz, we can talk about this later. But like I said, Frankie’s a friend. He’s now your friend for this. And that could be valuable someday.”

He waited and watched and finally she gave a slight nod. It was over, for now.

“How much more time do you need?” he asked.

“Maybe an hour,” Edgar said. “Then we’ve got to find a judge.”

“Why?” Rider said. “What did Irving say?”

“Irving’s sitting on the fence. So I want to have everything ready. I want to be able to move. Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning’s no problem,” Edgar said.

“Good. Then you two go back and finish up. Get to a judge tonight. Tomorrow we’ll – ”

“Detective Bosch?”

Bosch turned. Harvey Button and his producer, Tom Chainey, were standing there.

“I can’t talk to you,” Bosch said.

“We understand that you have reopened the Stacey Kincaid case,” Chainey said. “We’d like to talk to you about – ”

“Who told you that?” Bosch snapped, anger quickly showing on his face.

“We have a source who – ”

“Well, tell your source he’s full of shit. No comment.”

A cameraman came up and poked his lens over Button’s shoulder. Button raised a microphone.

“Have you exonerated Michael Harris?” Button blurted out.

“I said no comment,” Bosch said. “Get that out of here.”

Bosch reached to the camera and put his hand over the lens. The cameraman shrieked.

“Don’t touch the camera! This is private property.”

“So is my face. Get it away from me. The press conference is over.”

Bosch put his hand on Button’s shoulder and forcefully ushered him off the stage. The cameraman followed. So did Chainey, but in a slow, calm way as if daring Bosch to manhandle him as well. Their eyes locked.

“Watch the news tonight, Detective,” Chainey said. “You might find it interesting.”

“I doubt that,” Bosch said.

Twenty minutes later Bosch was sitting on an empty desk at the mouth of the hallway that led to the RHD interview rooms on the third floor. He was still thinking about the exchange he’d had with Button and Chainey and wondering what they had. He heard one of the doors open and looked up. Frankie Sheehan came down the hallway with Lindell. Bosch’s old partner looked drained. His face was slack, his hair unkempt and his clothes – the same ones he had worn the night before in the bar – were disheveled. Bosch slid off the desk and stood up, ready to deflect a physical assault if need be. But Sheehan apparently read his body language and raised his hands, palms forward. He smiled crookedly.

“It’s okay, Harry,” Sheehan said, his voice very tired and hoarse. “Agent Lindell here gave me the scoop. Part of it, at least. It wasn’t you who… It was myself. You know I forgot all about threatening that douche bag.”

Bosch nodded.

“Come on, Frankie,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride.”

Without thinking too much about it Bosch led him to the main elevators and they headed down to the lobby. They stood side by side, both looking up at the lighted numbers above the door.

“Sorry I doubted you, buddy,” Sheehan said quietly.

“Don’t worry about it, buddy. That makes us even.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Last night when I asked about the prints.”

“You still doubt them?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

In the lobby they went out a side door to the employee parking lot. They were about halfway to the car when Bosch heard a commotion and turned to see several reporters and cameramen moving toward them.

“Don’t say anything,” Bosch said quickly. “Don’t say a word to them.”

The initial wave of reporters descended quickly and surrounded them. Bosch could see more coming.

“No comment,” Bosch said. “No comment.”

But it wasn’t Bosch they cared about. They shoved their microphones and cameras at Sheehan’s face. His eyes, so tired before, seemed wild now, even scared. Bosch tried to pull his friend through the crowd and to the car. The reporters shouted their questions.

“Detective Sheehan, did you kill Howard Elias?” a woman asked, louder than the others.

“No,” Sheehan said. “I didn’t – I didn’t do anything.”

“Did you previously threaten the victim?”

“Look, no comment,” Bosch said before Sheehan could react to the question. “Do you hear that? No comment. Leave us a – ”

“Why were you questioned?”

“Tell us why you were questioned, Detective”

They were almost there. Some of the reporters had dropped off, realizing they would get nothing. But most of the cameras were staying with them. They could always use the video. Suddenly, Sheehan broke from Bosch’s grip and wheeled around on the reporters.

“You want to know why I was questioned? I was questioned because the department needs to sacrifice somebody. To keep the peace. Doesn’t matter who it is, as long as they fit the bill. That’s where I came in. I fit the – ”

Bosch grabbed Sheehan and yanked him away from the microphones.

“Come on, Frankie, forget about them.”

By moving between two parked cars they were able to cut off the clot of reporters and cameramen. Bosch pushed Sheehan quickly to his slickback and opened the door. By the time the reporters followed in single file to the car, Sheehan was inside and safe from the microphones. Bosch went around to his side and got in.

They drove in silence until they were on the 101 Freeway going north. Bosch then glanced over at Sheehan. His eyes were staring ahead.

“You shouldn’t have said that, Frankie. You’re fanning the fire.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the fire. Not anymore.”

Silence returned. They were on the freeway cutting through Hollywood and traffic was light. Bosch could see smoke rising from a fire somewhere to the south and west. He thought about putting KFWB on the radio but decided he didn’t want to know what that smoke meant.

“They give you a chance in there to call Margaret?” he asked after a while.

“Nope. They didn’t give me a chance to do anything other than confess. I’m sure glad you rode into town and saved the day, Harry. I never did get told what you told ’em but whatever it was it sure saved my ass.”

Bosch knew what Sheehan was asking but he wasn’t ready to tell him.

“The media’s probably been out to your house,” he said instead. “Margaret probably got blindsided with this.”

“I got news for you, Harry. Margaret left me eight months ago. Took the girls and moved to Bakersfield. To be near her folks. There’s nobody at my house.”

“Sorry, Frankie.”

“I should’ve told you last night when you asked about them.”

Bosch drove for a little bit, thinking about things.

“Why don’t you get some stuff from your place and come stay at my house? The reporters won’t find you. Until this blows over.”

“I don’t know, Harry. Your house is the size of a box of Girl Scout cookies. I’m already claustrophobic from being in that room all day. Besides, I never met your wife, you know? She’s not going to want some stranger sleeping on your couch.”

Bosch looked at the Capitol Records building as the freeway cut past it. It was supposed to resemble a stack of records with a phonograph stylus on top. But like most of Hollywood time had passed it by. They didn’t make records anymore. Music came on compact discs. They sold record albums in secondhand stores now. Sometimes all of Hollywood seemed like a secondhand store to Bosch.

“My house got wrecked in the earthquake,” Bosch said. “It’s rebuilt now. I even have a guest room… and, Frankie, my wife left me, too.”

It felt strange to say it out loud. As if it was some form of confirmation of the death of his marriage.

“Oh, shit, Harry, you guys only got married a year or so ago. When did this happen?”

Bosch looked over at him and then back at the road.

“Recently.”

There were no reporters waiting outside Sheehan’s home when they got there twenty minutes later. Bosch said he was going to wait in the car and make some calls while Sheehan got his things. When he was alone he called his house to check for messages, so he wouldn’t have to play them in front of Sheehan when they got there. But there were none. He put the phone away and just sat. He wondered if his inviting Sheehan to stay at his house had been a subconscious effort to avoid facing the emptiness of the place. After a while he decided it wasn’t. He had lived alone most of his life. He was used to places that were empty. He knew the real shelter of a home was inside yourself.

Light washing across the mirrors caught Bosch’s eyes. He checked the side view and saw the lights of a car that was being parked against the curb a block or so back. He doubted it was a reporter. A reporter would have pulled right into Sheehan’s driveway, made no effort at concealment. He started thinking about what he wanted to ask Sheehan.

A few minutes later his former partner came out of the house carrying a grocery bag. He opened the back door and tossed it in, then got in up front. He was smiling.

“Margie took all the suitcases,” he said. “I didn’t realize that till tonight.”

They took Beverly Glen up the hill to Mulholland and then took it east to Woodrow Wilson. Bosch usually loved driving Mulholland at night. The curving road, the city lights coming in and out of view. But along the way they drove by The Summit and Bosch studied the gate and thought about the Kincaids somewhere behind it in the safety of their home with jetliner views.

“Frankie, I have to ask you something,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“Back on the Kincaid thing, during the investigation, did you talk to Kincaid much? Sam Kincaid, I mean.”

“Yeah, sure. Guy like that you handled with kid gloves. Him and the old man. You be careful, else it might come back on you.”

“Yeah. So you were pretty much keeping him informed on what was happening?”

“Yeah, pretty much. What about it? You’re sounding like those bureau guys who were all over me all day, Harry.”

“Sorry, just asking. Did he call you a lot or did you call him?”

“Both ways. He also had a security guy who was talking to us, staying in touch.”

“D.C. Richter?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Harry, you going to tell me what’s goin’ on or what?”

“In a minute. Let me ask you something first. How much did you tell Kincaid or Richter about Michael Harris, you remember?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m not saying you did anything wrong. A case like that, you keep the principals involved and informed. So did you go to them and tell them you had brought Harris in on the fingerprints and, you know, that you were smoking him in the rooms?”

“Sure we did. Standard operating procedure.”

“Right. And did you tell them about who Harris was and where he came from, that sort of thing?”

“I suppose I did.”

Bosch let it go for a while. He turned onto Woodrow Wilson and drove the winding road down to the house. He pulled into the carport.

“Hey, this looks nice,” Sheehan said.

Bosch put the car into park but paused before getting out.

“Did you tell the Kincaids or Richter specifically where Harris lived?” he asked.

Sheehan looked over at him.

“What are you telling me?”

“I’m asking you. Did you tell any of them where Harris lived?”

“I might have. I don’t remember.”

Bosch got out and headed to the kitchen door. Sheehan got his stuff out of the back seat and followed.

“Talk to me, Hieronymus.”

Bosch unlocked the door.

“I think you made a mistake.”

He went inside.

“Talk to me, Hieronymus.”

Bosch led Sheehan to the guest room and Sheehan threw his bag onto the bed. Back out in the hall Bosch pointed into the bathroom and headed back into the living room. Sheehan was silent, waiting.

“The toilet handle in that one is broken,” Bosch said, not looking at him. “You have to hold it down the whole time it’s flushing.”

He now looked at his former partner.

“We can explain Harris’s fingerprints. He didn’t abduct or kill Stacey Kincaid. In fact, we don’t even think there was an abduction. Kincaid killed his stepdaughter. He was abusing her and killed her, then staged the abduction scene. He got lucky when the prints on the book tied in Harris. He then used it. We think it was him – or his man, Richter – who dumped the body near Harris’s place because he knew where that place was. So think, Francis. I don’t want probablys. I need to know if you told Kincaid or his security man where Harris lived.”

Sheehan looked dumbfounded and his eyes wandered to the floor.

“You’re saying we were wrong about Harris…”

“You guys had blinders on, man. Once those prints came up, you could only see Harris.”

Sheehan kept his eyes on the floor and slowly nodded his head.

“We all make mistakes, Frankie. Sit down and think about what I just asked. What did you tell Kincaid and at what point did you tell him? I’ll be right back.”

While he left Sheehan to ponder what he had just been told, Bosch went back down the hall to his bedroom. He stepped in and looked around. It looked the same. He opened the door to the walk-in closet and hit the light. Eleanor’s clothes were gone. He looked down at the floor. Her shoes had been cleared out as well. On the rug he saw a little bundle of netting tied with a blue ribbon. He bent down and picked it up. The netting was wrapped around a handful of rice. He remembered that the chapel in Las Vegas had provided the rice bundles as part of the wedding package – for tossing at the happy couple. Eleanor had kept one as a keepsake. Now Bosch wondered if she had mistakenly left it behind or had simply discarded it.

Bosch dropped the bundle into his pocket and turned off the light.