Dark Sacred Night

47

Bosch helped Ballard out of the back of the truck and down to the ground. The man he had hit with his gun was still on the floor and unconscious. Ballard looked at him after climbing down.

“Is that Dillon?” Bosch asked.

“It’s him,” Ballard said.

She turned and looked at Bosch.

“How did you find me?” she asked. “I thought maybe you were up at the SIS scene.”

“I was but I got out of there because you and I were supposed to work,” Bosch said. “But when I got to Hollywood you were gone. I talked to Money and he gave me the card you left.”

Bosch pointed to the man on the floor.

“I pull up here and he was opening the garage. I could tell that something was wrong by the way he was hesitating and looking around before driving in. I figured that you were inside. I snuck in behind his truck before he brought down the door.”

“Well, I guess we’re even then. You saved me.”

“You had your weapons. You would have taken care of things, I think.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. When I said ‘weapons,’ I meant more than your gun. I know what you can do.”

Bosch looked down at Dillon’s body, still unconscious and prone on the floor.

“I don’t have cuffs,” Bosch said.

“I do,” Ballard said.

She stepped forward, taking the cuffs off the back of her belt.

“Hold on a second,” Bosch said.

He moved toward the shelves where supplies were stocked and stopped to pick up Dillon’s gun and snug it into his waistband. He then grabbed a roll of duct tape and came back.

“Keep your cuffs,” he said. “Let’s do it this way.”

“Why?” Ballard asked. “We have to call it in.”

“‘We’? Not you. You get out of here. I’ll handle it.”

“No. I’m not going to let them blame you for what I did. If anybody gets fired, it’s going to be me.”

Bosch spoke as he used the tape to bind Dillon’s wrists and then feet.

“I can’t get fired. I don’t have a job, remember? You need to go now and leave all this to me.”

“What about evidence? There’s a mattress and food wrappings in the truck. I found a pink fingernail. He didn’t stop with Daisy Clayton.”

“I know. He just got better at it.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the incinerator, and then back up at Ballard.

“I bet he didn’t have this place back then — with Daisy,” he said. “Or that incinerator.”

Ballard nodded somberly.

“I wonder how many,” she said.

Bosch took strips of tape and put them across Dillon’s mouth and eyes.

“I’m going to try to find that out as soon as you’re out of here,” he said.

“Harry...” Ballard said.

“Go now. Go back to the station and ask Money if I ever came by. Say you never saw me.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure. It’s the only way. When I have everything ready, I’ll call it in to Van Nuys Division. And I’ll let you know. No blowback on you. If they get mad at someone, it will be me, but they’ll have to think real hard about that if I offer them this guy in a package wrapped in audiotape.”

“What tape?”

“I’ve got a tape recorder in my car.”

Dillon suddenly groaned and shook his body. He was coming to and realizing his situation. He tried to yell something through the tape that was gagging him.

Bosch looked at Ballard and put a finger on his mouth for silence, then twirled it in the air. It was time for her to get moving.

Ballard pointed to the locked door at the front of the warehouse and made a signal like she was turning a lock with a key. Bosch nodded and leaned down next to Dillon’s body. He started checking his pockets for keys. Dillon loudly objected, yelling nonsensically through the duct tape.

“Sorry, buddy,” Bosch said. “Just checking the pockets for weapons and other bad things.”

He pulled out a set of keys and signaled Ballard to follow him, then unlocked the door and walked her out. He saw his car where he had left it parked in front of one of the other warehouses down the line. He spoke quietly to Ballard.

“Keep your eye on him for a second while I pull my car up and grab some gloves and the recorder. Just stay here by the door.”

“Will do,” Ballard whispered.

Bosch walked off. Ballard stopped him.

“Harry.”

He looked back at her.

“Thanks.”

“You already said that.”

“That was for before. This is for you taking the weight on this.”

“What weight? It’ll be a breeze.”

He headed off toward his car. Ballard watched him go.

48

Bosch was alone with Roger Dillon now. He had him propped up against one of the big barrels full of cleaning solvents. Bosch had forcefully pulled the tape off his captive’s mouth, eliciting loud cries of pain and subsequent cursing. He’d left his eyes covered.

Before yanking the tape, Bosch had moved around the warehouse, planning and prepping for the interview. He had pulled the chair away from the desk and set it five feet away from Dillon, front and center. He had cut the tape around Dillon’s ankles and spread his legs on the concrete floor.

Bosch put two metal mop buckets on the floor on either side of his chair. One had two inches of water in it. Into the other he had poured a bottle of sulfuric acid that he had found on one of the storage shelves.

He then sat down in front of Dillon.

“Are you awake now?” Bosch asked.

“What the fuck is this?” Dillon answered. “Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter who I am. Tell me about Daisy Clayton.”

“I don’t know what or who you’re talking about. Untie me right the fuck now.”

“Sure you do. Nine years ago? The child hooker on Sunset you grabbed from out front of the liquor store? She had to be your first, I’m thinking, or one of your first. Before you had this setup, back when you had to worry about where and how to get rid of the bodies.”

There was a momentary pause in Dillon’s response that told Bosch he had thrown a strike.

“You’re crazy and you’re going to jail,” Dillon said. “All this — illegal. Doesn’t matter what I tell you. I could say I killed Kennedy, Tupac, and Biggie Smalls and it wouldn’t matter. This is all illegal search and seizure. I’m not even a cop and I know that. So just call it in, motherfucker. Let’s get this over with.”

Bosch leaned back in the desk chair. It squeaked.

“One problem with all of that,” he said. “I’m not a cop. I’m not here to call anything in. I’m here for Daisy Clayton. That’s it.”

“Bullshit,” Dillon said. “I can tell. You’re a cop.”

“Tell me about Daisy.”

“Nothing to tell. I don’t know her.”

“You grabbed her that night. You took her.”

“Whatever, man. I want a lawyer.”

“There are no lawyers here. We’re past that.”

“Then do what you gotta do, bro. I’m not saying shit.”

His chair squeaking, Bosch reached down to the bucket containing the acid. He carefully lifted it and moved it to a spot between Dillon’s spread legs.

“What are you doing?” Dillon asked.

Bosch said nothing. The fumes from the acid did the talking.

“Is that the sulfuric?” Dillon asked, panic rising in his voice. “I can smell it. What the fuck are you doing?”

“What’s it matter, Roger?” Bosch said. “You say I’m a cop, right? I won’t do anything to hurt you. Not if it’s illegal.”

“All right, okay, I believe you. You’re not a cop. Just get that stuff away from me. You don’t want to fuck with it. The fumes alone can — Wait a minute. What did you pour it into? It eats through metal. You know that, right?”

“Then I guess we don’t have a lot of time. Daisy Clayton. Tell me about her.”

“I told you—”

Dillon suddenly abandoned his argument and started screaming “Help!” at the top of his lungs. Bosch did nothing and after twenty seconds Dillon stopped, knowing the effort was useless.

“Ironic, huh?” Bosch said. “You designed and built this place so nobody could get out and nobody could hear anybody’s calls for help. And now... here we are. Go ahead, keep on screaming.”

“Look, please, I’m sorry,” Dillon said. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m sorry if I ever did any—”

Bosch reached out with his foot and slid the bucket a few inches closer to Dillon’s crotch. Dillon tried to lean back but there was no place for his body to go. He turned his face to the right.

“Please,” he said. “The fumes. It’s getting in my lungs.”

“I read a story in the newspaper once,” Bosch replied. “It was about this guy who got sulfuric acid spilled on his hands. He quickly put his hands under a faucet to wash it off and that only made it hurt worse. Water more than doubles the pain, but if you don’t flush the acid it will eat right through your skin.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dillon said. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want. I want the story. Daisy Clayton. Two thousand nine. Tell me the story.”

Dillon kept his face turned away from the fumes.

“Get it away!” he cried. “It’s burning my lungs.”

“Two thousand nine,” Bosch said as he sat back in the chair and it squeaked again.

“Look, what do you want?” Dillon said. “You want me to say I did it? Fine, I did it. Whatever it is, I did it. So let’s just call the cops. I know you’re not a cop but let’s call the cops and I’ll tell them I did it. I promise. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them I did the others, too. As many as you want. I’ll tell them I did them all.”

Bosch reached into his pocket for the mini-recorder he had retrieved from his car.

“How many others?” he asked. “Tell me their names.”

He hit the record button.

Dillon shook his head and then kept it turned away from the bucket.

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “This is crazy.”

Bosch put his thumb over the microphone.

“Give me a name, Dillon. You want to get out of here, you want me to call the cops, give me a name. I can’t believe you if you can’t give me a name.”

He freed the microphone.

“Please, let me go,” Dillon said. “I won’t tell anyone about this. I’ll just forget about it. Just let me go. Please.”

Bosch gave the bucket another push with his foot. It was now touching the inner seam of Dillon’s jeans. He covered the microphone again and whenever he spoke.

“Last chance, Roger,” he said. “You start talking or I start walking. I leave the bucket and maybe it burns through and maybe it doesn’t.”

“No, you can’t do this,” Dillon said. “Please. I didn’t do anything!”

“But you just said you did the others. Which is it?”

“All right, whatever. I killed them. I killed them all, okay?”

“Tell me their names. Tell me one name, then I can believe you.”

“That Daisy girl. Her.”

“No, I gave you that name. You have to give me a name.”

“I don’t have any names!”

“That’s really too bad.”

Bosch stood up as if to leave. The chair squeaked, underlining his intentions.

“Sarah Bender!”

Bosch stood still. The name had a slight resonance but he couldn’t place it. He put his thumb on the mic.

“Who?”

He released his thumb.

“Sarah Bender. She’s the only name I know. I remember her because that one made the papers. Her father didn’t give a shit about her until she was missing, then it was boo-hoo all over the news.”

Thumb on.

“And you killed her?”

Thumb off.

Dillon nodded quickly.

“She was out front of a coffee shop. I remember because it was only a block from the LAPD station. I grabbed her right under their fucking noses.”

Thumb on.

“What did you do with her afterward?”

Thumb off.

Dillon nodded in the direction of the corner where the incinerator was located.

“I burned her.”

Bosch paused.

“What about Daisy Clayton?”

“Her too.”

“You didn’t have the burner then.”

“No, I was working out of my own garage then. Just getting the business started.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I cleaned her. With bleach. I didn’t have my acid permits yet.”

“You used your bathtub?”

“No, I put her in one of my bio containers. With a top. I filled it with bleach and left it like that for a day. Rode around with it while I worked.”

“Who else besides Daisy and Sarah?”

“I told you. I can’t remember their names.”

“What about the most recent one? The girl with the pink fingernails. What was her name?”

"I don't remember."

“Sure you do. You had her in the back of that truck. What was her name?”

“Don’t you see? I never asked her name. I didn’t care. Their names didn’t matter. Nobody missed them. Nobody cared. They didn’t count.”

Bosch stared down at him for a long moment. He had what he needed in the way of confirmation. But he wasn’t done.

“What about their parents? Their mothers — did they count?”

“Most of the girls out there? I got news for you, their parents didn’t give a shit about them.”

Bosch thought about Elizabeth Clayton and her sad end. He put it all on Dillon. He pocketed the recorder and reached down to the bucket. He picked it up, ready to dump its fiery contents over Dillon’s head.

Even blinded by the tape, Dillon knew the decision Bosch was making.

“Don’t,” he said pleadingly.

Bosch reached down to the bucket of water. He quietly lifted it and put it down between Dillon’s legs, making sure to slosh the liquid. He then put the bucket of acid down to the side.

“Jesus, be careful!” Dillon exclaimed.

Bosch picked up the roll of duct tape and started wrapping tape around Dillon and the barrel, making sure he could not get up or go anywhere. He did two turns around Dillon’s neck, leaving him the ability to keep his face turned from the bucket. When he was finished, he tore off a small piece of tape, pulled the recorder from his pocket, wiped all sides and buttons against his shirt, then taped it to Dillon’s chest.

“You sit tight now,” he said.

“Where are you going?” Dillon demanded.

“To get the police, like you asked.”

“And you’re just going to leave me here?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You can’t do that. Sulfuric is very volatile. It could eat through the bucket. It could—”

“I’ll be quick.”

Bosch patted Dillon on the shoulder in a supportive way. He then picked up the bucket containing the acid and walked toward the door he had unlocked for Ballard. He left it unlocked behind him.

Outside, Bosch walked into the narrow passageway between Dillon’s warehouse and the one next door. He poured the acid out on top of the accumulated debris and discarded the bucket there as well. He then exited the passage and walked toward his Jeep.

49

Van Nuys Division was less than a mile away. Bosch drove there. This was not because he had any intention of speaking to the police in person, but because it was the only place he knew of in the area that still had operating pay phones. There was a bank of them at the bottom of the stairs below the station’s main exit — placed there as a convenience for inmates who were released from the station’s jail and needed to call loved ones or lawyers for pickup.

Bosch no longer had the SIS phone. Cespedes had asked for it back when Bosch announced that he was leaving the Cortez shooting scene and catching a ride with a patrol officer back to his car.

Next to the phone bank, there was also a change machine but it took only five-dollar bills. Bosch had two calls to make but reluctantly cashed a five into twenty quarters. He first called Ballard’s number from memory and she answered right away.

“He admitted to Daisy and to others,” he said. “Too many for him to even remember.”

“Jesus,” Ballard said. “He just told you all of this? Who were the others?”

“He only remembered one name, and that was because it made news and there was some heat at the time. Sarah Bender, you remember her? Her dad was some kind of a big shot, according to Dillon. I remember the name but can’t place the case. I want to use it as the control case. I brought up Daisy but he brought up Sarah Bender. If we can confirm it, we—”

“We can. Confirm it, I mean. Sarah Bender’s dad has that club on Sunset — Bender’s on the Strip. There’s usually a line out the door.”

“Right. I know it. Down near the Roxy.”

“Sarah disappeared about three years ago. George Bender went very public, hired private eyes to find her. Supposedly he even went to the dark side for help when he didn’t think the LAPD was seriously looking for her.”

“What’s that mean, the ‘dark side’?” Bosch asked.

“You know, he had connections outside the law working on it. Mercenary types. There was a rumor that his backers in the club were organized crime. When his daughter went missing, that became part of the investigation, but it didn’t pan out. I think the official line was that she was a runaway.”

“It may have looked that way but she wasn’t a runaway. Dillon grabbed her outside a coffee shop.”

“I remember the father also put up a reward. They started getting sightings all over the country. People who wanted to cash in. Eventually it all went away and now it’s just another L.A. mystery.”

“Well, mystery solved. He said he killed her, put her in the incinerator.”

“Motherfucker. How’d you get him to tell you about her?”

“Doesn’t matter. He did and I didn’t feed him the name. He came out with it. He said her and Daisy. The rest he couldn’t remember by name. Not even the woman with the pink fingernails.”

There was a pause before Ballard spoke.

“What did he say about her?”

“Nothing. He said he never knew her name in the first place, let alone forgot it.”

“Did you ask when he grabbed her?”

“No. I guess I should have.”

“I think it was recent. When I was in the back of that truck... I could smell her fear. I knew that’s where he kept her.”

Bosch didn’t know how to respond to that. But it fed into the frustration and anger growing in him. The more he thought about it, the more he regretted dumping out the sulfuric acid on the ground and not Dillon’s head.

Ballard spoke again before he could.

“Is he still...”

“Alive? I’ll probably regret it the rest of my life but, yeah, he’s alive.”

“No, it’s just... never mind. What will you do with him now?”

“I’ll call it in, let Van Nuys sort it out.”

“Do you have him on tape?”

“Yes, but it won’t matter. Inadmissible. They’ll have to start over, build a case. I’ll tell them to start with the inside of that truck. Fingerprints, DNA.”

There was a long pause as they both contemplated how their illegal actions had imperiled any sort of traditional way of bringing Dillon to justice.

Ballard finally spoke.

“Let’s hope something’s there,” she said. “I don’t want him walking free again.”

“He won’t,” Bosch said. “I promise you that.”

More silence followed as they considered what Bosch had just said.

It was time to hang up, but Bosch didn’t want to. He realized it might be the last time they would speak. Their relationship had been held together by the case. Now the case was over.

“I need to make the call,” Bosch finally said.

“Okay,” Ballard said.

“I guess maybe I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Sure. Stay in touch.”

Bosch hung up. It was a weird ending. He jangled the change in his hand as he thought about how to handle the call that would send investigators to Dillon’s warehouse. He needed to protect himself but wanted to make sure that the call created an urgent response.

He dropped quarters into the phone’s slot but then his intentions were hijacked. Thoughts of Elizabeth Clayton hit him, and a deep grief washed over him as he imagined her sad ending, alone in a seedy motel room, empty pill bottle on the bed table, haunted by the ghost of her lost daughter. Then he remembered Dillon’s dismissal of his victims as women and girls who didn’t count or matter and suddenly he was filled with anger. He wanted revenge.

When the dial tone pulled him out of his dark reverie he punched in 411 and asked the operator for the number of Bender’s on the Strip.

He was about to drop in more quarters to make the call when caution pushed through the red glare of vengeance. He turned and looked up into the overhang of the police building. He counted at least two cameras.

He hung up the phone and walked away.

Bosch moved through the government plaza toward Van Nuys Boulevard, where he had parked the Jeep. He popped the back hatch and reached in for his bad-weather attire, a Dodgers cap and an army jacket with a high collar that offered protection from wind and rain. He put them on, closed the hatch, and crossed the street to a row of twenty-four- hour bail bonds offices. At the end of the row was a payphone attached to the side wall of the building.

He pulled his hat down and his collar up as he approached. He dropped in quarters and made the call, checking his watch while he waited for it to ring. It was 1:45 a.m. and he knew the clubs on the Sunset Strip would close at two.

The call was answered by a woman whose voice was engulfed by a background of loud electronic music.

“Is there an office?” Bosch yelled. “Give me the office.”

He was put on hold for nearly a minute before a male voice answered.

“Mr. Bender?”

“He’s not here. Who’s this, please?”

Bosch didn’t hesitate.

“This is the Los Angeles police. I need to speak to Mr. Bender right now. It’s an emergency. It’s about his daughter.”

“Is this bullshit? The guy’s been through enough with you people.”

“This is very serious, sir. I have news about his daughter and need to speak with him right now. Where can I reach him?”

“Hold on.”

He was put on hold for another minute. And then another male voice came on the line.

“Who is this?”

“Mr. Bender?”

“I said, who is this?”

“It doesn’t matter who this is. I’m sorry to be so blunt with news that is so bad. But your daughter was murdered three years ago. And the man who killed her is sitting in a—”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I’m not going to tell you that, sir. What I’m going to do is give you an address where you will find the man who killed your daughter waiting for you. The door will be unlocked.”

“How can I believe you? You call up here out of the blue, won’t give your name. How do I—”

“Mr. Bender, I’m sorry. I can’t give you any more than what I have. And I need to do it now before I change my mind.”

Bosch let that hang in the darkness between them for a bit.

“Do you want the address?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” Bender said. “Give it to me.”

50

After supplying Bender with the Saticoy address, Bosch hung up without a further word. He left the phone and started across the deserted boulevard, back toward his car.

A collision of thoughts went through his head. Faces came too. Elizabeth’s face. And her daughter’s — known to him only in photos. Bosch thought about his own daughter and about George Bender losing his, and the blinding grief something like that would bring.

He realized then that he had put Bender on a path that would simply trade a momentary urge for justice and vengeance for another kind of guilt and grief. For both of them.

In the middle of the boulevard, Bosch turned around.

He went back to the pay phone for one final call. He dialed a direct line to Valley Bureau detectives and asked for the investigator working the late show. He got a detective named Palmer and told him that there was a killer left bound and waiting for him in a warehouse on Saticoy. He said there was a recorder with a confession on it that should jump-start an investigation and prosecution. There was evidence in the back of a truck in the warehouse as well.

He gave him the exact address and told him to hurry.

“Why’s that?” Palmer asked. “Sounds like this guy isn’t going anywhere.”

“Because you’ve got competition,” Bosch said.