Echo Park

36

AT 10 A.M. ON MONDAY Abel Pratt walked from his car across the green lawn of Echo Park to a bench where an old man was sitting beneath the protective arms of the Lady of the Lake. There were five pigeons resting on her shoulders and upturned hands and one on her head but she showed no sign of annoyance or fatigue.

Pratt shoved the folded newspaper he carried into the overly full trash can by the statue and then sat on the bench next to the old man. He looked out at the smooth waters of Lake Echo in front of them. The old man, who held a cane down by his knee and wore a tan business suit with a maroon handkerchief in the breast pocket, spoke first.

“I remember when you could take your family here on a Sunday and not have to worry about being shot up by gangbangers.”

Pratt cleared his throat.

“Is that what you’re worried about, Mr. Garland? The gangbangers? Well, I’ll give you a little tip. Right now is one of the safest hours in any neighborhood in the city. Most of your gangbangers don’t roll out of bed until the afternoon. That’s why whenever we go out with warrants we go in the morning. We always catch them in bed.”

Garland nodded approvingly.

“That’s good to know. But that’s not what I am worried about. I’m worried about you, Detective Pratt. Our business was concluded. I was not expecting to hear from you ever again.”

Pratt leaned forward and scanned the park. He studied the rows of tables on the other side of the lake, where the old men played dominoes. His eyes then moved along the cars parked at the curb that edged the park.

“Where’s Anthony?” he asked.

“He’ll be along. He’s taking precautions.”

Pratt nodded.

“Precautions are good,” he said.

“I don’t like this place,” Garland said. “It’s full of ugly people, and that includes you. Why are we here?”

“Wait a minute,” a voice said from behind them. “Don’t say another word, Dad.”

Anthony Garland had approached from their blind side. He came around the statue to the bench at the water’s edge. He stood in front of Pratt and signaled him to stand up.

“Up,” he said.

“What is this?” Pratt protested mildly.

“Just stand up.”

Pratt did as he was asked and Anthony Garland produced a small electronic wand from the pocket of his blazer. He began moving it up and down in front of Pratt from head to toe.

“If you’re transmitting an RF signal this will tell me.”

“Good. I always wondered if I had RF. You never know with those women down in Tijuana.”

Nobody laughed. Anthony Garland seemed satisfied with the scan and started putting his magic wand away. Pratt started to sit down.

“Wait,” Garland said.

Pratt remained standing and Garland started running his hands over Pratt’s body, a second precaution.

“Can’t be too sure with a slimeball like you, Detective.”

He moved his hands to Pratt’s waist.

“That’s my gun,” Pratt said.

Garland kept searching.

“That’s my cell phone.”

The hands went lower.

“And those are my balls.”

Garland then went down both legs and when he was satisfied, he told Pratt he could sit down. The detective returned to his seat next to the old man.

Anthony Garland remained standing in front of the bench, his back to the lake, his arms folded across his chest.

“He’s clean,” he said.

“Okay, then,” T. Rex Garland said. “We can talk. What’s this about, Detective Pratt? I thought it was made clear to you: You don’t call us. You don’t threaten us. You don’t tell us where to be and when.”

“If I hadn’t threatened you, would you have come?”

Neither of the Garlands answered and Pratt smiled smugly and nodded.

“I rest my case.”

“Why are we here?” the old man asked. “I made it quite clear before. I don’t want my son touched by any of this. Why did he have to be here?”

“Well, because I sort of missed him since our little walk in the woods. We’ve got a bond, don’t we, Anthony?”

Anthony said nothing. Pratt pressed on.

“I mean, a guy leads you to a body in the woods, I’d say normally they’d stay pretty tight. But I haven’t heard from Anthony since we were up at the top of Beachwood together.”

“I don’t want you talking to my son,” T. Rex Garland said. “You don’t talk to my son. You’re bought and paid for, Detective, you get that? This is the only time you will ever call a meeting with me. I call you. You don’t call me.”

The old man never looked at Pratt as he spoke. His eyes were cast toward the lake. The message was clear. Pratt wasn’t worth his attention.

“Yeah, all that was fine, but things have changed,” Pratt said. “In case you haven’t been reading the papers or watching the news, things have gone to shit out there.”

The old man remained seated but stretched his arms forward and put both palms on the polished gold dragon’s head at the top of his cane. He spoke calmly.

“And whose fault is that? You told us you and the lawyer could keep Raynard Waits in line. You told us no one would get hurt. You called it a clean operation. Now look at what you’ve involved us in.”

Pratt took a few moments to respond.

“You involved yourself. You wanted something and I was the provider. No matter whose fault it is, the bottom line is I now need more money.”

T. Rex Garland shook his head slowly.

“You were paid one million dollars,” he said.

“I had to cut it up with Maury Swann,” Pratt responded.

“Your subcontractor costs were not and are not my concern.”

“The fee was based on everything working smoothly. Waits taking the fall for Gesto, case closed. Now there are complications, ongoing investigations to contend with.”

“Again, not my concern. Our deal is done.”

Pratt leaned forward on the bench and put his elbows on his knees.

“It’s not quite done yet, T. Rex,” he said. “And maybe you should be concerned. Because you know who paid me a visit on Friday night? Harry Bosch, and he had an FBI agent with him. They took me to a little meeting with Mr. Rick O’Shea. Turns out that before Bosch capped Waits the little bastard told him that he didn’t kill Marie Gesto. So that puts Bosch back on your ass, Junior. And it puts all of them on mine. They’ve damn near worked the whole story out-connecting me and Maury Swann. They just need somebody to fill in the blanks and, since they can’t get to Swann, they want that somebody to be me. They’re starting to apply the pressure.”

Anthony Garland groaned and kicked at the ground with his expensive loafers.

“Goddamn it! I knew this whole thing would-”

His father put a hand up for quiet.

“Bosch and the FBI don’t matter,” the old man said. “It’s all about what O’Shea will do, and O’Shea is taken care of. He’s bought and paid for. Only he doesn’t know it yet. Once I apprise him of his situation, he will do what I tell him to do. If he wants to be district attorney.”

Pratt shook his head.

“Bosch isn’t going to let go of this. He hasn’t for thirteen years. He’s not going to now.”

“Then, you take care of it. That’s your end of the deal. I took care of O’Shea. You take care of Bosch. Let’s go, son.”

The old man started to get up, using the cane to push up on. His son stepped over to help him.

“Wait a minute,” Pratt said. “You aren’t going anywhere. I said I want more money and I’m serious. I’ll take care of Bosch, but then I need to check out and disappear. I need more money to do that.”

Anthony Garland angrily pointed down at Pratt on the bench.

“You goddamn piece of shit,” he said. “You were the one who came to us. This whole goddamn thing is your plan from start to finish. You go out there and get two people killed, and then you have the balls to come back to us for more money?”

Pratt shrugged and spread his hands.

“I’m looking at a choice here, same as you. I could sit tight with the way things are and see how close they come to me. Or I could disappear right now. The thing you should know is that they always make deals with the little fish to get to the bigger fish. I’m a little fish, Anthony. The big fish? That would be you.”

He turned to look at the old man.

“And the biggest fish? That would be you.”

T. Rex Garland nodded. He was a pragmatic businessman. He seemed to now understand the gravity of the situation.

“How much?” he asked. “How much to disappear?”

Pratt didn’t hesitate.

“I want another million dollars and it will be well worth it to you to give it to me. They can’t get to either of you without me. If I’m gone, the case is gone. So it’s a million and the price is nonnegotiable. Anything less and it is not worth it for me to run. I’ll make a deal and take my chances.”

“What about Bosch?” the old man asked. “You already said he won’t give up. Now that he knows Raynard Waits didn’t-”

“I’ll take care of him before I split,” Pratt said, cutting him off. “I’ll throw that in for free.”

He reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper with numbers printed on it. He slid it across the bench to the old man.

“There’s the bank account and wiring code. Same as before.”

Pratt stood up.

“Tell you what, talk amongst yourselves. I’m going over to the boathouse to take a leak. When I come back I’ll need an answer.”

Pratt walked past Anthony, coming close, each man holding the other’s eyes in a hard stare of hatred.

37

HARRY BOSCH STUDIED THE MONITORS in the surveillance van. The FBI had worked through the night setting cameras in eight locations at the park. One whole side of the interior of the van was covered with an array of digital screens that showed a multitude of visual angles on the bench where T. Rex Garland sat and his son stood waiting for Abel Pratt to return. The cameras were located on four of the park’s path lights, in two of its flower beds, in the mock lighthouse atop the boathouse and in the fake pigeon perched on top of the Lady of the Lake’s head.

Added to this, the bureau techs had set up microwave sound receivers triangulated on the bench. The sound sweep was aided by directional mikes located in the fake pigeon, a flower bed and the folded newspaper Pratt had placed in the nearby trash can. A bureau sound tech named Jerry Hooten sat in the van, wearing a huge set of earphones and manipulating the audio feeds in order to produce the cleanest sound. Bosch and the others had been able to watch Pratt and the Garlands and hear their conversation word for word.

The others were Rachel Walling and Rick O’Shea. The prosecutor was sitting front and center, the video screens spread before him. This was his show. Walling and Bosch sat on either side of him.

O’Shea pulled off his earphones.

“What do we think?” he asked. “He’s going to call. What do I tell him?”

Three of the screens showed Pratt about to enter the park’s restroom. According to the plan, he would wait until the room was clear and then call the surveillance van’s number on his cell phone.

Rachel pulled her earphones down around her neck and so did Bosch.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s your call but we don’t have much of an admission from the son in regard to Gesto.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” O’Shea responded.

“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “When Pratt talked about him leading him through the woods to the body, Anthony didn’t deny it.”

“But he didn’t admit it either,” Rachel said.

“But if a guy was sitting there talking to you about finding a body you buried and you didn’t know what he was talking about, I think you’d say something.”

“Well, that can be an argument for the jury,” O’Shea said. “I’m just saying that he hasn’t yet made anything I would call a statement of admission. We need more.”

Bosch nodded, conceding the point. It had been decided on Saturday morning that Pratt’s word was not going to be good enough. His testimony that Anthony Garland had led him to Marie Gesto’s body and that he had taken a payoff from T. Rex Garland would not be sufficient to build a solid prosecution on. Pratt was a crooked cop and building a case on his testimony was too risky in an age when juries were highly suspicious of police integrity and behavior. They needed to get admissions from both of the Garlands for the case to move onto solid ground.

“Look, all I’m saying is, I think it’s good but we’re not quite there yet,” O’Shea said. “We need to get a direct-”

“What about the old man?” Bosch asked. “I think Pratt got him to shit all over himself.”

“I agree,” Rachel said. “He’s toast. If you send him back, tell him to work on Anthony.”

As if on cue there was a low-level buzzing sound that indicated an incoming call. O’Shea, unfamiliar with the equipment, raised a finger over the console and looked for the right button to push.

“Here,” Hooten said.

He punched a button that opened the cell line.

“This is the van,” O’Shea said. “You’re on speaker.”

“How’d I do?” Pratt said.

“It’s a start,” O’Shea said. “What took you so long to call?”

“I actually did have to take a leak.”

While O’Shea talked to Pratt about going back to the bench and trying once more for an admission from Anthony Garland, Bosch slipped his earphones back on to hear the conversation taking place at the bench.

From the visuals on the screens it looked like Anthony Garland was arguing with his father. The old man was pointing a finger at him.

Bosch picked it up in the middle.

“It’s our only out,” Anthony Garland said.

“I said no!” the old man commanded. “You cannot do this. You will not do this.”

On the screen Anthony stepped away from his father and then stepped right back. It looked like he was on an invisible leash. He bent down close to his father and this time he pointed the finger. What he said was spoken so low that the FBI microphones picked up only a mumble. Bosch pressed his hands over the earphones but couldn’t get it.

“Jerry,” he said. “Can you work on this?”

Bosch pointed to the screens. Hooten pulled on his earphones and went to work on the audio dials. But it was too late. The close conversation between father and son was over. Anthony Garland had just straightened up in front of his father and turned his back to him. He was silently looking out across the lake.

Bosch leaned back so that he could see the screen that showed an angle on the bench from one of the path lights at the water’s edge. It was the only screen that showed Anthony’s face at the moment. Bosch saw the rage in his eyes. He had seen it before.

Anthony set his jaw tightly and shook his head. He turned back to his father.

“Sorry, Dad.”

With that he started walking toward the boathouse. Bosch watched him take forceful strides toward the door of the restrooms. He saw his hand go inside his blazer.

Bosch slapped off his earphones.

“Anthony’s headed to the men’s room!” he said. “I think he’s got a gun!”

Bosch jumped up and shoved past Hooten to get to the van’s door. Unfamiliar with it, he fumbled with the handle trying to get it open. Behind him he heard O’Shea barking commands into the radio mike.

“Everybody move in! Move in! Suspect is armed. Repeat, suspect is armed!”

Bosch finally got out of the van and started running toward the boathouse. There was no sign of Anthony Garland. He was already inside.

Bosch was on the far side of the park and more than a hundred yards away. Other agents and district attorney’s office investigators had been deployed closer and Bosch saw them running with weapons out toward the boathouse as well. Just as the first man, an FBI agent, got to the doorway the sound of gunfire echoed from within the restroom. Four quick shots.

Bosch knew that Pratt’s weapon was dry. It was a prop. He had needed to have a gun in case the Garlands checked him. But Pratt was in custody and facing charges. They had taken away his bullets.

As Bosch watched, the agent at the doorway dropped into a combat stance, shouted, “FBI!” and entered. Almost immediately, there were more shots but these were of a different timbre than the first four. Bosch knew these were from the agent’s gun.

As Bosch got to the restroom the agent stepped out, gun at his side. He held a radio to his mouth.

“We have two down in the restroom,” he said. “Scene is secured.”

Winded from his run, Bosch gulped down some air and walked toward the doorway.

“Detective, that’s a crime scene in there,” the agent said.

He put his hand up in front of Bosch’s chest. Bosch pushed it aside.

“I don’t care.”

He entered the restroom and saw the bodies of Pratt and Garland on the dirty concrete floor. Pratt had been shot twice in the face and twice in the chest. Garland had taken three chest shots. The fingers of Pratt’s right hand were touching the sleeve of Garland’s blazer. Pools of blood on the floor were blossoming from both bodies and soon would mingle.

Bosch watched for a few moments, studying Anthony’s open eyes. The rage Bosch had seen moments before was gone, replaced by the empty look of death.

He stepped out of the restroom and looked over at the bench. The old man, T. Rex Garland, sat leaning forward with his face in his hands. The cane with the polished dragon’s head had been dropped to the grass.

38

THE ENTIRETY OF ECHO PARK was closed for the investigation. For the third time in a week Bosch was interviewed about a shooting, only this time it was the feds doing the questioning and his part was peripheral because he had not fired a weapon. When he was finished he walked over to a mariscos truck that was parked at the curb and open for business to the crowd of onlookers outside the yellow tape. He ordered a shrimp taco and a Dr Pepper and took them over to one of the nearby federal cruisers. He was leaning on the front fender eating his lunch when Rachel Walling approached.

“Turns out Anthony Garland had a concealed-weapon permit,” she said. “His security job required it.”

She leaned casually on the fender next to him. Bosch nodded.

“I guess we should’ve checked,” he said.

He took his last bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin and then balled it up in the aluminum foil the taco came in.

“I remembered your story,” she said.

“What story?” he asked.

“The one you told me about Garland rousting those kids in the oil field.”

“What about it?”

“You said he drew down on them.”

“That’s right.”

She didn’t say anything. She looked out at the lake. Bosch shook his head like he wasn’t sure what was going on. She finally spoke.

“You knew about the permit and you knew Anthony would be carrying, didn’t you?”

It was a question but she meant it as a statement.

“Rachel, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you knew. You knew from way back that Anthony carried a gun. You knew what could happen today.”

Bosch spread his hands wide.

“Look, that thing with the kids was twelve years ago. How would I know that he would have a gun today?”

She got off the fender and turned to face him.

“How many times did you talk to Anthony over the years? How many times did you shake him down?”

Bosch squeezed the ball of aluminum foil tighter in his fist.

“Look, I never-”

“Are you telling me that in all those times you never once came up with a gun? That you didn’t check permits? That you didn’t know that there was a very high probability that he would bring a gun-and his uncontrolled rage-to a meeting like this? If we had known this guy carried a gun, we would never have set this thing up in the first place.”

Bosch smiled unpleasantly and shook his head in a disbelieving sort of way.

“What was it you said about mumbo-jumbo conspiracies the other day? Marilyn didn’t overdose; the Kennedys had her killed. Bosch knew Anthony would bring a gun to the meeting and would start shooting? Rachel, it all sounds like-”

“And what about what you said about being a true detective?”

She stared pointedly at him.

“Rachel, listen to me. There was no way anybody could have predicted this. There was no-”

“Predicted, hoped, accidentaly set in motion-what’s the difference? You remember what you said to Pratt the other night by the pool?”

“I said a lot of things to him.”

Her voice took on a tone of sadness.

“You told him about the choices we all make.”

She pointed across the grass at the boathouse.

“And, well, Harry, I guess this is the dog you chose to feed. I hope you’re happy with it. And I hope it fits in perfectly well with the way of the true detective.”

She turned and walked back toward the boathouse and the knot of investigators crowding the crime scene.

Bosch let her go. For a long time he didn’t move. Her words had gone through him like the sounds of a roller coaster. Low rumbling and high shrieks. He squeezed the ball of aluminum foil in his hand and shot it toward a trash can sitting next to the mariscos truck.

He missed by a mile.

39

KIZ RIDER CAME THROUGH the double doors in a wheelchair. She found it embarrassing but that was the hospital rule. Bosch was waiting for her with a smile and a bouquet of flowers he had bought from a vendor at the freeway exit near the hospital. As soon as she was allowed by the nurse, she got up and out of the chair. She tentatively hugged Bosch as though she felt fragile, and thanked him for coming to take her home.

“I’m right out front,” he said.

With his arm across her back he walked her out to the waiting Mustang. He helped her get in, then put a bag of cards and gifts she had received into the trunk and came around to the driver’s side.

“You want to go anywhere first?” he asked once he was in the car.

“No, just home. I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed.”

“I hear you.”

He started the car and pulled out, heading back to the freeway. They drove silently. When he got back to the 134 the flower vendor was still in the median. Rider looked down at the bouquet in her hand, realized that Bosch had gotten them as an afterthought and started laughing. Bosch joined in.

“Oh, shit, that hurts!” she said, touching her hand to her neck.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Harry. I need to laugh.”

Bosch nodded his agreement.

“Is Sheila going to come by today?” he asked.

“Yeah, after work.”

“Good.”

He nodded because there wasn’t anything else to do. They lapsed back into silence.

“Harry, I took your advice,” Rider said after a few minutes.

“What was that?”

“I told them I didn’t have a shot. I told them I didn’t want to hit Olivas.”

“That’s good, Kiz.”

He thought about things for a few moments.

“Does that mean you’re going to keep your badge?” he asked.

“Yes, Harry, I’m keeping the badge… but not my partner.”

Bosch looked over at her.

“I talked to the chief,” Rider said. “After I finish rehab I’m going to go back to work in his office, Harry. I hope that will be all right with you.”

“Whatever you want to do is all right with me. You know that. I’m glad you’re staying.”

“Me, too.”

A few more minutes went by and when she spoke again it was as if the conversation had never lagged.

“Besides, up there on the sixth floor, I’ll be able to watch out for you, Harry. Maybe keep you out of all the politics and bureaucratic scrapping. Lord knows you’re still going to need me from time to time.”

Bosch smiled broadly. He couldn’t help it. He liked the idea of her being up there one floor above him. Watching out and watching over.

“I like it,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a guardian angel before.”