Resurrection Walk

47

Bosch wanted to get closer so he could hear their conversation but he couldn’t risk it. He was obviously known to Sanger and he had seen the man in the back row of the courtroom. If either saw Bosch they would more than likely shut down what looked like a heated conversation. So Bosch watched from afar, using a bus-stop shelter in front of the courthouse on Spring Street as a blind.

Sanger and the man she was talking to were in the designated smoking area on the north side of the courthouse. She stood next to a concrete urn that served as a trash-can-size ashtray. Sanger was smoking but the man she was talking to was not. He appeared to Bosch to be Latino. He was short with brown skin, jet-black hair, and a mustache that extended beyond the corners of his mouth. Their conversation seemed confrontational. The man was dressed completely in black, like a priest, and he leaned slightly toward Sanger as he spoke. And Sanger leaned toward him, shaking her head emphatically as if she disagreed with whatever the man was saying.

Bosch checked his watch. The courtroom break was almost over and he needed at least five minutes to go back in through security and take an elevator. When he looked back at the smoking section, he saw the man lean in even closer to Sanger and grab the front of her uniform with one hand. It happened so quickly that there was almost no struggle from Sanger. With his free hand the man pulled Sanger’s weapon from her holster, pressed the muzzle to her side, and fired three quick shots, using her body to muffle the reports. He then pushed her into the urn and she toppled over it to the ground. A woman passing on the sidewalk screamed and started running away from the courthouse.

The man with the gun didn’t even look up. He stepped around the urn, extended his arm, and fired one more time, finishing Sanger with a head shot. He turned and walked calmly out of the smoking area. He crossed the front steps of the courthouse, moved quickly out to the sidewalk, and headed south on Spring Street. He carried the gun down at his side.

Bosch stepped out of the bus shelter and ran up the steps and into the smoking area. Sanger was dead, her eyes open and staring blankly at the sky. The final bullet had hit her in the exact center of her forehead. Blood soaked her uniform and the concrete next to her body.

Bosch turned. The killer was now a block away on Spring. A uniformed marshal had stepped through the heavy glass doors of the courthouse after hearing the shots and the pedestrian’s scream. Bosch moved toward him.

“A deputy’s been shot,” he said. “That guy walking down Spring is the shooter.”

Bosch pointed toward the man in black.

“Where’s the deputy?” the marshal asked.

“In the smoking area,” Bosch said. “She’s dead.”

The marshal ran off toward the smoking area as he pulled a radio from a holster on his belt and yelled in the call.

“Shots fired, officer down! North side smoking area! Repeat, shots fired, officer down.”

Bosch looked down Spring Street. The killer had passed City Hall and was almost to First Street. He was getting away.

Bosch started down Spring Street in pursuit. He pulled his phone and called 911. An operator answered immediately.

“This is 911, what is your emergency?”

“There’s been a shooting outside the federal courthouse. A man killed a sheriff’s deputy with her own gun. I’m following him south on Spring Street. I’m unarmed.”

“Okay, sir, slow down. Who got shot? You said a deputy?”

“Yes, a sheriff’s deputy. Sergeant Stephanie Sanger. The federal marshals are there and I’m following the shooter. I need backup to Spring and First Street. He’s literally walking by the PAB right now.”

The Police Administration Building was on the east side of Spring. As Bosch followed, he saw the killer cross over to the west side of the street and continue walking beside the old Los Angeles Times Building toward Second Street. As he’d crossed the street, he had glanced back up Spring as if looking for cars, but Bosch knew he was checking to see if he was being followed. Bosch was more than a block away and did not attract the gunman’s attention.

“I think he’s going to turn west on Second,” he said.

“Sir, are you law enforcement?” the operator asked.

“Retired LAPD.”

“Then you need to stop and wait for the police officers to arrive. They have been dispatched.”

“I can’t. He’s getting away.”

“Sir, you need—”

“I was wrong. He didn’t turn on Second. He’s still on Spring, heading south toward Third.”

“Sir, listen to me, you need to stop what you’re doing and—”

Bosch disconnected and put the phone in his pocket. He knew he needed to pick up speed if he was going to keep the gunman in sight. He got to the corner of Spring and Second just as the gunman reached Third Street and turned the corner out of sight. Bosch started to run and crossed to the west side when there was an opening in traffic.

At Third, Bosch turned right and saw the gunman halfway up the block to Broadway. He had crossed over to the south side of the street. Bosch stayed on the sidewalk on the north side, slowed his pace, and tried to regulate his breathing. Third Street ran slightly uphill and Bosch started huffing. The adrenaline flood that had hit his bloodstream when he saw Sanger murdered in broad daylight was starting to ebb.

The gunman crossed Broadway against the traffic light and turned left on the other side. By the time Bosch got to the corner, the light had changed and the walk signal was flashing. Bosch crossed and watched as the gunman ducked into the Grand Central Market.

Bosch could hear sirens now, but they weren’t close. His guess was that the officers he had asked for had responded to the shooting scene rather than to the location he had given the 911 operator.

The market was crowded with people buying groceries or in line to order from the many different food stalls. Bosch entered and at first did not see the man in black. Then he appeared on the stairs at the midway point of the split-level market. At the top of the stairs he looked back but did not focus on Bosch in the sea of shoppers. Bosch guessed that he was looking for uniforms, not an old man in a suit.

Bosch noted that the man was no longer carrying the gun in his hand but his shirt was now out of his pants. That told Bosch he had not ditched the gun. It was tucked into his pants under his shirt.

The gunman went through the block-long market, emerged on Hill Street, and without hesitation waded out into traffic and crossed the road. Bosch came out of the market in time to see the man go through the turnstile at Angels Flight and climb into the waiting train car.

Bosch knew he had to hold back. He could not get into the train car without exposing himself to the killer. He stayed across the street and watched as the door closed and the car started to move slowly up the tracks toward the terminus at the top of Bunker Hill.

Angels Flight was a funicular that was billed as the shortest train route in the world. It had twin antique railcars that went up and down 150 feet of elevated track. They were counterbalanced, with one going up while the other came down, passing each other at the midpoint of the tracks. Bosch crossed Hill Street as the second car arrived at the lower turnstile. He got on along with a handful of other passengers and sat on one of the wooden bench seats. He waited anxiously as the train car rumbled up the tracks.

At the top of the tracks was a plaza surrounded by the towering glass buildings of the financial district. Bosch had moved to the upper door of the train car so he could be the first one off when it reached its terminus. The Angels Flight ticket booth was there and he had to pay a dollar before he could get through the upper turnstile. He pulled his money out and saw that the smallest bill he had was a twenty. He pushed it through the opening in the booth’s glass.

“Keep the change,” he said. “Just let me through.”

He went through the turnstile and once out in the open plaza did a 360-degree sweep with his eyes but did not spot the man in black.

Bosch saw an opening between one of the towers and the contemporary art museum to his right. He headed that way, breaking into a trot. When he reached Grand Avenue he did another 360 but there was still no sign of the man in black. He was gone.

“Shit,” he said.

He was panting. He bent over and put his hands on his knees so he could catch his breath. He was sweating badly.

“You okay, sir?”

Bosch looked up. It was a woman carrying a bag from the museum store.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little winded. But thanks.”

She moved on and Bosch straightened up and scanned the street a final time in both directions, once more looking for the man in black. Nothing caught his attention. No pedestrian, no car. The gunman could have gone a dozen different ways after getting off Angels Flight.

Bosch’s phone buzzed and he saw that it was Haller calling.

“Mick.”

“Harry, where the fuck are you? I need you back here. Something’s going on. The clerk got a call and—”

“Sanger’s dead.”

“What?”

“She’s dead. Somebody shot her with her own gun when she was on the smoking patio outside.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I followed him but I lost him on Bunker Hill.”

“You saw it happen?”

“From a distance. I’ll need to talk to the police and give them what I know.”

“Absolutely.”

“What happens now? With the case.”

“I have no clue. I assume the judge will adjourn for the day. This is unbelievable.”

“Did she kick out the DNA again?”

“No, it’s in. She ruled for us. But I don’t know what will happen without Sanger.”

Bosch realized that Haller would not have been allowed to use his phone in the courtroom.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“The hall outside the courtroom,” Haller said. “The judge sent me out to find you and Sanger. Who was the shooter?”

“I don’t know but he was in the courtroom today. Back row. I saw him.”

“A Latino guy?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw him too. I don’t remember him from previous days.”

“I don’t either. I’m heading back but I’ll probably be tied up with the police for a while.”

“Got it. I’ll go see what the judge wants to do.”

Bosch disconnected and walked north on Grand, turned right on First, and headed to the Civic Center. He was thankful it was downhill most of the way. By the time he got back to the federal courthouse, the entire Spring Street side of the building was cordoned off with crime scene tape, and the area was overrun with officers from the LAPD, the sheriff’s department, and the U.S. Marshals Service.

Bosch walked up to an LAPD officer standing at the yellow tape. His name tag said FRENCH.

“The courthouse is closed, sir,” French said.

“I’m a witness,” Bosch said. “Who do I talk to?”

“A witness to what?”

“To the deputy getting shot. I followed the shooter but lost him.”

The officer suddenly looked alert.

“All right, you need to stay here.”

“Fine.”

Officer French took a step back and started talking into his radio.

As Bosch waited, he saw a van from Channel 5 pull to the curb. A woman with perfectly coiffed hair jumped out of the passenger side with a microphone already in her hand.