The Black Box

18

Bosch was no sooner at his desk in his cubicle in the Open-Unsolved Unit than he was visited by his new nemesis, Lieutenant O’Toole.

“Bosch, did you set up an appointment with the PSB investigator yet?”

Bosch swiveled in his seat so he could look up at his supervisor. O’Toole had his suit jacket off and was wearing suspenders with a design of little golf clubs on them. His tie tack was a miniature LAPD badge. They sold them in the gift shop at the Police Academy.

“It’s taken care of,” Bosch said.

“Good. I want this cleared up as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It’s nothing personal, Bosch.”

Bosch smiled at that.

“I just want to know one thing, Lieutenant. Did you come up with this all on your own, or did you have help from upstairs?”

“Harry?” Jackson said from across the cubicle divider. “I don’t think you should get into a—”

Bosch held up his hand to stop Jackson from getting involved.

“It’s okay, Rick. It was just a rhetorical question. The lieutenant doesn’t have to answer it.”

“I don’t know what you mean by upstairs,” O’Toole said anyway. “But it would be typical of you to focus on where the complaint came from instead of the complaint itself and your own actions.”

Bosch’s cell phone began to buzz. He pulled it from his pocket and looked away from O’Toole to check the screen. The caller ID was blocked.

“The question is simple,” O’Toole continued. “Did you act properly while up there in the prison or did you—”

“I have to take this,” Bosch said, cutting him off. “I’m working a case, L-T.”

O’Toole turned to leave the cubicle. Bosch connected to the call but told the caller to hold. He then held the phone to his chest so his words would not be overheard by whoever was on the other end.

“Lieutenant,” he said.

He had called to his supervisor loud enough for several detectives in their nearby cubicles to hear. O’Toole turned around and looked back at him.

“If you continue to harass me,” Bosch said, “I will file a formal complaint.”

He held eye contact with O’Toole for a few moments, then raised his phone to his ear.

“This is Detective Bosch, how can I help you?”

“This is Suzanne Wingo, ATF. Are you presently in the PAB?”

It was Rachel Walling’s contact. Bosch felt a tremor of adrenaline hit his bloodstream. She might have already traced the ownership of the gun used to kill Anneke Jespersen.

“Yes, I’m here. Have you—”

“I’m on a bench in the front plaza. Can you come down? I have something for you.”

“Uh, sure. But would you rather come up to the office? I can—”

“No, I would prefer that you come down here.”

“Then I’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Come alone, Detective.”

She disconnected. Bosch sat for a long moment, wondering why she had told him to come alone. He quickly called Rachel Walling’s number.

“Harry?”

“It’s me. This Suzanne Wingo—what’s with her?”

“What do you mean? She told me she would run the numbers. I gave her your cell.”

“I know. She just called me and told me to meet her down in the front plaza. She told me to come alone. What am I getting into here, Rachel?”

Walling laughed before she answered.

“Nothing, Harry. She’s just that way. Very secretive, very cautious. She’s doing you a favor and doesn’t want anybody else to know.”

“You sure that’s all?”

“Yes. And she’ll probably want something in return for the favor. Quid pro quo.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea, Harry. It might not even be right now. You may just owe her one. Either way, if you want to find out who owns the gun you’ve got, go down and see her.”

“Okay. Thanks, Rachel.”

Bosch disconnected and stood up. He looked behind him. Chu was still not at his desk. Bosch hadn’t seen him yet that morning. He saw Jackson looking at him, and Bosch gave him a signal to meet him at the door. Harry waited until they were out in the hallway before speaking.

“You have a few minutes?” he asked.

“I guess,” Jackson said. “What’s up?”

“Come over here.”

Bosch moved to the glass wall that allowed him to look down on the plaza. He scanned the concrete benches until he saw a woman sitting alone, holding a file. She wore a blazer over slacks and a golf shirt. Bosch could see where the blazer rode up into a sharp ridge behind the right pocket. The woman had a gun holstered under the jacket. It was Wingo. Bosch pointed down at her.

“See the woman on the bench? Blue jacket?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going down to meet her for a few minutes. I just need you to watch us, maybe take a picture with your phone. Can you do that?”

“Sure. But what’s going on?”

“Probably nothing. She’s from ATF and wants to give me something.”

“So?”

“I’ve never met her before. She didn’t want to come in and told me to come down alone.”

“Okay.”

“I guess I’m just being paranoid. With O’Toole obviously checking on my every move . . .”

“Yeah, I don’t think it helped, you calling him out like you just did. As your defense rep, I don’t think you should be—”

“Fuck him. I gotta go down. You’ll watch?”

“I’ll stay right here.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Bosch hit him on the arm and walked away. Jackson called after him.

“You know you’re the most paranoid guy I know.”

Bosch narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Who told you that?”

Jackson laughed. Bosch took the elevator down and walked directly across the plaza to the woman he had spotted from above. Up close he saw that she was in her midthirties, athletically built, with a short no-nonsense cut to her auburn hair. Bosch’s first take was that she was most likely a seasoned federal agent.

“Agent Wingo?”

“You said two minutes.”

“Sorry, I got stopped by my supervisor and he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Aren’t they all.”

Bosch liked that she said it as a statement, not a question. He sat down next to her, his eyes on the file she was holding.

“So, what’s with the secret agent stuff and the meet-up out here? I remember our old place, nobody wanted to visit because it was going to pancake next time we hit a six on the Richter scale. But we’ve got a brand-new place now. It’s guaranteed safe. You could come in and I’d show you around.”

“Rachel Walling asked me for the favor, but she could only vouch for you so far, you know what I mean?”

“No, what did she say about me?”

“She said trouble follows you and I should be careful. But she didn’t use those words exactly.”

Bosch nodded. He guessed that Walling had called him a shit magnet. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You girls stick together.”

“It’s a boys’ club. We have to.”

“So, you did run the gun numbers?”

“I did. And I am not sure I’m going to be much help to you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I think the gun you’ve recovered has been missing for twenty-one years.”

Bosch felt the adrenaline charge immediately start to ebb. He regretted having put so much hope into believing that the gun’s serial number would open up the case’s black box.

“It’s where it’s missing from that makes it interesting,” Wingo added.

Bosch’s thoughts of regret were immediately replaced with curiosity.

“Where did it go missing?”

“In Iraq. Way back during Desert Storm.”