The Burning Room

29

Once again Soto was in the squad room ahead of Bosch. He was beginning to think she was throwing down a challenge, seeing who could be more dedicated to the job, who could arrive earliest and stay longest. No partner of his had ever been this way. He was duly impressed.

She didn’t notice him until she heard the clunk of his briefcase on his desk. Then she spun around in her chair and fixed him with wide eyes and a broad smile.

“Harry! I found the nexus!”

“On Bonnie Brae?”

“Yes, Bonnie Brae. I came in early and got back to my tenants list. You were right. There is a connection between Bonnie Brae and EZBank. A big one.”

Bosch pulled his chair over and sat down in front of her.

“Okay, talk me through it.”

She gestured back to the open binder on her desk.

“Well, I’ve been going through the tenants list from ’93. I started on the first floor and finally on the third floor, I found something. Apartment 3-G. A woman named Stephanie Perez lived there in a two-bedroom.”

“Do you remember her from back then? Did you know her?”

“No, the place was too big and I was just a little kid. I didn’t track any grown-ups beyond my parents and the ladies in day care, like Miss Esi.”

Bosch nodded.

“Okay, sorry to interrupt. Keep going.”

“Okay, so Stephanie Perez was interviewed. Everybody was interviewed by the fire department and the CCS, and the summaries are in binder three here. The interviewers used a number system one through five in evaluating each person as a witness as well as the value of their information — five being the highest in each category. Stephanie Perez was a one-one. So she was interviewed and quickly forgotten because she didn’t know anything. She was twenty-four at the time, unmarried, and worked as a cashier at a Ralphs supermarket. No gang affiliation on record and was at work the morning of the fire.”

“Okay.”

“But she lived alone in a two-bedroom unit, and when she was asked about that empty room, she said her roommate had moved out a month earlier and she was in the process of trying to find a new one.”

Bosch reflexively jumped her story.

“One of our EZBank people looked at the place to rent.”

“No, but I thought maybe that was a possibility too. So I tracked Stephanie Perez down to see what, if anything, she remembered. They had a protocol for all these tenant interviews and it included taking down DL numbers and birth dates. It was easy to find her.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s still in the neighborhood but now lives in a building down on Wilshire. She’s still working at the same Ralphs, too, but now she’s assistant manager and she’s been married, divorced, and has two kids.”

“So when did you call her?”

“About a half hour ago. I waited till seven.”

Bosch gave her a look. Making a call that early was risky. It could anger someone if you woke them up to talk about something that had happened more than two decades ago. Soto read his concern.

“No, she was totally cool with it,” she said. “She was already awake and getting ready for work.”

“You were lucky,” Bosch said. “What did she tell you?”

“She moved out right after the fire, so she never rented the second bedroom. And before the fire she hadn’t interviewed anybody yet. She had just put the ad in La Opinión.”

“So the roommate who moved out is the connection?”

“Exactly. Her old roommate was Ana Acevedo, who worked at EZBank — the one who opened the door.”

Bosch nodded. It was a very good lead and connection. He immediately understood that momentum had just shifted away from the Merced case and was with the Bonnie Brae investigation now. They would need to ride it and that would mean having to finesse Captain Crowder, which might not be easy.

“Is there more?” he asked. “What else did she tell you?”

“It gets better, Harry,” Soto said. “Because it confirms things we already know. Stephanie Perez was the leaseholder on the apartment. She said the reason she asked Ana to move out was because she was juggling two boyfriends, and one of them was a white boy who was mean and had a habit of saying racist things even though he was dating Ana. Stephanie didn’t want to be in the middle of it, especially if the white boy found out about the other boyfriend, because she thought he was the kind of guy who might be violent. She had warned Ana about the situation several times and Ana did nothing about it. So Stephanie told Ana she had to go and she moved out — a month before the fire.”

Bosch remembered the name he had read off the page from the robbery journal borrowed from the captain’s office in Robbery Special.

“Rodney Burrows?”

“That’s what I’m guessing. She didn’t remember names, but when I said Rodney she said yes, one of them was named Rodney. I said, ‘Rodney Burrows?’ and she couldn’t remember a last name. She said she’d look at a six-pack if I brought it by the store today.”

“Okay, what about the other boyfriend?”

“Same thing. I said, ‘Maxim Boiko?’ and she remembered Max but not the last name. She’ll look at a six-pack on him, too.”

“Did she talk about how long these guys were around the apartment? Were they staying over, taking out the trash, things like that?”

“I didn’t get into it in detail — that question about the trash is a good one. But I did get the impression that these guys would stay over and that’s where Stephanie was scared. She was afraid one might come over and surprise Ana when she was with the other.”

“Right.”

Bosch thought about the scenario for a few moments. It did seem to be the connection they were looking for.

“I think we’re in business here, Harry,” Soto said.

Bosch nodded. But his mind was still bumping over other possibilities.

“Did she ever consider that Ana might have started the fire? You know, sort of in revenge for getting kicked out of the apartment?”

“I didn’t ask. We should.”

Harry nodded again.

“Okay,” he said, “so let’s get six-packs together for all three of them and start with Stephanie Perez at Ralphs. Let’s move fast and get out of here before the captain gets in and wants an update on Merced.”

“You got it.”

“By the way, did you check — do any of these EZBank people have records?”

Soto nodded.

“I started address searches and backgrounds on them on Sunday after we got the names off the robbery book. Acevedo and Boiko are clean. But Burrows went to federal prison in ’06 for tax evasion.”

“Tax evasion?”

“Yeah. He didn’t file tax returns for something like six years in the nineties and the feds caught up to him. He cut a deal to limit his time and they put him in Lompoc. He served twenty-two months.”

“Nice. Anything else?”

“That’s all I found.”

“Where’s he live now?”

“Oh, he’s some kind of desert rat or something. He lives out in a place called Adelanto. I looked at his house on Street View. It looks like a shithole surrounded by fences and in the middle of nowhere.”

Bosch nodded. Extreme rural address, tax evasion, washing out of the police academy on a racial insensitivity beef — Bosch was beginning to get a picture of Rodney Burrows.

“Did you request the file on the tax case?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t had time,” she answered defensively. “Yesterday we were going full bore on Merced.”

“I know, I know,” Bosch said. “I’m just asking. What about a mug shot from the feds?”

“There’s one online. I just have to print it.”

“Okay, for Acevedo and Boiko you’ll have to use DL shots, since they’ve got clean records.”

“Okay, but won’t they be current photos? What if she can’t make an ID twenty-one years later? Stephanie said she hasn’t seen any of these people since back then.”

Bosch thought a moment, weighing the risk. Anything they tried that came back wrong or negative could come up and hurt them in trial.

“I still want Perez to look at photos. You put that together and I’ll make a call to somebody I know in the federal building, maybe see if we can get a look at the file or the presentencing report on Burrows. I want to start filling out his profile.”

“You got it.”

“The captain will be here by eight. Let’s get moving.”

“On it.”

“And Lucy, this is really good stuff.”

“Thanks.”

Bosch started pushing himself in his chair back to his desk but then stopped and looked at her.

“You know, I have to say I underestimated you. Two weeks ago I wasn’t sure you even belonged in the unit. Now I have no doubt.”

She didn’t say anything. He nodded and turned back to his desk.

Bosch opened the contact list on his phone and called the cell number he had for Rachel Walling at the bureau. It had to have been at least a couple years since he had used the number or had spoken to her. He hoped the number was still good and that she’d take his call. He also hoped she was still assigned to the Los Angeles office. With the FBI, you never knew. Here today, Miami or Dallas or Philadelphia tomorrow. He remembered that before L.A., Walling had been posted in Minot, North Dakota.

Walling answered the call.

“Well, well, well. Harry Bosch. The man who only calls when he needs something.”

Bosch smiled. He deserved the rebuke.

“Rachel, how are you?”

“Things are good. How about with you?”

“Can’t complain, except they’re just about to pull the rug out from under me here. I’m on the DROP.”

“At least you get to stay till you’re, what, sixty-five?”

“Hey, hold on. I’m not that old yet!”

“I know, but what I’m saying is that around here they kick us out at fifty-seven. There is no such thing as the Deferred Retirement Option Plan here.”

“That isn’t fair. But, hey, you don’t have to worry about that for a couple decades, right?”

He could almost hear her smile.

“Smooth, Harry. You must really, really want something from me.”

“Well, I was just calling to see how you’re doing, but if you really need me to ask for something, then I’ll ask if you’ve got anybody over at the IRS who might look up an old case for me.”

There was a pause but it didn’t last too long.

“You know the IRS doesn’t talk to anybody, not even us. What kind of case is it?”

“Tax evasion in ’06. Guy went away for a couple years. Right now he lives out in the desert and it looks to me like he may be one of these ‘ist’ guys, you know? Extremist, separatist, survivalist, white supremacist — take your pick. Who knows, maybe he’s even a polygamist. Added to that, he didn’t pay taxes for six years. That isn’t an oversight, you know? That’s a choice.”

“Well, if he is all of that, then it’s most likely we had part of the case. What’s your angle? You’re still working cold cases, right?”

“Yeah. And I think this guy was part of a three-man takedown team that pulled off a quarter-million-dollar heist at a check-cashing store in ’93. I think he was the inside man. I want to know about him but I’d also like to know who his KAs at the time were, too.”

“Who died?”

“Nobody in the heist but I’m looking at a fire that started a few blocks away as a diversion. It killed nine people, most of them kids. I think it was before you were out in L.A., Rachel. You were still riding the range in North Dakota.”

“Don’t remind me. Give me what you’ve got and I’ll see what I can find.”

Bosch hesitated here but only for a moment. This was the point where he was vulnerable. He had just laid out his investigation to her in oblique terms. If he now gave her the name and details, there was nothing stopping her from running with the case and possibly grabbing it from the LAPD. But it was Rachel Walling. They had known each other for a long time. Bosch felt safe.

“Rodney Burrows,” he said.

“You have a case number, DOB, anything else?”

“Hold on a second.”

Bosch swiveled in his chair, covered his phone, and asked Soto for the information on Burrows. She held out a legal pad with the information written on it, and Bosch uncovered the phone and read it off to Walling.

“And you have no known associates?”

“No KAs. That’s what I’m hoping to get from you.”

He then turned back to his desk, checking the wall clock as he did so. He knew they had to get out of the squad room or be confronted by Crowder about the Merced case. He stood up.

“Okay?” he said. “You need anything else?”

“Yes,” Walling said. “I need breakfast and you’re going to owe me for this. How about you meet me at nine at the Dining Car?”

Bosch thought about what they were planning with Stephanie Perez at Ralphs. The store wasn’t far from the Pacific Dining Car. There was also the fact that he had skipped breakfast in an unsuccessful attempt to beat Soto into the squad room that morning.

“How about ten?”

“Too late. Nine-thirty.”

“I think I can do that. Is it all right if I bring—”

“Come alone, Bosch. I don’t need to meet another cop.”

“Uh, okay. Sure.”

But he realized he was already speaking into a dead line.

On the way to Ralphs supermarket Bosch drove, as usual. He was quiet as he contemplated what moves they should make on the newly energized investigation. He believed they were going to get one shot, and they needed to use it well. They were heading toward a situation where they would have to put Rodney Burrows in the box and break him down. At the moment, there was little with which to do this. There were no witnesses, no physical evidence. There were just the timing and proximity of things. There was the hunch.

“Let’s review for a minute before we go in and talk to her,” he said.

“Okay,” Soto said.

“So we can now put Ana Acevedo, an employee of EZBank, in the Bonnie Brae Arms up until a month before the fire.”

“Right.”

“And she’s running romances with Maxim Boiko and Rodney Burrows, both also of EZBank.”

“Right.”

“So that’s the first thing with Perez. We need to confirm these are the three people we are talking about and we have to confirm that Ana had her boyfriends over to the apartment on a regular basis. We have to put this guy Rodney Burrows in the Bonnie Brae.”

“We have that. That’s why she kicked Ana out. She said it was headed toward a bad end and she didn’t want it to happen in the apartment.”

“Okay, well, we need to hit that again with her. Hit it hard. We want him taking the trash out. We want to establish his knowledge of the apartment complex.”

“Got it.”

“We also need to find out about Ana and clear up the possibility that she started the fire.”

“Out of revenge. Right.”

“And I want you to do this interview. You already spoke and established a rapport with her. You also both lived in that place and you can use that if needed.”

“Okay. We did speak in Spanish earlier.”

“Okay, there you go. I’m going to hang back and if I think of something to ask I’ll take you aside.”

“Okay.”

“Couple other things. We want to know how she knew Ana Acevedo in the first place. You know, how did they become roommates? And then we want to know if she had any continuing interaction over the past twenty years with any of these people.”

“She already said no about that last part but I’ll ask again.”

Bosch glanced over and saw that Soto was writing his questions down in a notebook that was just like the one he carried. The notebook was new. He hadn’t noticed it before.

Five minutes later they pulled into the Ralphs parking lot. It was on 3rd Street at Vermont. The parking lot was surprisingly full for the hour. Bosch guessed that a lot of midnight-shifters were hitting the market on their way home from work.

At the office at the front of the store, they asked for Stephanie Perez and were directed to the produce section, the area she was in charge of. Perez was a very small and round woman who wore an oversize white service jacket. Although she had spoken earlier to Soto, she seemed nervous about the detectives showing up at her workplace. Soto asked if there was a private place to talk and she took them to a break room in the rear of the store. It was too early for anyone to be taking breaks, so they had the space to themselves.

Perez asked if it was all right if the interview was conducted in Spanish and Bosch nodded his approval to Soto. Whatever made the witness most comfortable was the rule. Soto in return asked if it was okay to record the conversation and Perez gave her approval. Soto put her phone on the break table and turned on its recording feature. Bosch made a mental note to tell Soto after the interview that it was not necessary to ask permission to record an interview.

The women then started talking and Bosch tried to keep up. He was able to understand Spanish much better than he could speak it. But he quickly lost the thread, recognized only a few words, and then was distracted when his phone started vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket to check the screen and saw that it was Captain Crowder calling. He let it go to message and focused back on the conversation he didn’t understand.

Twenty minutes in, Soto turned to Bosch.

“She would like to look at pictures now,” she said.

Bosch thought for a moment. This was the big decision. If Perez couldn’t identify the EZBank employees, that could be an issue down the line. It was time to make the call on it and Soto was leaving it to him.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s do it.”

Soto had carried in a stack of files. They contained three separate six-pack photo lineups. Each lineup contained one photo of one of the EZBank employees in question along with five randomly selected photos of people of similar age and race. The photos were slipped into windows cut in a piece of cardboard. They started with the easy one. Ana Acevedo. Soto had been unable to find a current driver’s license for Acevedo in California or any of its neighboring states. While that was worrying in itself because it left Acevedo’s present whereabouts unknown, it also meant that Soto had to use a DL photo from the time of the EZBank robbery in the six-pack. It would most likely be the easiest identification Perez had to make.

Soto opened a file containing photos of six women of Latin ethnicity. Within two seconds Perez put her finger on Acevedo’s photo.

“That’s Ana,” she said.

“Okay,” Soto said.

She popped the photo out of its cardboard frame and asked Perez to sign the back of it as a confirmation of her choice. She then returned it to the file and put it to the side of the table. Soto opened the next file, which contained shots of six men of Eastern European heritage. Perez leaned over and studied all six photos before tapping the photo of Maxim Boiko.

“This one is Max,” she said.

Soto went through the same process of having Perez sign the photo she had selected.

Now came the big one. Soto opened the last six-pack and put it down in front of Perez. Soto didn’t say a word. She knew it was important not to speak or communicate anything through body language that was encouraging or confirming to the witness. That could result in a tainted identification in the eyes of a judge and jury.

Perez once again leaned forward and studied the photos — this time of six white men in their midforties. All homegrown Americans. Bosch knew there were all kinds of theories on inter-ethnic identification and that the process they were engaged in was fraught with issues relating to accuracy. The best they could do was present the photos, say nothing that might direct an identification, and simply wait. If she made an ID, the lawyers could fight about it later.

Perez studied the photos for nearly a minute and then slowly put her finger down below one of the photos.

“Him,” she said. “This is Rodney.”

Bosch and Soto exchanged eye contact and then Soto had Perez sign the photo she had chosen. It was the photo of Rodney Burrows.

“I have to return a call to the captain,” Bosch said to Soto. “You finish up and I’ll be in the car.”

Bosch thanked Perez for her time and cooperation and made his way back through the store and then out to the car. On the way, he listened to the message left on his phone by Crowder.

“Harry, this is Captain Crowder speaking. I want my update and I’m not fucking around. Call me. Now.”

Bosch got behind the wheel and turned on the engine. It was a cool morning and he wanted heat. He called the captain’s direct line.

“Where are you, Harry?” Crowder said by way of greeting.

“In the field,” Bosch said. “Something’s come up.”

“I don’t want to hear that. I want to hear the update on Merced. What’ve you got for me? It better be good.”