The Crossing

17

Bosch was late for his appointment when he pulled to the curb in front of the house on Orlando. He was supposed to meet the real estate agent who was selling the house where Lexi Parks was murdered but didn’t see a car in the driveway or anyone waiting near the front door. He thought maybe she had come and gone after he was not on time.

Bosch got out of the car and called the number on the for sale sign below the agent’s name. She answered right away.

“Taylor Mitchell.”

“Ms. Mitchell? It’s Harry Bosch. I’m at the house on Orlando and think I may have just missed you. I’m sorry I’m so late. I got caught up with...”

Bosch didn’t really have a valid excuse and had not taken the time to think of one. He went with the old reliable.

“... traffic this morning.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said cheerily. “And you didn’t miss me. I’m here in the house waiting for you.”

Bosch crossed the street toward the house.

“Oh, okay,” he said. “I’m here, too, and I didn’t see a car or anybody around. Thought I missed you.”

“I live in the neighborhood and just walked over. I’ll meet you at the door.”

“See you soon.”

Bosch disconnected and walked through the archway cut into the tall hedge that surrounded the house. As he went up the three steps of the porch the front door opened and a young woman with reddish blond hair was standing behind it. She was attractive with a sincere smile. She held out her hand to him and invited him in.

“Thanks for getting me in on short notice,” Bosch said.

“Not a problem,” she said. “Like I said, I live nearby. I work most days from home and it’s easy with a listing like this to just walk over.”

Bosch turned and took in what he could see of the house from the entry area.

“Let me walk you through,” Mitchell said.

They started in the living room and worked their way toward the bedrooms in the back of the house. The house was furnished but looked unlived in. None of the signs of daily habitation were visible. There were no photos on the fireplace mantel, no shopping list held on the refrigerator with a magnet. Bosch wondered if Lexi Parks’s husband, Vincent Harrick, had moved out.

Eventually Mitchell moved the tour down the hallway to the bedrooms. They first stepped into the room that had been converted to an office. Appearing to be interested in how much storage space the room offered, Bosch opened the folding doors of the closet to check it out. The closet looked like it had not been disturbed since the crime scene photos were taken. Most notably, the brown leather watch box was still up on the top shelf. As Bosch stepped away, he left the closet doors open in case he got the opportunity to break away from Mitchell and check its contents.

As he circled the room, acting like he was getting a feel for it as a potential buyer, he came to the framed diploma hung on the wall next to the desk. He acted like he was casually reading the details of the degree bestowed on Alexandra Parks but he was really looking at the juror ID tag, trying to see if there were any identifiers on it.

As he looked closer he realized the tag was not real. It was a photocopy of a real juror tag that had been used in a gag or maybe a work presentation or play and Parks had held on to it as a keepsake. In faded pencil not picked up in the crime scene photo someone had printed:

Bosch wasn’t sure what the tag had been used for but he now dismissed it as an avenue of investigation. He also realized he owed Cornell and Schmidt, the Sheriff’s investigators, a mental apology for questioning their competency when he was reviewing the crime scene photos.

The next stop was the guest bedroom and here Bosch saw signs of life. The bed was made but it looked a bit haphazard, as if it had been done quickly, and Bosch saw a pair of shower sandals peeking out from beneath it. On the bureau, there was a hairbrush and some change in a dish. Bosch guessed that Harrick might be using the guest room, since the murder had taken place in the master.

He checked the size of the closet in this room as well, even though he was not as interested in its contents.

As they moved back into the hallway Mitchell finally spoke of what had occurred in the room at the end of the hall.

“I have to make a disclosure to you about this next room,” she said. “There was a crime — a woman died in this room.”

They stepped into the room Bosch had seen in crime scene photos. But it was completely empty. Every piece of furniture had been removed and the twin closet doors were open, revealing that space to be empty as well. Bosch was disappointed. His purpose in visiting the crime scene was to absorb it and put together his own spatial orientation of things. It would be difficult now because he was standing in an empty room.

“Really?” he said. “A crime? What happened?”

“Well, the woman who lived here was sleeping and a man came in and killed her,” Mitchell said. “But he was caught and he’s in jail, so there is nothing to worry about in that regard.”

Bosch noticed the smell of fresh paint in the room. The blood spatter tracks on the wall behind the bed and the ceiling had been covered over.

“Did he know her?” he asked. “Who was he?”

“No, it was like a random thing. It was like a gang member from downtown or something. Still, we understand that something random like that is disconcerting. That’s why the price point on the property is where it is. It would be unethical to not disclose the history.”

“How long ago was this?”

“It was earlier this year.”

“Wow, recent. Did you know her? You being in the neighborhood and all.”

“I did. I sold this house to her and her husband four years ago. Lexi was a great person and it’s awful what happened. Just horrible. It could have been me! I live one block over.”

“Yeah, calling it random violence doesn’t necessarily make one feel better about it.”

“No, I guess not. But I can assure you, this has always been a very safe neighborhood. My kids play with their friends on the front lawn. What happened here was really an aberration.”

“I understand.”

“Do you want to see the back porch? There is a built-in barbecue you will love.”

“In a bit. I want to get the dimensions of the bedrooms. To see if they fit everything I have.”

Bosch moved into the space where he knew the bed had been located. Working off his memory of the crime scene photos, he stood in the place where the victim had been found on the right side of the bed. He scanned the room, looking at what Lexi Parks would have seen. There were two windows on the opposite wall and they offered views of the side yard and the hedge. He closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate and absorb.

“Mr. Bosch, are you all right?”

Bosch opened his eyes. She was staring at him.

“Sure. Do you have a tape measure by any chance?”

“I might in my trunk — oh, that’s right, I didn’t drive here. Sorry. But I do have the dimensions on the listing sheet. There’s a stack in the kitchen.”

“That’ll have to do then.”

She headed toward the door and extended her arm to signal him to leave the room ahead of her. Bosch walked into the hallway and started back toward the kitchen. When he got to the door to the office, he paused and let her pass.

“I just want to look at this room again,” he said. “I have two daughters, and if one gets a bigger room than the other, I’m going to have a problem.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll go get the listing sheet.”

She continued up the hallway and he stepped into the office. He quickly went to the open closet and reached up to the watch box. He realized he would look like a thief if Mitchell came back and found him holding it. He tried to quickly open it but the fine crafting of the box made it a puzzle to open. He finally realized the front panel opened like a drawer.

He heard Mitchell’s voice from the kitchen. She was talking excitedly to someone. Bosch thought it was a phone call but then he heard the low bass sound of a male’s voice in reply. Someone else was now in the house with them.

As soon as he pulled the box open he determined there was no watch in it. There was a brown velvet cushion on which the watch should be set when not being worn. But it was empty. There was an instruction booklet in the box and a small square envelope marked in handwritten ink:

Bosch quickly put the box under his arm and opened the envelope. He removed the receipt and unfolded it. The watch had been manufactured by Audemars Piguet and purchased at a jewelry store on Sunset Boulevard called Nelson Grant & Sons. The watch was called a Royal Oak Offshore and had cost $6,322 when purchased in December 2014. The name of the buyer on the receipt was Vincent Harrick.

Bosch assumed that the watch had been purchased by Harrick as a Christmas gift to his wife. He wondered briefly how a Sheriff’s deputy could afford such an expensive watch but the question did not rise to the level of suspicion. People made all kinds of concessions to love — money choices being the least of them.

He quickly put the receipt back into the envelope and returned it to the box. He closed it, having to push the front panel in and hearing the air whoosh out. He placed it back in its spot on the shelf and stepped away. He was in the middle of the room when Mitchell walked in, carrying the listing sheet.

“This says both guest rooms are fourteen by twelve,” she said. “This room probably just feels smaller because of the bookcase.”

Bosch looked at the shelves behind the desk and nodded.

“Oh, okay,” he said. “That makes sense.”

She handed him the listing sheet. He looked at it as if he were genuinely interested.

“Do you want to check out the barbecue now?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “But is someone here? I heard you talking.”

“It was the owner. He thought we would be finished by now but I told him we got a late start.”

“Oh, I can leave.”

“No, it’s fine. And he’s fine. Let’s go out on the deck.”

Bosch followed her through the house to the sliding door off the kitchen. He did not see Harrick anywhere. They stepped onto a planked deck with a vine-covered latticework sun cover and a built-in barbecue station. It was all in good shape but didn’t look like it had been used in a long time. The yard beyond was tiny but private. The front hedge ran along the sides and turned to continue along the property lines of the back, giving the yard and the back of the house complete privacy.

“There is probably just enough room for a hot tub, if you were interested,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah, but I wonder how they’d get it in here,” Bosch said. “Take down the hedge, I guess.”

“No, they would crane it over. They do it all the time.”

Behind him Bosch heard the glass door roll open.

“Taylor?” a man said. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Of course,” Mitchell responded.

Bosch turned to see Vincent Harrick standing in the open door. Bosch nodded and he nodded back.

“Sorry. I won’t keep her long,” Harrick said.

“I’ll be fine,” Bosch said.

Mitchell went through the door and Harrick shut it behind her so Bosch would not hear their conversation. Bosch felt sweat start to pop on his scalp as he wondered if he had put the watch box in the wrong position or had somehow been seen.

Before he could worry further about it, the sliding door came open and Mitchell stepped back out.

“So, what do you think?” she asked.

Bosch nodded.

“It’s nice,” he said. “Very nice. I’ll have to think about it and talk to my girls.”

He looked through the glass into the kitchen as he spoke but didn’t see Harrick.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he added.

“Just let me know if they would like to take a look for themselves,” she said cheerily. “I’m only a block away and can make that happen pretty quickly.”

“Great.”

Bosch headed toward the door. He was still holding the listing sheet, which he folded lengthwise and put into the inside pocket of his sport coat. He hesitated before going back into the house.

“You think I should just go around the house so I don’t intrude on the owner?” he asked.

“Oh, he left,” Mitchell said. “When I told him we weren’t finished, he said he was going to run up the street to get something at Gelson’s.”

She came up next to Bosch and opened the slider. He stepped in and walked through the house to the front door. He then thanked Mitchell again and left.

As Bosch passed through the archway cut into the hedge and walked out to the sidewalk he saw a man leaning against the front of his Cherokee across the street. It was Harrick and he was waiting for Bosch, his arms folded across his chest.

Bosch crossed the street toward his car, unsure how he was going to handle what might be about to turn ugly.

“It’s Bosch, right?” Harrick said.

“That’s right,” Bosch said. “Sorry we took so long in—”

“Save your bullshit.”

Bosch stopped in front of him. There wasn’t much sense in continuing the play since Harrick wasn’t buying it. Bosch held his hands out as if to signal you got me.

“I thought you were a fucking reporter,” Harrick said. “Piece-of-shit car like this, you can’t afford a house like that. So I run your plate and it’s got an LAPD block on it. I make a couple calls and I get the story. Retired cop. Retired homicide cop. So tell me, Detective Bosch, what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

Bosch knew that the situation could quickly go sideways. He was acting as an extension of Haller’s defense of Da’Quan Foster. A complaint that brought the ethics of his scam with Taylor Mitchell before a judge could cause blowback for Haller. He had to salvage this somehow.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “I’ve been asked to look into the case privately by someone who has reason to believe Da’Quan Foster was set up and that he didn’t kill your wife.”

Harrick’s eyes disappeared in the creases of his squint. His ruddy complexion turned a darker shade.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he said. “Who has reason to believe that?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Bosch said. “It’s a matter of client confidentiality. I agreed to look into the case and I wanted to see the crime scene. I apologize. I didn’t expect you to be here and to be confronted by this. It was a mistake.”

Before Harrick could respond, Mitchell called from across the street while on her walk back to her house.

“Do you need me for anything, gentlemen?”

Both Bosch and Harrick turned to her.

“We’re fine, Taylor,” Harrick called back. “Thank you.”

He added a wave to keep her going. She was one house from the corner. As soon as she got there she turned left and disappeared from sight.

“Put your hands on the hood,” Harrick said.

“Excuse me?” Bosch asked.

“On the hood. Assume the position.”

“No, I’m not going to do that.”

“You want to go to jail, Bosch?”

“You can take me to jail but I don’t think I’ll be staying there long. I haven’t committed any crime.”

“You’ve got a choice here. Put your hands on the hood so I can check for weapons. Or go to jail.”

He took a phone out of his pocket and got ready to make a call.

“I’m unarmed,” Bosch said and he stepped forward, put his hands on the front hood, and spread his feet.

Harrick quickly frisked him and found no weapons. Bosch didn’t like the way this was heading. He had to change the course.

“What happened to her watch?” he asked.

Harrick’s hands froze for a moment as he was patting down Bosch’s front pants pockets. He then stood straight up, put a hand on Bosch’s arm, and turned him away from the hood of the car.

“What did you say?” Harrick asked.

“Her watch,” Bosch said calmly. “The one you gave her. The Audemars Piguet — if I am saying that right. It wasn’t on her wrist and it wasn’t on any property report from the crime scene. It didn’t turn up in the search of Da’Quan Foster’s house, studio, or van. It’s not in its box either. So, what happened to it?”

Harrick took a half step back as he considered what Bosch had just said. Bosch recognized it as a move to create space between them and a potential prelude to a punch. He braced himself to block but Harrick managed to control his rage and the swing never came.

“Just go,” Harrick said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of here.”

Bosch reached in his pocket for his keys and stepped around the front of the car. When he got to the driver’s-side door, he looked back at Harrick, who had not moved.

“It doesn’t matter who I’m working for if I’m trying to find the truth,” he said. “If Foster didn’t do it, somebody else did. And he’s still out there. Think about that.”

Harrick shook his head.

“Who are you, fucking Batman?” he said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. The watch was broken. It was being fixed. It’s got nothing to do with anything.”

“Then, where is it? Did you get it back?”

Harrick opened his mouth to say something, then paused and shook his head.

“I’m not talking to you.”

He turned, checked for traffic, and then crossed the street toward his house.

Bosch watched him disappear through the archway, then got in the Cherokee and drove off. He angrily banged his palm on the steering wheel. He knew that his anonymity on the case had just come to an end. Harrick didn’t know who Bosch worked for but he would soon enough find out. A complaint might follow. Whether it did or it didn’t, Bosch needed to get ready for the onslaught of anger that would come his way.