The Crossing

22

Eastside Luv was a corner bar with a mural on the outside wall showing an old mariachi with white whiskers and a wide-brim hat. Bosch had driven by it hundreds of times over the years but never stopped in once. It was an upscale hangout for the Chicano hipsters that were reinventing Boyle Heights block by block.

The bar that was the centerpiece of the establishment was crowded two and three deep and most of those people turned to check out Bosch as he entered the front door. Los Lobos was blasting from the sound system, a song about a wicked rain coming down. Bosch moved his eyes across the space and found Soto sitting by herself at a table in the back corner. Bosch made his way to her and pulled out the chair opposite.

“I didn’t take you for a Chipster,” he said. “I thought you might be more of a Las Palomas girl.”

Las Palomas was the next bar down, a working-class watering hole with harsh lighting and harsher drinks. Bosch had been in there several times over the years looking for people.

Soto laughed at his comment.

“Sometimes I end up there, but not too often.”

She had already ordered two bottles of Modelo. They picked them up and clinked glass.

“Thanks for seeing me,” he yelled just as the music stopped.

That brought another round of attention to him, and both he and Soto laughed.

Soto looked like she was doing well. Her hair was down and she was wearing a sleeveless black shirt and faded jeans. Her smooth brown arms showed off the tattoos she wasn’t allowed to show on the job. There was an RIP list on the inside of her left forearm containing the names of lost friends from when she was growing up in Westlake, and a tat on the right arm that was a string of Spanish words wrapping her biceps in a font that looked like barbed wire.

“Hard to park around here,” Bosch said. “I didn’t see your car in the back.”

“I didn’t drive,” she said. “I Ubered it. A DUI would get me washed out of detectives and back on patrol.”

They toasted that and drank more beer.

“Uber — that’s that taxi thing, right?” Bosch asked.

“Yes, it’s an app, Harry,” she said. “You should try it.”

“Sure. What’s an app?”

She smiled, knowing he knew what an app was but also knowing he would never try Uber or any other one.

“So, you want to pick my brain, huh?”

“Yeah, I just have more questions about—”

“You don’t have to. You can just look at the book.”

From the empty seat next to her she raised a red tote bag up onto the table and then peeled it down around a thick blue binder. Bosch recognized it as an LAPD murder book but he couldn’t comprehend how and why she had it.

“Is that the Allen case?” he asked.

“It is,” she said. “I sort of borrowed it off of Ali’s desk after he left for the day.”

Bosch was stunned. It was an infraction far worse than what had gotten him suspended and pushed out of the department.

“Lucia, you can’t do this,” he said. “The last thing I want you to do for me is something that could sink your whole career worse than a DUI. You—”

“Harry, relax,” she said. “He’s never going to know. You can look at it right now and I’ll take it back tonight. Besides, he broke the rules. It’s supposed to be locked in the closet at night.”

“I don’t care about him. You’re going to waltz in there after a few beers and just put it back on his desk?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“You are taking a big risk, Lucia. I don’t want it on my head if it goes sideways. What you already did was enough. I was just going to ask you some follow-ups, that’s all.”

She nodded like his daughter always did when he spoke sternly to her. Soto was ten years older than Maddie but sometimes it was hard to tell. This was a foolish stunt.

“Look, Harry, last year you took a big risk for me when we were partners,” she said. “I owe you this and I’m happy to be able to do it. So why don’t we stop talking about it and you look for what you need. I trust you. I know you’re working for a lawyer but I believe you when you say you’re looking for the truth, no matter how it falls.”

Now it was Bosch’s turn to nod. He reached across the table and slowly pulled the binder across. The music had started up loud again, this time a song in Spanish with horns playing sharply in the background.

“How about we go sit in my car?” he asked. “It’s so loud in here I can’t think straight.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“Such an old man,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Bosch took one last pull on his bottle of beer and stood up.