The Crossing

24

Bosch pulled into the alley off El Centro and checked his watch. It was 10:40 p.m. and he knew that he was inside the window of time during which it was estimated that James Allen was murdered and left propped against the wall behind the car repair shop on the night of March 21. Though time of death in the autopsy was estimated to have been anywhere from 10 p.m. to 1 a.m., he knew he would be encountering the same general environmental conditions as on the night of the murder. Evening temperatures in L.A. did not fluctuate much between March and May. But beyond climate, Bosch was interested in ambient light and its sources, a sense of how sound carried in the alley, and any other factors that might have been in play the night James Allen’s body was left behind.

Bosch drove past the repair shop and stopped in the parking lot behind the loft building. The lot was deserted. He killed the engine, took a flashlight out of the glove box, and got out of the car.

Walking back toward the repair shop, he stopped once to take a wide shot of the alley and the scene of the crime with his phone. He then proceeded to the rear wall of the repair shop. To his disappointment, he found that the graffiti on the wall had been painted over since the night James Allen’s body had been left in the alley. There was only one tag so far on the fresh paint, a depiction of a snake that formed the number 18 — the mark of the notorious 18th Street gang out of Rampart that had sets all over the city, including Hollywood.

He pulled up the photo of the wall that he had copied from the murder book earlier and using a portion of the crumbled asphalt in the picture was still able to place the spot where James Allen’s body had been propped up.

He stepped over to the spot and put his back to the wall. He looked up and down the alley, then up at the apartment building across from him. One of the small bathroom windows on the second floor had a light on. It was cracked open a few inches. Bosch grew annoyed with himself. He had been so concerned about not robbing Soto of her whole evening that he had not taken the proper time — or at least as much time as she would have allowed — to read through all sections of the murder book. He had not seen a report on the canvass of the neighborhood following the discovery of the body. Now he was looking at a lighted and open window that conceivably had a view of the crime scene. Had the resident there been questioned by police? Probably, but Bosch didn’t know for sure.

He considered calling Soto and asking her to look in the book for him but decided he had already asked too much of her. With each call and request, he was putting her in more danger of being found consorting with the enemy. He thought about the sign he used to hang on the partition in his cubicle when he had worn a badge: Get Off Your Ass and Knock On Doors.

Bosch pushed off the wall and walked out of the alley onto El Centro. The apartment building that backed the alley was a pink stucco affair built quickly and cheaply during a boom in the eighties. Its architectural flourishes were few, unless the filigreed design of the gated entrance counted. Bosch had to step back and look up at the two-story structure to try to figure out which apartment the lighted bathroom might belong to and then what number that unit would be.

The directory next to the gate’s phone listed eight units — 101 through 104 and 201 through 204. He went with the twos and decided on unit 203 first. He picked up the phone and followed the prompts and the call went unanswered. He tried 204 next and this time got a response.

“Qué?”

“Hola,” Bosch said haltingly. “Policía. Abierto por favor.”

He realized that he only had his policeman’s Spanish. He didn’t know how to say that he was a private investigator.

The person on the other end of the line — a woman — said something too quickly to understand. He responded with the old standby said more sternly.

“Policía. Abierto.”

The lock on the metal door buzzed and he pulled it open. He stepped in. There were stairs on either end of the building. He took the set on the right and they delivered him to a walkway leading to two apartment doors on the side of the building that backed up to the alley. Though it had been the person in 204 who had let him through the gate, Bosch now could confirm that unit 203 was the one with the open window and light on in the bathroom. He went to that door first and knocked. While he waited for a response, the door to 204 opened and an old woman stuck her head out to look at him. Bosch knocked again, louder this time, on the door to 203 but then walked over to the woman in the open doorway.

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

“Poquito,” she said.

“The murder in the alley? Two months ago? El asasinato?”

“Sí.”

Bosch pointed to his ear and then his eye.

“Did you hear anything? Did you see anything?”

“Oh, no. They very quiet. I hear nothing.”

“They?”

“Los matadores.”

Bosch now held up two fingers.

“Matadores? Two?”

The old lady shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you say ‘they?’”

She pointed to the door that Bosch had just knocked on.

“She say.”

Bosch looked at the unanswered door and then back at the old woman.

“Where is she?”

“She work now.”

“Do you know where?”

The woman brought her arms together in a rocking motion.

“Babysitting?” Bosch asked. “Child care?”

“Sí, sí, sí.”

“Do you know when she comes home?”

The woman looked at him and he could tell she didn’t understand.

“Uh, finito?”

He walked two fingers across the palm of his hand and pointed at the door to unit 203. The woman shook her head. She either didn’t know or she still didn’t understand. Bosch nodded. It was the best he could do for now.

“Gracias.”

He headed back to the stairs and went down. Before he got to the gate, he heard a voice from behind.

“Hey, policía.”

Bosch turned. There was a man standing in the alcove by the door to apartment 103. He was smoking a cigarette under the light above the door. Bosch walked back to him.

“Are you police?” the man asked.

Up close Bosch could see the Latino man was about thirty with a strong build. He wore a white T-shirt that had been bleached so many times it glowed under the light. He had no visible tattoos, which made Bosch think he wasn’t a gang member.

“A detective,” Bosch said. “I’m working on the murder that happened in the alley in March. Do you know anything about it?”

“Just that some faggot whore got his throat cut or some shit,” the man said.

“Were you home that night?”

“Sure.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Nah, man, I didn’t see nothing. I was in bed.”

“Hear anything?”

“Well, yeah, I heard ’em but I didn’t think it was anything so I didn’t get up to look.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard them dump the guy out.”

“What’s that sound like?”

“Well, I heard a trunk. You know, like a trunk closing. It came from the alley.”

“A trunk.”

“Yeah, a trunk. You know how you can tell the difference between the sound of a car door and a trunk? It was a trunk.”

“Did you also hear a car door?”

“Yeah, I heard that. I heard the trunk, then I heard the doors close.”

“Doors?”

“Yeah, two doors.”

“You heard two car doors close? You sure?”

The man shrugged.

“I hear all kinds of stuff from that alley. All night some nights.”

“Okay. Did you tell what you just told me to the police?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, they left a card one day in my door, asking me to call. I never got around to calling. I stay busy, you know what I mean?”

“You mean a business card? Do you still have it?”

“Yeah, on the fridge. I guess I could still call but I’m talkin’ to you, right?”

“Right. Can I see it? I want to get the name.”

“Yeah, sure. Hold on.”

The man opened his door and went in. He left the door open and Bosch saw a living room that was sparsely furnished. There was a crucifix on the wall and a couch with Mexican blankets draped over it. No expense had been spared on the large flat-screen television on the wall. It was showing a soccer game somewhere.

The man came from the kitchen and closed the door as he stepped back out. He handed Bosch a standard-issue LAPD business card with the name Edward Montez on it. On the flip side a handwritten note in two languages. The English said, “Please call.”

Bosch knew the name Montez but not the man. He and his partner must have been charged by Stotter and Karim with handling the neighborhood canvas. Montez had done a poor job if he left cards in doors and never followed up. It was not surprising, however. So few people in minority neighborhoods wished to get involved as witnesses in cases that most efforts of investigators were focused on looking for nonhuman witnesses — cameras.

“So you’ve never talked to the police about that night,” Bosch said.

“No, man. Nobody came that night and I work during the day. That’s when they left the card.”

“Do you know, did anybody in this building talk to the police?”

“Mrs. Jiminez did. She lives upstairs. But she didn’t see shit and she can’t hear too good.”

“What else did you hear besides the sound of the trunk and then the doors?”

“Nothing, man, that was it.”

“You didn’t look through a window to see what it was about?”

“No, man, I was tired. I didn’t want to get up. Besides...”

“Besides what?”

“You stick your nose into stuff like that, you might get a problem.”

“You mean a gang problem?”

“Yeah, like that.”

Bosch nodded. The 18th Street gang was not known for its peaceful coexistence in the neighborhoods it claimed as its turf. He could not second-guess someone for not rushing to his window to check out the activity in an alley.

“You remember what time it was when you heard the trunk and the doors?”

“Not really, not anymore. But it was definitely the night of the murder because the next morning all the police were in the alley. I saw them when I left for work.”

“Where do you work?”

“LAX.”

“TSA?”

He laughed like Bosch had made a joke.

“No, man, baggage. I work for Delta.”

Bosch nodded.

“Okay. What’s your name?”

“Ricardo.”

“Last name?”

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“I used to be.”

“Used to be? What’s that mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Just Ricardo, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Ricardo.”

Ricardo dropped his cigarette to the concrete, crushed it with his foot, and then kicked it into a nearby flower bed.

“Good night, Mr. I-Used-To-Be-A-Cop.”

“Yeah, good night.”

Bosch left through the gate and stopped to look at the directory. He confirmed the name Jiminez on unit 203 and saw the name R. Benitez on the line next to 103. He headed back into the alley where his car was waiting.

Once he was behind the wheel, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it. He sat for a moment looking through the windshield at the spot where James Allen’s body was left and thinking about what Ricardo Benitez had just told him. He heard a car trunk being closed followed by two car doors. Bosch envisioned a car coming into the alley with its lights off. Two people get out, leave their doors open, and go to the trunk. They remove the body, prop it against the wall, then go back to the car. One closes the trunk as he goes around the back of the car. They get in, close their doors, and the car takes off. In and out in — what? — thirty seconds tops?

Bosch nodded.

Two people, he thought.

He turned the key and started the engine.