The Crossing

29

Bosch took La Cienega south from Sunset toward I-10. Along the way he stopped to gas up the Cherokee and soon after was fighting his way east on the freeway toward the glass-and-stone towers of downtown. He didn’t break free until he cleared the city’s center and got out to I-15, where he started heading north on a clear shot to Las Vegas. He had decided to follow the watch trail directly rather than by phone. Badge or no badge, he knew that the best way to get information was to ask for it in person. It’s easy to hang up a phone, much harder to close a door in someone’s face.

Besides that, he needed to think and to grind things down. He knew that the wide-open spaces of the desert between Los Angeles and Las Vegas would help him open his mind to the nuances and possibilities of the investigation. This was why he always preferred driving over flying to the gambling mecca in the Nevada desert.

Halfway across, he decided to call Haller. He had not seen or heard from him since their walk among the tombstones. The call went to message and Bosch reported that he was on his way to Vegas and had time to talk.

Twenty minutes later Haller called back, saying he had just gotten out of a hearing on an unrelated case.

“Vegas?” he said. “What’s in Vegas?”

“Not sure,” Bosch said. “Sort of following a flier. If it amounts to anything, you’ll be the first I let know.”

“Couldn’t you just call over there? That’s a four-hour drive.”

“You can always just call — if you know who to call. But sometimes your gut tells you to drive.”

“Very Zen, Harry.”

“No, more like Homicide one-oh-one.”

Bosch was passing through Primm at the Nevada border. He’d be at his destination in an hour.

“So what’s happening with the video from the cemetery?” he asked.

“Got a pro working on it today,” Haller said. “Anything I get, you get.”

“Okay.”

“Your little do-si-do at the murder house has landed. The sheriffs complained to the DA, and the DA complained to the judge on this thing. I gotta go see him in chambers today to explain my actions.”

“Shit. Sorry about that. You want me there? I’ll turn around.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near there. In fact, I’m glad you’ll be in Vegas. There’s my excuse. I’ll be able to handle it. I know the judge. Former defense lawyer, so he’ll be sympathetic to my plight. I’ll tell him I just can’t get good help these days.”

Bosch smiled. He was sure Haller was smiling, too.

“Yeah, tell him I didn’t know what I was doing, that I’m new at this.”

“Definitely.”

They went off case then and talked about their daughters and graduation. Haller proposed giving the girls a joint gift, a cruise up the west coast of Canada to Alaska, where they could dogsled on glaciers while getting to know each other better before rooming together at Chapman in the fall. Bosch felt blindsided because he had not even been thinking about a graduation gift. He hadn’t realized there should be one.

He ultimately agreed to the cruise idea and Haller said he would handle it. He had a travel agent he worked with. They signed off then and Bosch went back to thoughts about the case and prepping for his destination.

It had been a long time since Bosch had come to Vegas on a case and he found that once again the city had redefined itself with new casinos, traffic patterns, and shopping meccas. The Audemars Piguet shop and service center was located in a new shopping center on the strip. It was part of a massive glass complex of casinos and hotels and commercial and residential structures that dwarfed everything around it. The whole thing had been built since the last time Bosch had been in the city. He circled the project twice — a journey of fifteen minutes because of traffic — before finding an entrance to a parking garage. Soon afterward he was walking through a mall lined with the most upscale collection of shops he had ever seen in one location, including Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

The Audemars Piguet shop was all dark-wood-and-glass cases where watches were displayed on individual pedestals. There was a security man, complete with Secret Service — style earbud, posted at the entrance. He wore a suit nicer than anything Bosch had ever owned. A woman who looked like she was dressed for the opera sat behind a reception desk and welcomed Bosch with a sincere smile. She knew better than to judge Bosch by his blue jeans and corduroy sport jacket. Vegas gamblers often chose to hide wealth behind a rumpled facade. Bosch had the facade, at least. He felt lucky that the cuff of his jacket was just long enough to hide that he wore a Timex on his right wrist.

“Is there a different entrance for the service center?” Bosch asked.

“No, this is our showroom as well as our service center,” the woman said cheerfully. “Are you here to pick up a watch?”

“Not exactly. I’m wondering, is there a service manager I could speak to? I need to ask about a watch that came here for repairs earlier this year.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose at forty-five-degree angles as she frowned.

“Let me get Mr. Gerard for you,” she said.

She stood up and disappeared through a doorway behind her station. Bosch spent the waiting time looking at the various displays, all the while feeling the eyes of the security guy on the back of his neck.

“Sir?”

Bosch turned and saw a man standing by one of the counters. He wore a suit and tie and had a full beard — maybe to make up for the loss of hair on top — and glasses with a pull-down magnifier over the left lens.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bosch said. “I want to make an inquiry about a watch I believe was sent to you for repair earlier this year.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Are you the owner?”

He spoke with an accent Bosch could not readily identify. Something European. Maybe Swiss, maybe German.

“No, I’m not the owner. I’m an investigator from Los Angeles and I am trying to locate the watch and find out the details surrounding it.”

“This is very unusual. Are you the police?”

“I just retired from the Los Angeles police. I have been asked to look into this matter. It involves a murder.”

The last word seemed to crowd the man’s face with suspicion.

“A murder.”

“Yes. I was a homicide detective. If you are concerned about talking with me, I can provide you with names and numbers of people in the LAPD who can verify and vouch for me.”

“Can you show me your identification?”

“Of course.”

Bosch pulled his wallet and removed his LAPD ID. There was no need to try to cover up the retired demarcation this time.

“What watch are you speaking about?” the man asked as he handed back the ID card.

“You’re Mr. Gerard?” Bosch asked.

“Yes, Bertrand Gerard. I am the manager of sales and service here. Who was murdered?”

“A woman named Alexandra Parks. Back in February. Did you hear about that over here?”

The man shook his head like he was not sure what he had heard. It did not appear to Bosch that Parks’s name was known to him.

“It’s a pretty big case back in L.A.,” Bosch said. “But she may have used her husband’s last name in her dealings regarding the watch. That name is Harrick.”

Now Bosch got a reaction. Not an alert of any kind, but a recognition for sure.

“You know her?” Bosch asked.

“Yes, I know this name,” Gerard answered. “But I didn’t know what happened. Her phone number was disconnected and the original owner didn’t want the watch back. So... we still have it here.”

Bosch paused. Gerard had just revealed something Bosch didn’t already know or understand. He wanted to keep the man talking but didn’t want to make a misstep that could spoil cooperation.

“The original owner,” he said tentatively. “Why didn’t she want the watch back?”

“Technically, it was not a she,” Gerard said. “The buyer was a man, though he did purchase it for his wife. Who asked you to look into this matter?”

There was the misstep. Bosch looked around. He had to change things.

“Mr. Gerard, do you have an office or somewhere we can talk privately?”

Now Gerard paused, probably deciding how much further he wanted to be involved in this.

“Yes, follow me, please,” he finally said.

Gerard nodded to the security man, a signal that all was well, as he brought Bosch through the door behind the displays.

Gerard had a small private office located off a larger back room where a workbench stood with various small tools on a rack. Against the back wall Bosch saw a floor-to-ceiling safe where inventory was probably housed. There was no one in the back room. That and the magnifier attached to his glasses made it clear that Gerard ran the shop and was also the technician who made the repairs and adjustments to the watches.

Gerard took a seat behind a perfectly clean desk and flipped open an At-A-Glance calendar book. He paged back through it until he saw a name or notation, then opened a drawer and removed a corresponding file with a watch attached to it in a padded pouch. He unclipped the pouch, removed the watch, and put it carefully down on his desk, then opened the file.

“The watch was sent to us for repair by Alexandra Harrick,” he said. “She sent it from West Hollywood, California, but you already know that.”

“Yes,” Bosch said.

With Gerard talking, Bosch said as little as possible, not wanting to mention anything that would put the brakes on his revealing information.

“Our website provides precise details on how one should proceed to have a watch serviced or repaired.”

“What was wrong with the watch?” Bosch asked, immediately regretting that he had said anything.

Gerard picked up the watch and used a finger to circle its face.

“The crystal was fractured,” he said. “No explanation given. But it was a simple repair. The only issue was the replacement crystal. I had to order it from Switzerland and that took about ten days.”

Gerard looked up from the watch to Bosch, waiting for the next question. Bosch had blown the momentum of the conversation and had to try to get it back.

“When was the watch sent here?” he asked.

Gerard consulted notes written on the file.

“Received on February second,” he said. “Sent by FedEx.”

Bosch noted the date — one week before the murder of Alexandra Parks.

“That was when it was received — we document that,” Gerard said. “But I didn’t actually open the box and examine its contents until three days later — on the fifth.”

“What happened then?” Bosch asked.

“Well, all of our pieces are registered upon purchase,” Gerard said. “In the case of a resale, they can be reregistered by the new purchaser, after which they can enjoy the benefits of customer service. What happened here was that this watch was not registered in the name Harrick. It still carried the original owner’s registration.”

“It was bought used as a gift,” Bosch said. “An estate sale.”

“The problem was that I happened to know about this specific watch,” Gerard said. “Because I had sold it originally.”

He said nothing else and Bosch was unsure what to ask next. The story of the watch, whatever it was, obviously had puzzled or bothered Gerard in some way that was unsaid. Bosch needed to get it said.

“You sold it originally and had not heard about it being resold?”

“Exactly.”

“Who did you sell it to originally?”

“I can’t tell you that. We have a privacy policy and we can’t reveal client names. People who buy these watches expect and get a high level of confidentiality.”

“All right, so what did you do?”

“The original purchaser had bought two watches from me in the past three years. He was a collector of fine timepieces and bought for himself and his wife. And as far as I knew, he still had them both, but then this watch came in from someone else. So I took the initiative to call his home to verify that the repurchase was legitimate.”

Gerard was now following a pattern of letting the story stall and needing to be prompted. In Bosch’s experience it was a sign of reluctance. It happened often when people — completely innocent or uninvolved people — were questioned about things related to a murder.

“What did he tell you?”

“I didn’t talk to him at first. His wife answered the phone. I asked for the husband but he was not home.”

“So you talked to her.”

“I didn’t feel I should raise an alarm with her if it wasn’t necessary. I identified myself and said I was just calling as a follow-up to see if they remained happy with their timepieces and if there was anything I could do. We offer a free service and cleaning to our clients. They pay only for shipping and insurance.”

“That was a smart way to handle it. What did she say?”

“She told me that both of the watches purchased through me had been stolen.”

“Stolen.”

“Yes, there was a burglary. She was in Paris and never traveled with her watch for fear of robbery. It was at home, and her husband had stayed home because he had to work. There was a break-in one day at the house while he was out and all of their jewelry was taken.”

“Did she say when this was?”

“Just a few months before. I didn’t get an exact date.”

“Do they live here in Las Vegas?”

Gerard hesitated but then decided he could reveal his client’s place of residence without violating company policy.

“They live in Beverly Hills,” he said.

“Okay,” Bosch said. “Did you tell the wife that you had her stolen watch in your shop?”

Gerard hesitated again and Bosch thought he saw where the man’s discomfort might be centered.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I wanted to talk to the husband, you see. Technically he was the client. I asked her to have him call me. And I told her that I may have located one of the watches.”

“That’s how you said it?” Bosch said.

“Yes. I did not say I had it in hand.”

“And did the husband call you?”

“Yes, that same afternoon. He told me a completely different story. He said the watches were not stolen. That was what he had told his wife because he had actually sold the watches and the jewelry without her knowing. He was nervous and embarrassed, but he admitted that he’d had a cash-flow problem and had sold the watches to cover some gambling losses that he didn’t want his wife to know about.”

“So he made up the story about the burglary.”

“Exactly.”

“Was he known to you as a gambler?”

“I didn’t know him outside of this store, but he lives in Beverly Hills and we are in Las Vegas. He paid cash for his purchases. I always assumed that he came here to do more than buy watches.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a doctor but I don’t know what kind.”

Bosch thought about this. If the story was true, his pursuit of this loose end to the Parks case was tied up now and seemingly unrelated to her murder. It was just an odd side story that he had wasted time on. He wondered if he looked disappointed.

“Did he say where he sold the watches or to whom?”

“No, I didn’t ask. The conversation was short. He just wanted to make sure that I knew the information his wife had given me wasn’t accurate. He asked if I had called the police and I said no, that I had wanted to talk to him first.”

Bosch nodded and studied Gerard. The man still looked uncomfortable, as though telling the story had not exorcised whatever it was that was bothering him.

“Is there more, Mr. Gerard?” he asked.

“More?”

“More to the story. Did you leave something out?”

“Well, no, that’s all he said.”

“Had you called the police?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t lie about that.”

“What about Mrs. Harrick? Did you ever talk to her about any of this?”

Gerard averted his eyes, looking down at his hands on the desk, and Bosch knew he was zeroing in on something.

“You talked to her,” he said.

Gerard said nothing.

“Did you tell her you thought her watch had been purchased stolen?” Bosch asked.

Gerard nodded without looking up.

“She happened to call between the time I talked to the original purchaser’s wife and when he — the doctor — called me back. Mrs. Harrick called because she wanted to know if the watch had been repaired yet. I told her that it had been received and that I had ordered the replacement crystal. I then asked her where it was purchased. She told me the name of a jewelry store in Los Angeles and said it had been part of an estate sale.”

“Nelson Grant and Sons?”

“I don’t recall the name.”

“So, what did you tell her?”

“I was honest. I told her the repair would be easy once the crystal arrived but that I was not sure I could work on the piece because there was a question about its ownership.”

“What was her reaction?”

“Well, she was a bit shocked. She said it was a legitimate purchase, that her husband had bought the watch and that he was a policeman. She said she would never buy stolen property, that she could lose her job and her reputation, and she got very upset with me for implying such a thing. I tried to calm her down. I apologized and told her that I was waiting for additional information and to please call me back in a day or two when I would know more.”

Gerard finally looked up at Bosch, his eyes filled with regret over the phone call.

“And then the doctor called you,” Bosch said.

“Yes, the doctor called and told me his story and said he had sold the watch in question.”

Gerard shook his head at the memory of the mess he had created.

“Did you call Mrs. Harrick back and tell her?” Bosch asked.

“Yes, I called her and, of course, she was very angry, but there was nothing I could do. Some people can’t be mollified. Being in retail, I know this.”

Bosch nodded. This seemed like a dead end to him. He pointed at the watch on the desk and asked his last question.

“Why do you still have the watch?”

Gerard picked it up and looked at it. When he did so, Bosch saw a scribble on a yellow Post-it note attached to the file. He could clearly read a name, though it was upside down. Dr. Schubert. There was also a phone number with a 310 area code, which Bosch knew encompassed Beverly Hills.

“She did not provide a method of payment for the repair,” Gerard said. “After the crystal came in and I installed it, I tried to contact her on the number she provided with the shipment but the number was disconnected. So I kept the watch here and waited for her to call. Then, quite frankly, I forgot about it. I had other work and I forgot. Now you tell me that she is dead, murdered.”

Bosch nodded. Parks had provided her cell with the packaging of the watch for shipment. By the time Gerard had called it, Harrick had already canceled the number following his wife’s death.

“This is very bad,” Gerard said.

“Yes, very bad,” Bosch said.

Gerard nodded and then spoke timidly as he placed the watch down on the desk.

“Is this watch the reason for her murder?”

He asked as though dreading the answer.

“I don’t think so,” Bosch said.

Gerard picked up the watch again and started to return it to its padded pouch. Bosch noticed something on the back of the watch.

“May I see the watch for a minute?”

Gerard handed it to him. Harry turned it over and looked at an inscription.

Bosch wrapped the watch back up and put it down on the desk.

“I have one last question,” he said. “Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Yes, please,” Gerard said.

“Why do you think she sent it to you like that — in the padded pouch? How come she didn’t send it in its box?”

Gerard shrugged. “Was there a box?” he asked.

Bosch nodded.

“Yes, in her closet. With the receipt from where her husband bought it. It was right there but she didn’t send it to you in the box.”

Gerard shrugged again.

“The box is bulky,” he offered. “Perhaps it was easier to wrap it and send it in a FedEx box instead. I remember that was how we received it. But it’s not unusual for our customers to ship items this way.”

There could have been multiple reasons, Bosch knew. The question had no answer since the only person who really knew it was dead.

“What about the price?” he asked. “The husband got it for six thousand dollars used. Was that a good deal?”

Gerard frowned.

“Our pieces are collected around the world,” he said. “They hold value and some models even go up. Yes, that was a good deal. A very good deal. A deal to quickly initiate a sale.”

Bosch nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Gerard.”