The Drop

8

Bosch told Chu to drive north toward Panorama City.

“We’re up here,” he said. “We might as well go get a look at Clayton Pell. If he’s where he’s supposed to be.”

“I thought the Irving case was the priority,” Chu said.

“It is.”

Bosch offered no further explanation. Chu nodded but had something else on his mind.

“What about something to eat?” he asked. “We worked right through lunch and I’m starving, Harry.”

Bosch realized he was hungry, too. He checked his watch and saw it was almost three.

“The halfway house is way up Woodman,” he said. “There used to be a pretty good taco truck that parked on Woodman at Nordhoff. I had a trial a few years ago at the San Fernando Courthouse and my partner and I used to hit that truck every day at lunch. It’s kind of late but if we’re lucky he’ll still be there.”

Chu was a semi-vegetarian but usually liked the idea of Mexican food.

“Think they’ll have a bean burrito on that truck?”

“Most likely. If not, they’ve got shrimp tacos. I’ve had them.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He goosed the car’s accelerator.

“Was that Ignacio?” Chu eventually asked. “The partner, I mean.”

“Yeah, Ignacio,” Bosch said.

Bosch contemplated the fate of his last partner, who was murdered in the back room of a food market two years earlier while working the case that introduced Harry to Chu. The two current partners maintained silence the rest of the way.

The halfway house that Clayton Pell was assigned to was in Panorama City, which was the expansive neighborhood at the geographic center of the San Fernando Valley. Spawned by post — World War II prosperity and enthusiasm, it was the first planned community of Los Angeles, replacing miles of orange groves and dairy lands with the seemingly unending sprawl of inexpensive and prefabricated tract housing and low-rise apartments that soon defined the look of the Valley. Anchored by the nearby industries of the General Motors plant and the Schlitz brewery, the development represented the epoch of Los Angeles autotopia. Every man with a job and a commute. Every home with a garage. Every view a panorama of the surrounding mountains. Only American-born white people need apply.

At least that was the way they were spinning it in 1947 when the grid work was set and the lots went up for sale. However, over the decades since the glorious ribbon cutting on the community of tomorrow, both GM and Schlitz pulled out and the views of the mountains grew hazy with smog. The streets got crowded with people and traffic, the crime rate went up at a steady pace and people started living in a lot of those garages. Iron bars went over bedroom windows and the courtyard apartment buildings put security gates across the once wide and welcoming entrances. Graffiti marked gang turf and, finally, whereas once the name Panorama City represented a future as wide and unlimited as its 360-degree views, it was now more of a cruel irony. A place with a name that reflected very little of what was actually there. Residents in parts of the once proud suburban nirvana routinely organized to try to break away to the adjoining neighborhoods of Mission Hills, North Hills and even Van Nuys so as not to be associated with Panorama City.

Bosch and Chu were in luck. The Tacos La Familia truck was still parked at the curb on Woodman and Nordhoff. Chu found a space at the curb just two cars behind it and they got out. The taquero was cleaning up inside and putting stuff away but he still waited on them. There were no burritos, so Chu took shrimp tacos while Bosch went with carne asada. The man handed a squeeze bottle filled with salsa through the window. They each took a bottle of Jarritos Pineapple to wash it down, and lunch for both of them was eight bucks total. Bosch gave the man a ten and told him to keep the change.

There were no other customers about, so Bosch took the bottle of salsa with him back to the car. He knew that when it came to truck tacos it was all about the salsa. They ate on either side of the front hood, leaning over it so as not to drip salsa or juice on their clothes.

“Not bad, Harry,” Chu said, nodding as he ate.

Bosch nodded back. His mouth was full. Finally he swallowed and squeezed more salsa onto his second taco and then handed the bottle across the hood to his partner.

“Good salsa,” Harry said. “You ever been to the El Matador truck in East Hollywood?”

“No, where’s it at?”

“Western and Lex. This is good but El Matador, I think they’re the best. He’s only there at night, though, and everything tastes better at night, anyway.”

“Isn’t it weird how Western Avenue is in East Hollywood?”

“I never thought about it. The point is, next time you’re over there after work, try El Matador and tell me what you think.”

Bosch realized he had not been down to the El Matador truck since his daughter had come to live with him. At the time, he didn’t think eating in or on cars and getting food from trucks had been right for her. Now maybe things were different. He thought she might enjoy it.

“What are we going to do with Pell?” Chu asked.

Brought back to the reality of the present, Bosch told his partner that he did not want to reveal their true interest in Clayton Pell yet. There were too many unknowns in the case. He wanted to first establish that Pell was where he was supposed to be, get a look at him and maybe engage him in conversation if possible without raising the sex offender’s suspicions.

“Hard to do,” Chu said, his mouth full with his last bite.

“I have an idea.”

Bosch outlined the plan, then balled up all the foil and napkins and took them to the trash can by the back of the taco truck. He put the squeeze bottle of salsa on the window counter and waved to the taquero.

“Muy sabroso.”

“Gracias.”

Chu was behind the wheel when he got back to the car. They made a U-turn and started down Woodman. Bosch’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen. It was a number out of the PAB but he didn’t recognize it. He took the call. It was Marshall Collins, the commander of the media relations unit.

“Detective Bosch, I’m holding them at bay, but we’re going to need to put something out on Irving today.”

“There’s nothing yet to put out.”

“Can you give me anything? I’ve gotten twenty-six calls here. What can I tell them?”

Bosch thought for a moment, wondering if there was a way to use the media to help the investigation.

“Tell them that cause of death is under investigation. Mr. Irving dropped from the seventh-floor balcony of his room at the Chateau Marmont. It is unknown at this time whether it was accident, suicide or homicide. Anyone with information about Mr. Irving’s last hours at the hotel or before should contact the Robbery-Homicide Division. Et cetera, et cetera, you know how to put it.”

“So, no suspect at this time.”

“Don’t put that out. That implies I am looking for suspects. We aren’t even to that point yet. We don’t know what happened and we’re going to have to wait on autopsy results as well as the ongoing gathering of information.”

“Okay, got it. We’ll get it out there.”

Bosch closed the phone and relayed details of the conversation to Chu. In five minutes they came to the Buena Vista apartments. It was a two-story courtyard complex with major-league security gating and signage warning those without business to stay away. Not only were solicitors not welcome but children were on the no-go list as well. There was a public notice locked in a case mounted on the gate that gave warning that the facility was used to house sexual offenders on probation and parole and undergoing continuing treatment. The case’s thick plastic window was scratched and marred from many efforts to shatter it and paint it with graffiti.

To push the door buzzer Bosch had to reach his arm up to his elbow through a small opening in the gate. He then waited and a female voice eventually responded.

“What is it?”

“LAPD. We need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

“She’s not here.”

“Then I guess we need to speak to you. Open up.” There was a camera on the other side of the gate, located far enough back to make it difficult to be vandalized. Bosch reached his hand through the opening again with his badge and held it up. A few more moments went by and the door lock buzzed. He and Chu pushed through.

The gate led to a tunnel-like entrance which took them to the center courtyard. As Bosch reached daylight again he saw several men sitting on chairs in a circle. A counseling and rehab session. He had never put much stock in the idea of rehabilitating sexual predators. He didn’t think there was a cure beyond castration — surgical preferred over chemical. But he was smart enough to keep such thoughts to himself, depending on the company he was with.

Bosch scanned the men in the circle, hoping to recognize Clayton Pell, but to no avail. Several men had their backs to the entrance, and others were hunched over and hiding their faces below baseball hats or with hands over their mouths in poses of deep thought. Many of them were checking out Bosch and Chu. They would be easily made as cops by the men in the circle.

A few seconds later they were approached by a woman with a name tag on the breast of her hospital scrubs. It said Dr. Hannah Stone. She was attractive with reddish-blond hair tied back in a no-nonsense manner. She was midforties and Bosch noticed that her watch was on her right wrist and it partially covered a tattoo.

“I’m Dr. Stone. Can I see your identification, gentlemen?”

Bosch and Chu opened their wallets. Their police IDs were checked and then quickly handed back to them.

“Come with me, please. It will be better if the men don’t see you out here.”

“Might be too late for that,” Bosch said.

She didn’t answer. They were led into an apartment on the front of the building that had been converted into offices and private therapy rooms. Dr. Stone told them that she was the rehabilitation program director. Her boss, the facility manager and director, was downtown at a budget meeting all day. She was very curt and to the point.

“What can I do for you, Detectives?”

There was a defensive tone in every word she had spoken so far, even the words about the budget meeting. She knew that cops didn’t appreciate what was done here and she was ready to defend it. She didn’t appear to be a woman who would back down on anything.

“We’re investigating a crime,” Bosch said. “A rape and murder. We have a description of a suspect we think might be in here. White male, twenty-eight to thirty-two years old. He’s got dark hair and his first or last name might begin with the letter C. That letter was tattooed on the suspect’s neck.”

So far, Bosch had not told a lie. The rape and murder actually happened. He just left out the part about its being twenty-two years ago. His description matched Clayton Pell to a T because Bosch had gotten the ex-convict’s descriptors off the state parole board’s computer records. And the DNA hit made Pell a suspect, no matter how unlikely it was that he was involved in the Venice Beach slaying.

“So, anybody here that meets that description?” he asked.

Stone hesitated before speaking. Bosch was hoping she wasn’t going to come to the defense of the men in her program. It didn’t matter how successful programs claimed to be, any recidivism among sexual offenders was too high.

“There is someone here,” she finally said. “But he’s made tremendous progress in the last five months. I find it hard to—”

“What’s his name?” Bosch asked, cutting her off.

“Clayton Pell. He’s out there in the circle right now.”

“How often is he allowed to leave this facility?”

“Four hours a day. He has a job.”

“A job?” Chu asked. “You just let these people loose?”

“Detective, this is not a lockdown facility. Every man here is here voluntarily. They are paroled from prison and have to register with the county and then find a place to live where they are not in violation of rules for sex offenders. We contract with the county to run a living facility that fits within those requirements. But no one has to live here. They do so because they want to assimilate back into society. They want to be productive. They don’t want to hurt anyone. If they come here, we provide counseling and job placement. We feed them and give them a bed. But the only way they can stay is if they follow our rules. We work closely with the Department of Probation and Parole and our recidivism rate is lower than the national average.”

“Which means it’s not perfect,” Bosch said. “For many of them, once a predator always a predator.”

“For some that is true. But what choice do we have but to try? When people have completed their sentences, they must be released into society. This program may be one of the best last chances of preventing future crimes.”

Bosch realized that Stone was insulted by their questions. They had made their first false move. He didn’t want this woman working against them. He wanted her cooperation.

“Sorry,” he said. “I am sure the program is worthwhile. I was just thinking about the details of the crime we’re investigating.”

Bosch stepped over to the front window and looked out into the courtyard.

“Which one is Clayton Pell?”

Stone came up next to him and pointed.

“The man with the shaved head, on the right. That’s him.”

“When did he shave his head?”

“A few weeks ago. When was the attack you’re investigating?”

Bosch turned and looked at her.

“Before that.”

She looked at him and nodded. She got the message. He was here to ask questions, not be asked.

“You said he has a job. Doing what?”

“He works for the Grande Mercado up near Roscoe. He works in the parking lot, collecting the shopping carts and emptying trash cans, that sort of thing. They pay him twenty-five dollars a day. It keeps him in cigarettes and potato chips. He’s addicted to both.”

“What are the hours he works?”

“They vary by the day. His schedule is posted at the market. Today he went to work early and just got back.”

It was good to know about the schedule being available at the market. It would help if they later wanted to pick up Pell away from the Buena Vista facility.

“Dr. Stone, is Pell one of your patients?”

She nodded.

“I have sessions with him four times a week. He works with other therapists here, too.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“I can’t tell you anything about our sessions. The doctor-patient confidentiality bond exists even in this sort of situation.”

“Yeah, I get that but the evidence in our case indicates he abducted, raped and then strangled a nineteen-year-old girl. I need to know what makes the man sitting out there in that circle tick. I need—”

“Wait a minute. Just wait.”

She put up her hand in a stop gesture.

“You said a nineteen-year-old girl?”

“That’s right and his DNA was found on her.”

Again, not a lie, but not the whole truth.

“That’s impossible.”

“Don’t tell me it’s impossible. The science isn’t wrong. His—”

“Well, it is this time. Clayton Pell didn’t rape a nineteen-year-old girl. First of all, he is a homosexual. And he’s a pedophile. Almost all of the men here are. They are predators convicted of crimes against children. Second, two years ago he was assaulted in prison by a group of men and he was castrated. So there is no way that Clayton Pell is your suspect.”

Bosch heard a sharp intake of breath from his partner. He, like Chu, was shocked by the doctor’s revelation as well as how it echoed the thoughts he’d had as he entered the facility.

“Clayton’s sickness is that he is obsessed with prepubescent boys,” Stone continued. “I would have thought you’d do a little homework before you came here.”

Bosch stared at her for a long moment as the burn of embarrassment colored his face. Not only had the ruse he had planned been disastrously wrong but there was now even further evidence that something was seriously amiss in the Lily Price case.

Struggling to move away from his gaffe, he blurted out a question.

“Prepubescent. . you’re talking about eight-year-olds? Ten-year-olds? Why that age?”

“I can’t go into it,” Stone said. “You’re crossing into confidential territory.”

Bosch walked back to the window and looked out at Clayton Pell in the circle session. He was sitting up straight in his chair and looked to be closely following the conversation. He wasn’t one of those who hid his face, and there was no outward show of the trauma he had suffered.

“Does everybody in the circle know?”

“Only I know, and I made a serious breach telling you. The group sessions are of great therapeutic value to most of our residents. That’s why they come here. That’s why they stay.”

Bosch could have argued that they stayed because of the shelter and food. But he raised his hands in surrender and apology.

“Doctor, do us a favor,” he said. “Don’t tell Pell that we were here asking about him.”

“I wouldn’t. It would only upset him. If I’m asked, I will simply say you two were here to investigate the latest vandalism.”

“Sounds good. What was the latest vandalism?”

“My car. Someone spray-painted ‘I love baby rapers’ on the side. They’d like to get us out of the neighborhood, if they could. You see the man opposite Clayton in the circle? The one with the patch over his eye?”

Bosch looked and nodded.

“He was caught walking from the bus stop back to the center after coming from his job. Caught by the local gang — the T-Dub Boyz. They put his eye out with a broken bottle.”

Bosch turned back to her. He knew she was referring to a Latino gang from up around the Tujunga Wash. Latin gangbangers were notorious for their intolerance and violence toward sexual deviants.

“Anyone get arrested for it?”

She laughed derisively.

“To make an arrest, there would have to be an investigation. But you see, none of the vandalism or violence around here ever gets investigated by your department or anyone else.”

Bosch nodded without looking at her. He knew the score.

“Now, if there are no other questions, I need to get back to work.”

“No, no more questions,” Bosch said. “Go back to your good work, Doctor, and we’ll go back to ours.”