The Wrong Side of Goodbye

9

In the morning Bosch made coffee and had it out on the rear deck, where he sat at the picnic table with the copies of the birth certificates he had printed the day before. He studied the names and dates on the documents but quickly came to the conclusion that he had nothing with which to narrow the focus. None of the certificates were dated in a timely way. Each was issued at least three days after the birth and this precluded him from looking at delayed issuance as an indicator of adoption. He decided his best bet was to somehow go through St. Helen’s.

He knew this would be a difficult path. Privacy laws governing adoptions were difficult to break through, even with a badge and authority. He considered calling his client Vance and asking if he wanted to get a lawyer involved in a request to open up the adoption records regarding the child born to Vibiana Duarte but he decided it was a nonstarter. That move would most likely announce Vance’s plans to the world and he had been vehement about secrecy.

Bosch remembered the Times story on St. Helen’s and went inside to get his laptop so he could finish reading it. He brought the stack of birth certificates inside so they wouldn’t blow away and paper the canyon below his house.

The Times story recounted the transformation of St. Helen’sfrom a place where mother and child were quickly separated when adoption occurred, to a place in more recent decades where many mothers kept their children after birth and were counseled on returning to society with them. The social stigma of unwed pregnancy in the 1950s gave way to the acceptance of the 1990s, and St. Helen’s had a number of successful programs designed to keep fledgling families together.

The story then branched out to a section containing quotes from women who had been clients of St. Helen’s saying how their lives were saved by the maternity center that took them in when they were banished in embarrassment by their own families. There were no negative voices here. No interviews with women who felt betrayed by a society that literally snatched their children away from them and gave them to strangers.

The final anecdote of the story drew Bosch’s rapt attention as he realized it gave his investigation a new angle. It began with a number of quotes from a seventy-two-year-old woman who had come to St. Helen’s in 1950 to bear a child and then stayed for the next fifty years.

Abigail Turnbull was only fourteen when she was left with a suitcase on the front steps of St. Helen’s. She was three months pregnant and this deeply humiliated her fervently religious parents. They abandoned her. Her boyfriend abandoned her. And she had nowhere else to go.

She had her child at St. Helen’s and gave her up for adoption, spending less than an hour with the infant girl in her arms. But she had nowhere to go afterward. No one in her family wanted her back. She was allowed to stay on at St. Helen’s and was given menial jobs like mopping floors and doing laundry. Over the years, however, she attended night school and eventually earned both high school and college degrees. She became a social worker at St.Helen’s, counseling those who had been in her position and staying until her retirement, a half century in all.

Turnbull gave the keynote speech at the one-hundred-year celebration and in it she recounted a story that she said showed how her dedication to St. Helen’s paid off in immeasurable ways.

“One day I was in the staff lounge and one of our girls came in with a message that there was a woman at the entrance lobby who had come because she was tracing her own adoption. She wanted answers about where she had come from. Her parents had told her she was born here at St. Helen’s. So I met with her and right away a strange feeling came over me. It was her voice, her eyes-I felt as though I knew her. I asked her what her birthday was and she said April 9, 1950, and then I knew, I knew she was my child. I put my arms around her and everything went away. All my pain, every regret I ever had. And I knew it was a miracle and that was why God had kept me at St. Helen’s.”

The Times report ended with Turnbull introducing her daughter, who was in attendance, and described how Turnbull’s speech had left not a dry eye in the house.

“Jackpot,” Bosch whispered as he finished reading.

Bosch knew he had to speak to Turnbull. As he wrote her name down he hoped that she was still alive eight years after the Times story was published. That would make her eighty years old.

He thought about the best way to get to her quickly and started by putting her name into the search engine on his laptop. He got several hits on pay-to-enter search sites but he knew most of these were bait-and-switch jobs. There was an Abigail Turnbull on LinkedIn, the business-oriented social-networking site, but Bosch doubted it was the octogenarian he was looking for. Finally he decided to put the digital world aside and try what his daughter called social engineering. He pulled up the website for St. Helen’s, got thephone number, and punched it into his phone. A woman answered after three rings.

“St. Helen’s, how can we help you?”

“Uh, yes, hello,” Bosch started, hoping to sound like a nervous caller. “Can I please speak to Abigail Turnbull? I mean, if she’s still there.”

“Oh, honey, she hasn’t been here in years.”

“Oh, no! I mean, is she-do you know if she is still alive? I know she must be very old now.”

“I believe she is still with us. She retired a long time ago, but she didn’t die. I think Abby will outlive us all.”

Bosch felt a glimmer of hope that he would be able to find her. He pressed on.

“I saw her at the anniversary party. My mother and I spoke to her then.”

“That was eight years ago. Who, may I ask, is calling, and what is this regarding?”

“Uh, my name is Dale. I was born at St. Helen’s. My mother always spoke of Abigail Turnbull as being such a friend and taking such good care of her during her time there. Like I said, I got to finally meet her when we went back for the anniversary.”

“How can I help you, Dale?”

“Well, it’s sad, actually. My mother just passed and she had a message she wanted me to give to Abigail. I also wanted to tell her when the services were in case she wanted to attend. I have a card. Do you know what would be the best way for me to get it to her?”

“You could send it here addressed to her in care of St. Helen’s. We’ll make sure she gets it.”

“Yes, I know I could do that but I’m afraid it might take too long. You know, going through a third party. She might not get it until after the services this Sunday.”

There was a pause, and then:

“Hold on and let me see what we can do.”

The connection went silent and Bosch waited. He thought he had played it just about right. Two minutes later the voice came back on the line.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Okay, we don’t normally do this but I have an address here that you can use to mail a card to Abigail. I can’t give out her phone number without her permission and I just tried and couldn’t reach her.”

“The address will be fine, then. If I put it in the mail today, she should get it in time.”

The woman proceeded to give Bosch an address on Vineland Boulevard in Studio City. He wrote it down, thanked her, and quickly got off the phone.

Bosch looked at the address. It would be a quick drive from his house down into the Valley and Studio City. The address included a unit number, which made him think it could be a retirement home, considering Turnbull’s age. There might be real security involved beyond the usual gates and buttons found at every apartment complex in the city.

Bosch grabbed a rubber band out of a kitchen drawer and stretched it around the stack of birth certificates. He wanted to take them with him, just in case. He grabbed his keys and was heading toward the side door when there was a hard knock at the front of the house. Changing course, he went to the front door.

The unnamed security man who had escorted Bosch through the Vance house the day before was standing on the front step.

“Mr. Bosch, I’m glad I caught you,” he said.

His eyes fell on the banded stack of birth certificates and Boschreflexively dropped the hand that held them down and behind his left thigh. Annoyed that he had made such an obvious move to hide them, he spoke abruptly.

“What can I do for you?” he said. “I’m on my way out.”

“Mr. Vance sent me,” the man said. “He wanted to know if you have made any progress.”

Bosch looked at him for a long moment.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked. “You never said it yesterday.”

“Sloan. I’m in charge of security at the Pasadena estate.”

“How did you find out where I live?”

“I looked it up.”

“Looked it up where? I’m not listed anywhere and the deed to this house isn’t in my name.”

“We have ways of finding people, Mr. Bosch.”

Bosch looked at him for a long moment before responding.

“Well, Sloan, Mr. Vance told me to talk only to him about what I was doing. So if you’ll excuse me.”

Bosch started to close the door and Sloan immediately put his hand out and stopped it.

“You really don’t want to do that,” Bosch said.

Sloan backed off and held his hands up.

“I apologize,” he said. “But I must tell you, Mr. Vance took ill yesterday after speaking with you. He sent me this morning to ask you if you’ve made any headway.”

“Headway with what?” Bosch asked.

“With the job you were hired to do.”

Bosch held up a finger.

“Can you wait here one minute?” he asked.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He closed the door and put the stack of birth certificates under his arm. He went to the diningroom table, where he had left the business card with the direct number to Vance printed on it. He punched in the number on his phone and then went back to the front door, opening it while listening to his call ringing.

“Who are you calling?” Sloan asked.

“Your boss,” Bosch said. “Just want to make sure he’s okay with our discussing the case.”

“He won’t answer.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll just-”

The call clicked over to a long beep without an outgoing message from Vance.

“Mr. Vance, this is Harry Bosch. Please call me back.”

Bosch recited his number, disconnected, and then spoke to Sloan.

“You know what I don’t get? I don’t get Vance sending you here to ask that question without first telling you what the job is he hired me to do.”

“I told you, he has taken ill.”

“Yeah, well, then I’ll wait until he’s better. Tell him to call me then.”

Bosch read the look of hesitation on Sloan’s face. There was something else. He waited and Sloan finally delivered.

“Mr. Vance also has reason to believe the phone number he gave you has been compromised. He wants you to report through me. I’ve been in charge of his personal security for twenty-five years.”

“Yeah, well, he’ll have to tell me that himself. When he gets better, you let me know and I’ll come back out there to the palace.”

Bosch swung the door closed and it caught Sloan by surprise. It banged loudly in its frame. Sloan knocked on it again but by then Bosch was quietly opening the side door to the carport. He exited the house, then stealthily opened the door of his Cherokee and got in. The moment the engine turned over he dropped the vehicle intoreverse and backed out quickly into the road. He saw a copper-colored sedan parked pointing downhill across the street. Sloan was walking toward it. Bosch turned the wheel and backed out to his right, then gunned the Cherokee uphill, speeding by Sloan at the door to his car. He knew Sloan would have to use the carport to turn around in the narrow street, a maneuver that would give Bosch enough time to lose him.

After twenty-five years of living there, taking the curves of Woodrow Wilson Drive came as second nature to Bosch. He quickly arrived at the stop sign at Mulholland Drive and banged a hard right without pausing. He then followed the asphalt snake along the mountain ridgeline until he reached Wrightwood Drive. He checked his mirrors and saw no sign of Sloan or any other follow car. He took the sharp right onto Wrightwood and quickly descended the northern slope into Studio City, hitting the Valley floor at Ventura Boulevard.

A few minutes later he was on Vineland, parked against the curb in front of an apartment complex called the Sierra Winds. It was built next to the 101 freeway overpass and looked old and worn. There was a twenty-foot concrete sound-barrier wall running along the curve of the freeway but Bosch imagined that the sound of traffic still swept across the sprawling two-story complex like a sierra wind.

The important thing was that Abigail Turnbull was not living in a retirement center after all. Bosch would have no trouble getting to her door and that was a good break.