The Wrong Side of Goodbye

41

The next morning Bosch was sitting in his car on Arroyo Drive by nine thirty. He had already called and talked at length to Mickey Haller. He had already been to the evidence lockup at the San Fernando Police Department. And he had already been to Starbucks, where he happened to notice that Beatriz Sahagun was back at work behind the brewer as a barista.

He now sat and watched Ida Townes Forsythe’s home and waited. He saw no activity at the house and no indication as to whether she was home. The garage was closed and the place was still, and Bosch wondered if she would be there when they knocked. He kept his eyes on the mirrors and saw no indications of police surveillance in the neighborhood either.

At nine forty-five Bosch saw Mickey Haller’s Town Car enter his rearview mirror. He was behind the wheel. He had told Bosch earlier that he had parted ways with Boyd and no longer had a driver.

This time Haller got out of his car and came up to sit in Bosch’s. He carried his own cup of coffee with him.

“That was quick,” Bosch said. “You just breezed into the courthouse and they let you look at the probate file?”

“Actually, I breezed in on the Internet,” Haller said. “All case filings are updated online within twenty-four hours. The wonderof technology. Not sure my office needs to be in a car anymore. They’ve closed half the courthouses in L.A. County because of budget cutbacks, and most of the time the Internet gets me where I need to go.”

“So, the codicil?”

“Your Pasadena Police friends were on the mark. The will filed in ’92 was amended the following year. The amendment establishes standing for a blood heir should one come forth at the time of Vance’s death.”

“And no other will has surfaced?”

“Nothing.”

“So Vibiana is covered.”

“She’s covered, but with an asterisk.”

“Which is?”

“The amendment grants a blood heir standing as a recipient of a share of the estate. It doesn’t specify what or how much that share is. Obviously when he added this, he and his lawyer both thought that a blood heir was a long shot. They added the codicil just in case.”

“Sometimes long shots pay off.”

“If this is the will the court accepts, then we would declare Vibiana’s standing and that’s when the fight begins. And it will be a hell of a fight, because it’s not clear what she’s entitled to. We’re going to go in like gangbusters, say she gets it all, and then go from there.”

“Yeah, well, I called Vibiana this morning to tell her what was happening. She said she’s still not sure she’s up for this.”

“She’ll change. It’s like winning the lottery, man. Found money, more than she’ll ever need.”

“And I guess that’s the point. More than she’ll ever need. You ever read those stories about people who win the lottery and how it ruins their lives? They can’t adjust, they meet people with theirhands out wherever they go. She’s an artist. Artists are supposed to stay hungry.”

“That’s bullshit. That’s a myth invented to keep the artist down because art is powerful. You give an artist both money and power and they’re dangerous. Anyway, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Vibiana is the client and ultimately she makes the call. Our job right now is to put her in the best position to make the call.”

Bosch nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “So you ready to proceed with the plan?”

“I’m ready,” Haller said. “Let’s do it.”

Bosch pulled his phone and called the Pasadena Police. He asked for Detective Poydras and nearly a minute went by before he was connected.

“It’s Bosch.”

“I was just thinking about you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Just thinking about how I know you’re hiding something from me. You got more than you gave yesterday and that won’t happen again.”

“I don’t expect it to. How’s your morning looking?”

“For you my morning’s wide open. Why?”

“Meet me at Ida Forsythe’s house in a half hour. You’ll get the big give then.”

Bosch glanced over at Haller, who was spinning a finger like he was rolling something forward. He wanted more time.

“Make it an hour, actually,” he said into the phone.

“An hour,” Poydras said. “This isn’t some kind of a game, is it?”

“No, no game. Just be there, and make sure you bring your partner.”

Bosch ended the call. He looked at Haller and nodded. They could expect Poydras in an hour.

Haller grimaced.

“I really hate helping the cops,” he said. “Goes against my religion.”

He looked over and saw Bosch staring at him.

“Present company excluded,” he added.

“Look, if all goes well, you get a new client and a high-profile case,” Bosch said. “So let’s go.”

They got out of the Ford in unison, Bosch carrying a file containing the affidavit he had printed the day before, and crossed the street toward the Forsythe house. Bosch thought he saw a curtain move behind one of the front windows as they approached.

Ida Forsythe opened the front door before they had to knock.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon today.”

“Is this a bad time, Ms. Forsythe?” Bosch asked.

“No, not at all,” she said. “Please come in.”

This time she led the way to the front room. Bosch introduced Haller as the attorney representing a direct descendant and heir to Whitney Vance.

“Did you bring the affidavit?” Forsythe asked.

Bosch proffered the file.

“Yes, ma’am,” Haller said. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to sit down and read it? Make sure you agree with the contents before you sign.”

She took the file to the couch and sat down to read. Bosch and Haller took seats across a coffee table from her and watched. Bosch heard a buzz and Haller reached into his pocket for his phone. He read a text and then handed the phone to Bosch. The text was from someone named Lorna.

Cal. Coding called. Needs new samples. Fire last night destroyed lab.

Bosch was stunned. He had no doubt that Haller had been followed to the lab and that the fire was an arson designed to thwart the effort to name a DNA-matched heir to the Vance fortune. He handed the phone back to Haller, who had a killer smile on his face, indicating he thought the same as Bosch.

“It looks correct to me,” Forsythe said, drawing their attention back to her. “But I thought you said we would have to have a notary. I actually am a notary but I can’t witness my own signature.”

“It’s fine,” Haller said. “I’m an officer of the court and Detective Bosch is a second witness.”

“And I have a pen,” Bosch said.

He reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out the gold pen that had belonged to Whitney Vance. He watched Forsythe’s face as she recognized the pen he handed her.

They were silent as she signed the document with a flourish, not realizing she was showing her familiarity with using the antique fountain pen. She then capped it, put the document back in the file, and handed both back to Bosch.

“It felt strange signing with his pen,” she said.

“Really?” Bosch said. “I thought you’d be used to it.”

“No, not at all,” she said. “That was his special pen.”

Bosch opened the file and checked the document and the signature page. An awkward silence ensued with Haller just staring at Forsythe. She finally broke the sound barrier.

“When will you introduce the new will to the probate court?” she asked.

“You mean how soon will you get your ten million?” Haller asked back.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, feigning offense. “I’m just curious about the process and when I might need a lawyer to represent my interests.”

Haller looked at Bosch, deferring the answer.

“We won’t be filing the will,” Bosch said. “And you could probably use a lawyer right now. But not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Forsythe was momentarily stunned.

“What are you talking about?” she said. “What about the heir you found?”

Bosch responded in a calm tone that was counterpoint to the rising emotion in Forsythe’s voice.

“We’re not worried about the heir,” he said. “The heir is covered. We’re not filing the will because Whitney Vance didn’t write it. You did.”

“That’s preposterous,” she said.

“Let me lay it out for you,” he said. “Vance hadn’t written anything in years. He was right-handed-I saw the photos of him signing his book to Larry King-but his right hand had become useless. He didn’t shake hands anymore, and the controller on his wheelchair was on the left armrest.”

He paused there to allow Forsythe to register an objection but she said nothing.

“It was important to him to keep this a secret,” he said. “His infirmities were cause for concern among members of the board of directors. A minority group on the board was constantly looking for reasons to oust him. He used you to write for him. You learned to imitate his handwriting and came in on Sundays, when fewer people were around, to write his letters and sign documents. That’s why you felt comfortable writing the will. If there was a challenge or a handwriting comparison, it was likely that the will would be compared to something else you had written.”

“It’s a good story,” Forsythe said. “But you can’t prove any of it.”

“Maybe not. But the gold pen is your problem, Ida. The gold pen puts you in prison for a long, long time.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I think I want you both to leave now.”

“I know that the real pen-the one you just signed your name with-was in my mailbox at the moment you supposedly found Vance dead. But the photos from the death scene show another pen on that desk. I think you realized that might be a problem so you got rid of it. It wasn’t there when the police went back for round two with the camera.”

As previously planned, Haller came in at that point to play the big, bad wolf.

“It shows premeditation,” he said. “The duplicate pen had to be made and that took time. And planning. Planning means premeditation and that means life without parole. It means the rest of your life in a cell.”

“You’re wrong!” Forsythe yelled. “You’re wrong about everything and I want you to leave. Now!”

She stood up and pointed toward the hallway leading to the front door. But neither Bosch nor Haller moved.

“Tell us what happened, Ida,” Bosch said. “Maybe we can help you.”

“You need to understand something,” Haller said. “You are never going to see a dime of that ten million. It’s the law. A murderer can’t inherit from her victim’s estate.”

“I’m not a murderer,” Forsythe said. “And if you won’t leave, then I will.”

She maneuvered around the coffee table and out of the seating arrangement. She headed toward the hallway, intending to go out the front door.

“You smothered him with a pillow off the couch,” Bosch said.

Forsythe stopped in her tracks, but didn’t turn around. She simply waited for more and Bosch obliged.

“The police know,” he said. “They’re waiting out front for you.”

She still didn’t move. Haller chimed in.

“You go out that door and we can’t help you,” he said. “But there is a way out in this. Detective Bosch is my investigator. If I am representing you, everything we discuss in this room right now becomes confidential. We can work out a plan to go to the police and the district attorney and get the best possible solution.”

“Solution?” she exclaimed. “Is that your way of saying deal? I make a deal and go to jail? That is crazy.”

She abruptly turned and charged over to one of the front windows. She split the curtain to look out into the street. Bosch thought it was a little early for the arrival of Poydras and Franks but knew that the two detectives might have already shown up to see if they could figure out what Bosch was up to.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and guessed that the detectives were indeed parked out there, waiting for the appointed time for them to come knock on the door.

“Ida, why don’t you come back and sit down,” Bosch said. “Talk to us.”

He waited. He couldn’t see her because she had gone to a window behind his chair. Instead, he watched Haller, who had an angle on her. When he saw Haller’s eyes start tracking right he knew she was coming back and that their strategy was working.

Forsythe came into Bosch’s view and slowly returned to her place on the couch. Her face was distraught.

“You have it all wrong,” she said after sitting down. “There was no plan, no premeditation. It was just a horrible, horrible mistake.”