The Wrong Side of Goodbye(105)

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.”





42

Can you be one of the richest, most powerful men on the planet and still be a cheap and petty bastard?”

Ida Forsythe said it with a distant look in her eyes. Bosch couldn’t tell if she was looking at the past or a bleak future. But it was how she began her story. She said that on the day after Bosch visited Whitney Vance the aging billionaire had told her he was dying.

“He had taken ill overnight,” she said. “He looked awful and he hadn’t even gotten dressed. He came into the office around noon in his bathrobe and said he needed me to write something. His voice was barely a whisper. He told me that he felt like things were shutting down inside, that he was dying and that he needed to write a new will.”