The Wrong Side of Goodbye(107)

“Ida,” he said. “I’m a deal maker. I can make a deal with what you just told us. We go in, cooperate, work out a manslaughter plea, and then we shop for a judge sympathetic to your story and your age.”

“I can’t say I killed him,” she said.

“You just did,” Haller said. “But technically you’ll just plead nolo in court—you say ‘no contest’ to the charges. Going any other way is not going to sell.”

“But what about temporary insanity?” she asked. “I just lost it when I realized he would know what I had done. I completely blanked out.”

There was a calculating tone to her voice now. But Haller shook his head.

“It’s a loser,” he said bluntly. “Rewriting the will and taking the pen—these are not the steps of an insane person. To make the jump that all of a sudden you lost the capacity to know right from wrong because you feared Vance would find out what you did? In a courtroom I can sell ice to Eskimos but no jury’s going to buy that.”

He paused for a moment to see if he was getting through to her, then pressed it further.

“Look, a reality check here,” he said. “At your age we have to minimize your time inside. What I’ve outlined is the way to go. But it’s your choice. You want to go to trial on an insanity defense, that’s what we’ll do. But it’s the wrong move.”

Haller’s statement was underlined by the sound of two car doors slamming out in the street. Poydras and Franks.

“That’s the police,” Bosch said. “They’re coming to the door.”

“How do you want to play it, Ida?” Haller asked.

Forsythe slowly rose to her feet. Haller did as well.

“Please invite them in,” she said.

Twenty minutes later Bosch stood with Haller on the sidewalk on Arroyo and watched as Poydras and Franks drove away with Forsythe in the backseat of their plain wrap.

“Speaking of looking a gift horse in the mouth,” Haller said. “They actually seemed pissed off that we cleared their fucking case for them. Ungrateful bastards.”

“They’ve been behind the curve on this one since the get-go,” Bosch said. “And they aren’t going to look so good at the press conference when they have to explain that the suspect turned herself in before they even knew she was the suspect.”

“Oh, they’ll find their way around that,” Haller said. “I have no doubt.”

Bosch nodded in agreement.

“So, guess what?” Haller said.

“What?” Bosch said.

“While we were in there I got another text from Lorna.”

Bosch knew that Lorna was Haller’s case manager.

“Was it more info on California Coding?”

“No, she got the call from CellRight. There is a genetic match between Whitney Vance and Vibiana Veracruz. She’s the heir and in line for a big chunk of money—if she wants it.”

Bosch nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll talk to her and give her the news. See what she wants to do.”

“I know what I would do,” Haller said.

Bosch smiled.

“I know what you would do too,” he said.

“Tell her we could file it as a Jane Doe,” Haller said. “Eventually we would have to reveal her to the court and opposing parties, but starting out we could keep her name out of it.”

“I’ll tell her,” Bosch said.

“Another option is to go to corporate counsel and lay out what we’ve got—the DNA, your tracing of the paternal lineage—and convince them that if we get into a fight we’ll take it all. Then we negotiate a nice settlement from the estate and we go away, leaving money and the corporation on the table.”

“That’s an idea, too. A real good idea, I think. You can sell ice to Eskimos, right? You could get this done.”

“I could. The board of directors will take that deal in a heartbeat. So you talk to her and I’ll do some more thinking on it.”

They checked both ways before crossing the street to their cars.

“So are you going to work on Ida’s defense with me?” Haller asked.

“Thanks for saying ‘with me’ and not ‘for me,’ but I don’t think so,” Bosch said. “I think I just quit being your investigator on this one. I’m taking a full-time gig with San Fernando PD.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay, my brother from another mother. Keep in touch about that other thing.”

“Will do.”

They parted ways in the middle of the street.





43

Bosch hated the Ford he was driving. He decided it was time to go back to LAX and retrieve his own car after several days of vehicular subterfuge. From South Pasadena he took the 110 down through the center of the city, past the towers of downtown, and past USC and the neighborhood where Vibiana Duarte had lived most of her short life. He eventually connected to the Century Freeway and went west to the airport. He was handing his credit card to the garage attendant to cover an enormous parking fee when his phone buzzed with a 213 number he didn’t recognize. He took the call.

“Bosch.”