The Wrong Side of Goodbye(23)

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 the phone 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 Bosch reflexively 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.