The Wrong Side of Goodbye(5)

Bosch was startled by a sharp rap on the window beside him. He looked up to see a uniformed Pasadena patrol officer, and in the rearview he saw the black-and-white parked behind him. He had become so engrossed in his reading that he had not even heard the cop car come up on him.

He had to turn on the Cherokee’s engine to lower the window. Bosch knew what this was about. A twenty-two-year-old vehicle in need of paint parked outside the estate of a family that helped build the state of California constituted a suspicious activity. It didn’t matter that the car was freshly cleaned or that he was wearing a crisp suit and tie rescued from a plastic storage bag. It had taken less than fifteen minutes for the police to respond to his intrusion into the neighborhood.

“I know how this looks, Officer,” he began. “But I have an appointment across the street in about five minutes and I was just—”

“That’s wonderful,” the cop said. “Do you mind stepping out of the car?”

Bosch looked at him for a moment. He saw the nameplate above his breast pocket said Cooper.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked.

“No, sir, I’m not,” Cooper said. “Please step out of the car.”

Bosch took a deep breath, opened the door, and did as he was told. He raised his hands to shoulder height and said, “I’m a police officer.”

Cooper immediately tensed, as Bosch knew he would.

“I’m unarmed,” Bosch said quickly. “My weapon’s in the glove box.”

At that moment he was thankful for the edict typed on the check stub telling him to come to the Vance appointment unarmed.

“Let me see some ID,” Cooper demanded.

Bosch carefully reached into an inside pocket in his suit coat and pulled his badge case. Cooper studied the detective’s badge and then the ID.

“This says you’re a reserve officer,” he said.

“Yep,” Bosch said. “Part-timer.”

“About fifteen miles off your reservation, aren’t you? What are you doing here, Detective Bosch?”

He handed the badge case back and Bosch put it away.

“Well, I was trying to tell you,” he said. “I have an appointment— which you are going to make me late for—with Mr. Vance, who I’m guessing you know lives right over there.”

Bosch pointed toward the black gate.

“Is this appointment police business?” Cooper asked.

“It’s actually none of your business,” Bosch replied.

They held each other’s cold stares for a long moment, neither man blinking. Finally Bosch spoke.

“Mr. Vance is waiting for me,” he said. “Guy like that, he’ll probably ask why I’m late and he’ll probably do something about it. You got a first name, Cooper?”

Cooper blinked.

“Yeah, it’s fuck you,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

He turned and started back toward the patrol car.

“Thank you, Officer,” Bosch called after him.

Bosch got back into his car and immediately pulled away from the curb. If the old car still had had the juice to leave rubber, he would have done so. But the most he could show Cooper, who remained parked at the curb, was a plume of blue smoke from the ancient exhaust pipe.

He pulled into the entrance channel at the gate to the Vance estate and drove up to a camera and communication box. Almost immediately he was greeted by a voice.

“Yes?”

It was male, young, and tiredly arrogant. Bosch leaned out the window and spoke loudly even though he knew he probably didn’t have to.

“Harry Bosch to see Mr. Vance. I have an appointment.”

After a moment the gate in front of him started to roll open.

“Follow the driveway to the parking apron by the security post,” the voice said. “Mr. Sloan will meet you there at the metal detector. Leave all weapons and recording devices in the glove compartment of your vehicle.”

“Got it,” Bosch said.

“Drive up,” the voice said.

The gate was all the way open now and Bosch drove through. He followed the cobblestone driveway through a finely manicured set of emerald hills until he came to a second fence line and a guard shack. The double-fencing security measures here were similar to those employed at most prisons Bosch had visited—of course, with the opposite intention of keeping people out instead of in.

The second gate rolled open and a uniformed guard stepped out of a booth to signal Bosch through and to direct him to the parking apron. As he passed, Bosch waved a hand and noticed the Trident Security patch on the shoulder of the guard’s navy blue uniform.

After parking, Bosch was instructed to place his keys, phone, watch, and belt in a plastic tub and then to walk through an airport-style metal detector while two more Trident men watched. They returned everything but the phone, which they explained would be placed in the glove box of his car.

“Anybody else get the irony here?” he asked as he put his belt back through the loops of his pants. “You know, the family made their money on metal—now you have to go through a metal detector to get inside the house.”

Neither of the guards said anything.

“Okay, I guess it’s just me, then,” Bosch said.

Once he buckled his belt he was passed off to the next level of security, a man in a suit with the requisite earbud and wrist mic and the dead-eyed Secret Service stare to go with them. His head was shaved just so he could complete the tough-guy look. He did not say his name but Bosch assumed he was the Sloan mentioned on the intercom earlier. He escorted Bosch wordlessly through the delivery entrance of a massive gray-stone mansion that Bosch guessed would rival anything the Du Ponts or Vanderbilts had to offer. According to Wikipedia, he was calling on six billion dollars. Bosch had no doubt as he entered that this would be the closest to American royalty he would ever get.