The Wrong Side of Goodbye(63)

“Look, maybe we skip lunch today,” he said. “I’ll get to San Diego earlier and take care of my business, then maybe tomorrow on my way back up we get together for lunch or dinner. If I’m lucky down there and get everything done we might be able to do breakfast tomorrow.”

Breakfast was her favorite meal and the Old Towne near the college was full of good places to get it.

“I have morning classes,” Maddie said. “But let’s try it tomorrow for lunch or dinner.”

“You sure that’s okay?” he asked.

“Yes, sure. But what were you going to tell me?”

He decided he didn’t want to scare her by warning her to be extra careful because the case he was working might overlap into her world. He’d save that for the next day and an in-person conversation.

“It can wait,” he said. “I’ll call you in the morning to figure out what will work.”

They ended the conversation and Bosch brooded on it for the next hour as he made his way down through Orange County. He hated the idea of burdening his daughter with anything from his past or his present. He didn’t think it was fair.





26

Bosch was making slow but steady progress toward San Diego when he caught the call from Chief Valdez he knew would come.

“You busted Deputy Chief Creighton?”

It was said equally as both a question and a statement of shock.

“He’s not a deputy chief anymore,” Bosch said. “He’s not even a cop.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Valdez said. “You have any idea what this is going to do for relations between the two departments?”

“Yeah, it’s going to improve them. Nobody liked the guy at LAPD. You were there. You know that.”

“No, I don’t and it doesn’t matter. I just kicked the guy loose.”

Bosch was not surprised.

“Why?” he asked anyway.

“Because you’ve got no case,” Valdez said. “You had an argument. That’s all Lopez heard. You say you were threatened. He can turn around and say you threatened him. It’s a pissing match. You’ve got no corroborating witness and no one at the D.A.’s Office will go anywhere near this.”

Bosch assumed Lopez was the desk officer. It was good to know that Valdez had at least investigated the complaint Bosch had written before he released Creighton.

“When did you kick him loose?” he asked.

“He just walked out the door,” Valdez said. “And he wasn’t happy. Where the hell are you and why’d you leave?”

“I’m working a case, Chief, and it doesn’t involve San Fernando. I had to keep moving.”

“It involves us now. Cretin says he going to sue you and us.”

It was good to hear Valdez use the name the rank and file had christened Creighton with. It told Bosch that the chief was ultimately in his corner. Bosch thought of Mitchell Maron, the mailman, who was threatening a lawsuit as well.

“Yeah, well, tell him to get in line,” he said. “Chief, I gotta go.”

“I don’t know what you are doing, but watch yourself out there,” Valdez said. “Guys like Cretin, they’re no good.”

“I hear you,” Bosch said.

The freeway opened wide when he finally crossed into San Diego County. By 2:30 he had parked underneath the section of the 5 that was elevated over Logan Barrio and was standing in Chicano Park.

The Internet photos didn’t do the murals justice. In person the colors were vibrant and the images startling. The sheer number of them was staggering. Pillar after pillar, wall after wall of paintings greeted the eye from every angle. It took him fifteen minutes of wandering through to find the mural that listed the names of the original artists. The wreath of zinnias was now hiding even more of the lower mural—and the names of the artists. Bosch squatted down and used his hands to part the flowers and read the names.

While many of the murals in the park looked like they had been repainted over the years to keep the colors and messages vibrant, the names behind the flowers had faded and were almost unreadable. Bosch took out his notebook. He was thinking that he might need to write down the names he could read and then hope those artists could be contacted and lead him to Gabriela. But then he saw the tops of letters from names that were below the soil line. He put down the notebook, reached in and started pulling back the dirt and uprooting the zinnias.

The first name he uncovered was Lukas Ortiz. He moved right and continued his trenching, his hands getting dirty with the dark, moist soil. Soon he uncovered the name Gabriela. He excitedly picked up the pace and was just clearing the dirt from the last name Lida when a booming voice struck him from behind.

“Cabrón!”

Bosch startled, then turned and looked over his shoulder to see a man behind him with his arms stretched wide in the universal stance that says, What the fuck are you doing! He was wearing a green work uniform.

Bosch jumped up.

“Hey, sorry,” he said. “Lo siento.”

He started wiping the dirt off his hands but both were caked with wet soil and it wasn’t going anywhere. The man in front of him was midfifties with graying hair and a thick, wide mustache to go with a thick, wide body. An oval patch over the pocket of his shirt said Javier. He wore sunglasses but they didn’t hide his angry stare at Bosch.