The Wrong Side of Goodbye(99)

“No, keep them wherever you have them, as long as they’re safe.”

“They are.”

“Good. We don’t produce originals until a court orders us to.”

“Got it.”

They ended the call. His business finished, Bosch collected the copies of the Forsythe affidavit from the printer tray and left the station. He headed toward the airport over in Burbank, deciding it might be best to make one more change of transportation as he headed into what appeared to be some critical final steps of the Vance case.

He pulled into the Hertz return lane, gathered his belongings, including the GPS jammer, and left the Cherokee there. He decided to change things up a little further by going to the Avis counter in the terminal to rent a replacement. While he waited in line to rent, he thought about Forsythe and her accounting of what had transpired in the days following his visit with Whitney Vance. She had a unique view and knowledge of the goings-on inside the mansion on San Rafael. He decided he would prepare more questions for the intended meeting the next day.

It was dark by the time he got to Woodrow Wilson Drive. As he rounded the last curve he saw a car parked at the curb in front of his house and his headlights illuminated two figures sitting inside it, waiting. Bosch drove by while he tried to figure out who it might be and why they would park directly in front of his house, giving their position away. He quickly came to a conclusion and spoke it out loud.

“Cops.”

He guessed they were Sheriff’s detectives with follow-up questions concerning the Dockweiler shooting. He turned around at the intersection at Mulholland Drive, drove back down to his house, and pulled his rented Ford Taurus into his carport without hesitation. After locking the car he walked out toward the street to check the mailbox—and to get a look at the sedan’s license plate. The two men were already getting out of the car.

Bosch checked the mailbox and found it empty.

“Harry Bosch?”

Bosch turned to the street. He didn’t recognize either of the men as part of the Sheriff’s OIS team that had worked the Dockweiler scene the other night.

“That’s right. What’s up, fellas?”

In unison the men produced gold badges that caught the reflection from the street lamp above them. They were both white, midforties, and wearing obvious cop suits, meaning off the rack at a two-for-one store.

Bosch noticed that one of them carried a black binder under his arm. It was a little thing, but Bosch knew the standard-issue binders used by the Sheriff’s Department were green. LAPD used blue.

“Pasadena Police Department,” one of them said. “I’m Detective Poydras and he’s Detective Franks.”

“Pasadena?” Bosch said.

“Yes, sir,” Poydras said. “We are working a homicide case and would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Inside, if you don’t mind,” Franks added.

Homicide. The surprises kept coming. A vision of Ida Townes Forsythe’s fearful look when she said she was being watched crossed Bosch’s mind. He stopped moving and looked at his two visitors.

“Who was murdered?” he asked.

“Whitney Vance,” Poydras said.





40

Bosch sat the two Pasadena detectives down at the dining room table and took the chair across from them. He didn’t offer them water, coffee, or anything else. Franks had been carrying the binder. He placed it to the side of the table.

While the two detectives looked to be about the same age, it remained to be seen who had the juice—which one had seniority in the partnership, which one was the alpha dog.

Bosch was betting it was Poydras. He was the one who spoke first and had been behind the wheel of the car. Franks may have been carrying the binder but those first two facts were clear signs that he was playing second to Poydras. Another was Franks’s two-tone face. His forehead was as white as a vampire’s but there was a clear line of demarcation where the lower half of his face was a ruddy tan. It told Bosch that it was likely he frequently played either softball or golf. Since Franks was in his forties Bosch guessed it was golf. It was a popular pastime among homicide detectives because it fit with the obsessive qualities needed for the job. But sometimes, Bosch had noticed, golf became a greater obsession than the homicide work. You ended up with guys with two-tone faces playing second string to an alpha dog because they were always thinking about the next round, and who could get them onto the next course.

Years ago, Bosch had had a partner named Jerry Edgar. He turned Bosch into a golf widow because of his obsession with the game. Once they were working a case and had to go to Chicago to find and arrest a murder suspect. When Bosch got to LAX for the flight, he saw Edgar checking his golf clubs at the luggage counter. Edgar said he was planning to stay an extra day in Chicago because he knew a guy who could get him onto Medinah. Bosch assumed that was a golf course. The next two days, while looking for their murder suspect, they drove around with a set of golf clubs in the trunk of their rental.

Sitting across the table from the two men from Pasadena, Bosch decided it was Poydras who was the dog. He kept his eyes on him.

Bosch started with a question before they could.

“How was Vance killed?” he asked.

Poydras put an uneasy smile on his face.

“We’re not going to do it that way,” he said. “We’re here to ask you questions. Not the other way around.”