Bosch thought for a moment while Vascik went on about the intricacies of process serving. He finally cut him off.
“Did you know Elias got killed Friday night?”
“Yes, sir. Sure. He was our client. We did all his cases.”
“Well, did you ever think to call the department after he was killed and tell someone about this thing with Chastain?”
“I did,” Vascik answered defensively. “I called.”
“You called? Who’d you call?”
“I called Parker Center and said I had information. I was transferred to an office and told the guy who answered who I was and that I had some information. He took my name and number and said someone would call me back.”
“Nobody ever did?”
“No, somebody called in like five minutes. Maybe less. Right away. I told him.”
“When was this?”
“Sunday morning. I was out climbing all day Saturday. Up at Vasquez Rocks. I didn’t hear about Mr. Elias until I read the Times on Sunday morning.”
“Do you remember the name of the cop you told this to?”
“I think his name was Edgar but I don’t know if that was his first or last name.”
“What about the person who took your call in the first place? Did he give a name?”
“I think he said his name but I forget it. But he did say he was an agent. So maybe it was an FBI guy.”
“Steve, think for a minute. What time did you make this call and when did Edgar call you back? Do you remember?”
Vascik was quiet while he thought about it.
“Well, I didn’t get up till about ten ’cause my legs were killing me from the climb. I then kind of lazed around and read the paper. It was all over the front page, so I probably read it right after the sports. And then I called. So maybe about eleven. Thereabouts. And then that Edgar guy called back pretty quick.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
Bosch clicked the phone off. He knew there was no way Edgar had taken a call at Parker Center on Sunday morning at eleven. Edgar had been with Bosch all Sunday morning and most of the rest of the day. And they were on the road, not working out of Parker. Someone had used his partner’s name. A cop. Someone inside the investigation had used Edgar’s name.
He looked up Lindell’s cell phone number and called. Lindell still had it turned on and he answered.
“It’s Bosch. You remember Sunday morning, after you and your people came into the case, you spent most of the morning in the conference room with the files, right?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Who was answering the phones?”
“Me mostly. A couple of the others.”
“Did you take a call from a guy said he was a process server?”
“Sounds familiar. But we were getting lots of calls that morning. Reporters and people thinking they knew something. People threatening the cops.”
“A process server named Vascik. Steve Vascik. He said he had some information that might be important.”
“Like I said, it’s familiar. What about it, Bosch? I thought this case was over.”
“It is. I’m just checking some loose ends. Who’d you give the call to?”
“I gave those kind of calls – you know, info off the street – to the IAD guys. To keep them busy.”
“Which one did you give the process server to?”
“I don’t know, probably Chastain. He was in charge of that group. He might’ve taken it or told one of the others to call the guy back. See, Irving set up some shitty phones in there. We couldn’t transfer one to the other and I wanted the main line free. So we took numbers and passed them on.”
“Okay, thanks, man. Have a nice night.”
“Hey, what is – ”
Bosch disconnected before he had to answer any questions. He thought about the information from Lindell. He believed there was a high probability that the call from Vascik had been routed to Chastain himself, who then called back – probably taking the message to his own office for privacy – and posed as Edgar.
Bosch had one more call to make. He opened his phone book and found a number that he had not used in many years. He called Captain John Garwood, head of Robbery-Homicide Division, at home. He knew it was late but he doubted very many people were sleeping in Los Angeles tonight. He thought about what Kiz Rider had said about Garwood reminding her of Boris Karloff and only coming out at night.
Garwood answered after two rings.
“It’s Harry Bosch. We need to talk. Tonight.”
“About?”
“John Chastain and the Black Warrior case.”
“I don’t want to talk on the phone.”
“Fine. Name the place.”
“Frank Sinatra?”
“How soon?”
“Give me half an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter 36
IN the long run, Frank Sinatra got ripped off. Decades ago, when the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce put his star down on the sidewalk, they put it on Vine Street rather than on Hollywood Boulevard. The thinking probably was that the Sinatra star would be a draw, people would come down from the boulevard to see it, to take a picture. But if that was the plan, it didn’t work. Frank was alone in a spot that probably saw more hypes than tourists. His star was at a crosswalk between two parking lots and next to a residence hotel where you had to convince the security guard to unlock the lobby door if you wanted to go in.
When Bosch had been in RHD years before, the Sinatra star had often been a meeting spot between detectives in the field or between detectives and their snitches. It hadn’t surprised Bosch that Garwood had suggested it for their meeting. It was a way of meeting on neutral ground.
By the time Bosch got to the star Garwood was already there. Bosch saw his unmarked Ford LTD in the parking lot.
Garwood flashed his lights. Bosch pulled to the curb in front of the hotel and got out. He crossed Vine to the parking lot and got in the front passenger seat. Garwood was wearing a suit, even though called from home. Bosch realized that he had never seen Garwood in anything other than a suit, the tie always pulled tight, the top button of his shirt never undone. Again Bosch thought of Rider’s Boris Karloff comment.
“Those fucking cars,” Garwood said, looking across the street at Bosch’s slickback. “I heard about you getting potshotted.”
“Yeah. That wasn’t fun.”
“So what brings you out tonight, Harry? How come you’re still investigating a case that the chief of police and everybody else has already closed?”
“Because I have a bad feeling about it, Cap. There are loose ends. Things can unravel when you have loose ends.”
“You never could leave things alone. I remember that from when you worked for me. You and your fucking loose ends.”
“So tell me about Chastain.”
Garwood said nothing, just stared ahead through the windshield, and Bosch realized that his former captain
