then he may have narrowed it down to the one person who calls him that. Maybe it was dear old dad, the welder.”
“So what’s he doing?”
“Can’t see him. He went into the back.”
“Maybe we should get out of here before he starts looking around.”
“Come on. One call and you think he’s going to think somebody’s onto him after seventeen years?”
“No, not for Becky. I’m worried about whatever else he’s into now. We might be stumbling right into the middle of something and not even know it.”
Bosch put down the binoculars. She was right about that. He started the car.
“Okay, we got our look,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go see Muriel Verloren.”
“What about Panorama City?”
“PC can wait. We both know he doesn’t live at that address anymore. Checking it is just a formality.”
He started backing out of the space.
“Do you think we should call Muriel first?” Rider asked.
“No. Let’s just go knock on the door.”
“We’re good at that.”
12
IN TEN MINUTES they were in front of the Verloren house. The neighborhood where Becky Verloren had lived still seemed pleasant and safe. Red Mesa Way was wide, with sidewalks on both sides and no shortage of shade trees. Most of the homes were ranch houses that sprawled across the extra-large lots. In the sixties, the larger properties were what drew people to settle the northwest corner of the city. Forty years later the trees were mature and the neighborhood had a cohesive feel to it.
The Verlorens’ house was one of the few that had a second floor. It was still the classic ranch-style home but the roof popped up over the double-slot garage. Bosch knew from the murder book that Becky’s bedroom had been upstairs over the garage and in the back.
The garage door was closed. There was no apparent sign that anyone was home. They parked in the driveway and went to the front door. When Bosch pushed a doorbell button he could hear a chime echo inside, a single tone that seemed very distant and lonely to him.
The door was answered by a woman who wore a shapeless blue pullover dress that helped hide her own shapeless body. She wore flat sandals. Her hair was dyed a color red that had too much orange in it. It looked like a home job that didn’t go as planned, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. As soon as she opened the door a gray cat shot out of the opening and into the front yard.
“Smoke, don’t get hit!” she yelled first. Then she said, “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Verloren?” Rider asked.
“Yes, what is it?”
“We’re with the police. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”
As soon as Rider said the word “police” and before she got to “daughter,” Muriel Verloren brought both hands up to her mouth and reacted as though it was the moment she had learned her daughter was dead.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Tell me you caught him. Tell me you caught the bastard who took my baby away from me.”
Rider reached a comforting hand to the woman’s shoulder.
“It’s not quite that simple, ma’am,” Rider said. “Can we come in and talk?”
She stepped back and let them in. She seemed to be whispering something and Bosch thought it might be a prayer. Once they were in she closed the door after yelling a warning one more time into the front yard to the escaped cat.
The home smelled as though the cat had not escaped often enough. The living room to which they were led was neatly kept but with furniture that was old and worn. There was the distinct odor of cat urine in the place. Bosch suddenly wished they had invited Muriel Verloren down to Parker Center for the interview, but knew that would have been a mistake. They needed to see this place.
They sat side by side on the couch and Muriel rushed to one of the chairs across the glass-topped coffee table from them. Bosch noticed paw prints on the glass.
“What is it?” she asked desperately. “Is there news?”
“Well, I guess the news is that we are looking into the case again,” Rider said. “I am Detective Rider and this is Detective Bosch. We work for the Open-Unsolved Unit out of Parker Center.”
By agreement while driving to the house Bosch and Rider decided to be cautious with the information they gave members of the Verloren family. Until they knew the family situation it would be better to take rather than to give.
“Is there anything new?” Muriel asked urgently.
“Well, we are just starting out,” Rider replied. “We’re covering a lot of the old ground right now. Trying to get up to speed. We just wanted to come by and tell you we were working the case again.”
She seemed a bit crestfallen. She had apparently thought that for the police to show up after so many years there would have to be something new. Bosch felt a twinge of guilt over withholding the fact that they had a rock- solid DNA lead-a cold hit-to work with, but at the moment he felt that it was for the best.
“There are a couple things,” he said, speaking for the first time. “First, in looking through the files on the case, we came across this photo.”
He took the photo of Roland Mackey as an eighteen-year-old out of his pocket and put it down on the coffee table in front of Muriel. She immediately leaned down to look at it.
“We’re not sure what the connection is,” he continued. “We thought maybe you might recognize this man and tell us if you knew him back then.”
She continued to look without responding.
“This is a photo from nineteen eighty-eight,” Bosch said as a means of prompting her.
“Who is he?” she finally asked.
“We’re not sure. His name is Roland Mackey. He’s got a small-time record for crimes committed after your daughter’s death. We’re not sure why his photo was in the file. Do you recognize him?”
“Did you ask Art or Ron about it?”
Bosch started to ask who Art and Ron were when he realized.
“Actually, Detective Green retired and passed away a long time ago. Detective Garcia is Commander Garcia now. We talked to him but he wasn’t able to help us with Mackey. How about you? Could he have been one of your daughter’s acquaintances? Do you recognize him?”
“He could have been. There is something about him that I recognize.”
Bosch nodded.
“Do you know how you recognize him or from where?”
“No, I don’t remember. Why don’t you tell me and maybe that will help jog my memory.”
Bosch made a quick side glance at Rider. This was not totally unexpected, but it always complicated things when the parent of a victim was so eager to help that he or she simply asked what it was the police wanted them to say. Muriel Verloren had waited seventeen years for her daughter’s killer to be brought forward into the light of the justice system. It was very clear that she was going to carefully choose answers that would in no way hinder the possibility of that happening. At this point it might not even matter if it was a false light. The past years had been cruel to her and the memory of her daughter. Someone still needed to pay.
“We can’t tell you that because we don’t know, Mrs. Verloren,” Bosch said. “Think about it and let us know if you remember him.”
She nodded sadly, as if she thought it was yet another missed opportunity.
“Mrs. Verloren, what do you do for a living?” Rider asked.
It seemed to bring the woman in front of them back from her memories and desires.
“I sell things,” she said matter-of-factly. “Online.”
