“Chatsworth High.”
“How do you mean?”
“That summer he was getting his GED at Chatsworth High. On the night of the murder Mackey’s alibi was his tutor. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Mackey was the tutor’s alibi.”
“Stoddard?”
“He told us that first day that all of the teachers at Hillside had outside jobs. Maybe Stoddard was working as a tutor. Maybe he was Mackey’s tutor.”
“That’s a lot of maybes, Harry.”
“That’s why we’ve got to find Stoddard before he does anything to himself.”
“You think he’s suicidal? You told Abel you didn’t know.”
“I don’t know anything for sure. But back in that parking lot he turned away from me at the last second. It makes me think that he only wants to hurt one person.”
“Himself? Maybe he just didn’t want to dent his new car.”
“Maybe.”
Rider turned onto Winnetka, a four-lane street, and started moving faster. They were almost to Stoddard’s home. Bosch rode silently, thinking about what might be waiting for them ahead. Rider finally turned west on Chase and there was a black-and-white patrol car with both of its front doors open in the street up ahead. Rider pulled to a quick stop behind it and they jumped out of the car. Bosch took his gun off his belt and carried it at his side. Rider had a point about Stoddard maybe only thinking about his car when he avoided hitting Bosch.
The front door of the small World War II-era house was open. There was no sign of the patrol officers from the car. Bosch looked at Rider and saw that she was unholstered as well. They were ready to go in. At the door, Bosch shouted, “Detectives coming in!”
He stepped into the threshold and got a response from inside.
“It’s clear! It’s clear!”
Bosch didn’t relax or lower his weapon as he entered the living room. He scanned the room and didn’t see anyone. He looked down at the coffee table and saw the
“Patrol coming out!” a voice called from a hallway to the right.
Soon two patrol officers stepped out of the hallway into the living room. They carried their weapons at their sides. Now Bosch relaxed and lowered his own.
“All clear,” said the patrolman with the P2 stripes on his uniform. “We found the door open and came in. There’s something you ought to see back here in the bedroom.”
The patrolmen led the way and Bosch and Rider followed. They went down a short hallway that passed the open doors to a bathroom and a small bedroom that was used as a home office. They entered a bedroom and the P2 pointed to an oblong wooden box that was open on the bed. The box had a foam lining with a cutout in the shape of a long-barreled revolver. The cutout was empty and the gun was gone. There was a small rectangular cutout in the foam for a box of bullets. It was empty, too, but the box was nearby on the bed.
“Is there someone he’s going after?” the P2 asked.
Bosch didn’t look up from the gun box.
“Probably just himself,” he said. “Either of you guys have gloves? Mine are in the car.”
“Right here,” the P2 said.
He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a small compartment on his equipment belt. He handed them to Bosch, who snapped them on and then picked up the bullet box. Bosch opened it and slid out a plastic tray in which the bullets were stored. There was only one bullet missing.
Bosch was staring at the space left by the missing bullet and thinking about things when Rider tapped him on the elbow. He looked at her and then followed her gaze to the table on the other side of the bed.
There was a framed photo of Rebecca Verloren. It was a shot of her standing in a green field with the Eiffel Tower behind her. She was wearing a black beret and she was smiling in an unforced way. Bosch thought the look in her eyes was sincere and showed love for the person she was looking at.
“He wasn’t in any of the pictures in the yearbook because he was the one behind the camera,” Bosch said.
Rider nodded. She, too, was in the water tunnel.
“That’s where it started,” she said. “That’s where she fell in love with him. My true love.”
They stared in somber silence for a few moments until the P2 spoke.
“Detectives, can we clear?”
“No,” Bosch said. “We need you to stay here and secure the house until SID gets here. And be ready in case he comes back.”
“You’re leaving?” the P2 asked.
“We’re leaving.”
40
THEY MOVED QUICKLY back to Bosch’s car and Rider once again got behind the wheel.
“Where to?” she said as she turned the ignition.
“The Verloren house,” Bosch said. “And let’s hurry.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’ve been thinking about the picture they ran in the paper, with Muriel sitting on the bed. It showed how the room was still the same, you know?”
Rider thought for a moment and then nodded.
“Yeah.”
Rider understood. The photo showed that Rebecca’s room was unchanged since the night she was taken. Seeing it might trigger something in Stoddard. A desire for something lost long ago. The photo was like an oasis, it was a reminder of a perfect place where nothing had gone wrong.
Rider pinned the accelerator and the car lurched forward. Bosch opened his cell, called dispatch and called for another backup unit to meet them at Muriel Verloren’s house. He also updated the bulletin on Stoddard, describing him now as armed and dangerous and possibly 5150-meaning mentally unstable. He knew as he closed the phone that he and Rider were close to the Verloren home and would get there first. His next call was to Muriel Verloren but there was no answer. When the message service picked up he closed his phone.
“No answer.”
They turned the corner onto Red Mesa Way five minutes later and Bosch’s eyes immediately locked on the silver car parked at a haphazard angle against the curb in front of the Verloren house. It was the Lexus that had come at him in the school parking lot. Rider stopped next to the car and once again they emerged quickly, with weapons ready.
The front door of the house was ajar. Using hand signals they took stances on either side of it. Bosch then pushed the door open and went in first. Rider followed and they immediately moved into the living room.
Muriel Verloren was on the floor. There was a cardboard box and other packing supplies next to her. Brown packing tape had been wrapped several times around her head and face as a gag, and used to bind her hands and ankles. Rider propped her up against the couch and held a finger up to her lips.
“Muriel, is he in the house?” she whispered.
Muriel nodded, her eyes wide and wild.
“Rebecca’s room?”
Muriel nodded again.
“Have you heard a gunshot?”
Muriel shook her head no and emitted a muffled sound that would have been a scream if not for the tape across her mouth.
“You have to be quiet,” Rider whispered. “If I take off the tape you have to be very quiet.”
Muriel nodded intensely and Rider started working on the tape. Bosch huddled in close.
