“I don’t know the brand.”
“No, a sedan is a type of car, not a brand. Four doors, trunk-like a police car.”
“Yes, like that.”
Bosch thought about Alicia Kent’s description of her missing car.
“Do you know what a Chrysler Three Hundred looks like?”
“No.”
“What color was the car you saw?”
“I don’t know for sure but it was dark. Black or dark blue.”
“What about the other car? The one that was behind the Porsche.”
“Same thing. A dark sedan. It was different from the one in front-maybe a little bit smaller, eh-but I don’t know what kind it was. Sorry.”
The boy frowned, as though it was a personal failing that he didn’t know the makes and models of cars.
“It’s all right, Jesse, you’re doing fine,” Bosch said. “You’ve been very helpful. Do you think if I showed you photos of various sedans you could pick out the cars?”
“No, I didn’t see them enough. The lighting on the street wasn’t good and I was too far away.”
Bosch nodded but was disappointed. He considered things for a moment. Mitford’s story matched up with information provided by Alicia Kent. The two intruders to the Kent house had to have had transportation to get there. One would have taken the original vehicle, while the other took Alicia Kent’s Chrysler to transport the cesium with. It seemed like the obvious thing.
His thoughts prompted a new question for Mitford.
“Which way did the second car go when he drove off?”
“He also made a U-turn and drove down the hill.”
“And that was it?”
“That was it.”
“What did you do then?”
“Me? Nothing. I just stayed where I was.”
“Why?”
“I was scared. I was pretty sure I had just seen some guy get murdered.”
“You didn’t go check on him to see if he was alive and needed help?”
Mitford looked away from Bosch and shook his head.
“No, I was afraid. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Jesse. You don’t have to worry about that. He was already dead. He was dead before he hit the ground. But what I’m curious about is why you stayed in hiding for so long. Why didn’t you go down the hill? Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?”
Mitford raised his hands and dropped them on the table.
“I don’t know. I was afraid, I guess. I followed the map up the hill, so that was the only way I knew back. I would have had to walk right by there and I thought, what if the cops come while I’m walking right there? I could get blamed. And I thought, if it was like the mafia or something that did it and they found out I had seen everything, then I’d be killed or something.”
Bosch nodded.
“I think you watch too much American TV up there in Canada. You don’t have to worry. We’ll take care of you. How old are you, Jesse?”
“Twenty.”
“So, what were you doing at Madonna’s house? Isn’t she a little old for you?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was for my mother.”
“You were stalking her for your mother?”
“I’m not a stalker. I just wanted to get my mother her autograph or see if she had a picture or something I could have. I wanted to send something back to my mom and I don’t have anything. You know, just to show her I’m okay. I thought if I told her I had met Madonna, then I wouldn’t feel like such a… you know. I grew up listening to Madonna because my mom listens to her stuff. I just thought it would be kind of cool to send her something. Her birthday’s coming up and I didn’t have anything.”
“Why’d you come to L.A., Jesse?”
“I don’t know. It just seemed like the place to go. I was hoping I could get in a band or something. But it’s looking like most people come here with their band already. I don’t have one.”
Bosch thought Mitford had adopted the pose of the wandering troubadour but there had been no guitar or other mobile instrument with his backpack in the squad room.
“Are you a musician or a singer?”
“I play the guitar but I had to pawn it a few days ago. I’ll get it back.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I don’t really have a place right now. I was going to sleep up in the hills last night. I guess it’s the real answer to why I didn’t leave after I saw what happened to that guy up there. I really didn’t have anyplace to go.”
Bosch understood. Jesse Mitford was no different from a thousand others who got off the bus every month or thumbed it into town. More dreams than plans or currency. More hope than cunning, skill or intelligence. Not all of those who fail to make it stalk those who do. But the one thing they all share is that desperate edge. And some never lose it, even after their names are put up in lights and they buy houses on top of the hills.
“Let’s take a break here, Jesse,” Bosch said. “I need to make a few phone calls and then we’ll probably need to go over it all again. You cool with that? I’ll also see about maybe getting you a hotel room or something.”
Mitford nodded.
“Think about the cars and the guy you saw, Jesse. We need you to remember more details.”
“I’m trying but I…”
He didn’t finish and Bosch left him there.
In the hallway Bosch switched on the air conditioning in the interview room and set it at sixty-four. It would soon cool off in the room and instead of sweating, Mitford would start to get cold-though coming from Canada, maybe not. After he chilled for a while Bosch would take another run at him and see if anything new came out. He checked his watch. It was almost 5 a.m. and the case meeting the feds were organizing was not for another four hours. There was a lot to do but he still had some time to work with Mitford. The first round had been productive. There was no reason for him not to think there was more to be gained by a second go at it.
Out in the squad room Bosch found Ignacio Ferras working at his desk. He was turned in his seat and was typing on his laptop on a slide-out table. Bosch noticed that Mitford’s property had been replaced on the desk by other evidence bags and file folders. It was everything from SID that the case had spawned so far on the two crime scenes.
“Harry, sorry I didn’t get back in there to watch,” Ferras said. “Anything new from the kid?”
“We’re getting there. I’m just taking a break.”
Ferras was thirty years old and had an athlete’s body. On his desk was the trophy awarded him for being his academy class’s top achiever in physical conditioning and testing. He was also handsome, with mocha skin and short-cropped hair. He had piercing green eyes.
Bosch stepped over to his own desk to use the phone. He was going to wake up Lieutenant Gandle one more time to give him another update.
“You track the vic’s gun yet?” he asked Ferras.
“Yeah, I got it off the ATF computer. He bought a twenty-two-caliber belly gun six months ago. Smith and Wesson.”
Bosch nodded.
“A twenty-two fits,” he said. “No exit wounds.”
“Bullets check in but they don’t check out.”
Ferras delivered the line like a television commercial huckster and laughed at his own joke. Bosch thought about what was lying beneath the humor. Stanley Kent had been warned that his profession made him vulnerable. His response was to purchase a gun for protection.
And now Bosch was betting that the gun he’d bought had been used against him, had been used to kill him by a terrorist who called out the name of Allah as he pulled the trigger. What a world it was, Bosch thought, when
