Sept. 30, 2003—Eddie Vaughn—68th and East Park (killer unknown)
June 18, 2004—Dante Sparks—11th Ave. and Hyde Park (killer unknown)
July 8, 2007—Byron Beckles—Centinela Park/Stepney Street (killer unknown)
Dec. 1, 2009—Trumont Story—W. 76th Street/Circle Park (killer unknown)
The last three murders listed were the cases Gant had pulled files on where there was no ballistics evidence. Bosch studied the list and noticed the seven-year gap in known uses of the gun between the Regis and Vaughn cases and then referred to the criminal record he had pulled off the National Crime Information Center data bank on Trumont Story. It showed that Story had been in prison from 1997 to 2002 serving a five-year stretch on an aggravated battery conviction. If Story had left the gun in a hiding place that only he knew of, then the gap in use of the weapon was explained.
Bosch next opened his Thomas Bros. map book and used a pencil to chart the murders on the grid work of the city. The first five murders all fit on one page of the thick map book, the killings occurring within the confines of Rolling 60s turf. The last case, the killing of Trumont Story, was on the next map page. His body had been found lying on a sidewalk in Circle Park, which was in the heart of 7-Trey turf.
Bosch studied the map for a long time, flipping the pages back and forth. Considering that Jordy Gant said Story had most likely been dumped in the location where his body was found, Bosch concluded that he was looking at a very small concentration point in the city. Six murders, possibly just one gun used. And it had all started with the one murder that did not fit with those that followed. Anneke Jespersen, photojournalist, murdered in a spot far from home.
“Snow White,” Bosch whispered.
He opened the Jespersen murder book and looked at the photo from her press pass. He could not fathom what she had been doing out there on her own and what had happened.
Harry pulled the black box across the desk. Just as he opened it, his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Hannah Stone, the woman he had been in a relationship with for nearly a year.
“Happy birthday, Harry!”
“Who told you?”
“A little bird.”
His daughter.
“She ought to mind her own business.”
“I think it is her business. I know she probably has you all to herself tonight, so I was calling to see if I could take you out for a birthday lunch.”
Bosch checked his watch. It was already noon.
“Today?”
“Today’s your birthday, isn’t it? I would’ve called earlier but my group session went long. Come on, what do you say? You know we have the best taco trucks in the city up here.”
Bosch knew he needed to talk to her about San Quentin.
“I don’t know about that claim, but if I get good traffic, I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Perfect.”
“See you.”
He disconnected and looked at the black box on his desk. He’d get to it after lunch.
They decided on a sit-down restaurant instead of a taco truck. Upscale wasn’t really a choice in Panorama City, so they drove down to Van Nuys and ate in the basement cafeteria of the courthouse. It wasn’t exactly upscale either but there was an old jazzman who played a baby grand in the corner most days. It was one of the secrets of the city that Bosch knew. Hannah was impressed. They took a table close to the music.
They split a turkey sandwich and each had a bowl of soup. The music smoothed over the quiet spots in the conversation. Bosch was learning to get comfortable with Hannah. He had met her while working a case the year before. She was a therapist who worked with sexual offenders after their release from prison. It was tough work and it gave her some of the same dark knowledge of the world that Bosch carried.
“I haven’t heard from you in a few days,” Hannah said. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, just a case. Walking a gun.”
“What does that mean?”
“Connecting or walking a gun from case to case to case. We don’t have the weapon itself but ballistics matches link cases. You know, across the years, across geography, victims, like that. A case like this is called a gun walk.”
He offered nothing further and she nodded. She knew he never answered questions about his work in detail.
Bosch listened to the piano man finish “Mood Indigo” and then cleared his throat.
“I met your son yesterday, Hannah,” he said.
He hadn’t been sure how to broach the subject. And so he ended up doing it without finesse. Hannah put her soupspoon down on her plate with a sharpness that made the piano man raise his hands off the keys.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I was up at San Quentin on the case,” he said. “You know, walking the gun, and I had to see someone up there. When I was finished, I had a little bit of time, so I asked to see your son. I only spent ten or fifteen minutes with him. I told him who I was and he said he’d heard of me, that you told him about me.”
Hannah stared into space. Bosch realized he had played it wrong. Her son was not a secret. They had talked about him at length. Bosch knew that he was a sexual offender in prison after pleading guilty to rape. His crime had nearly destroyed his mother but she had found a way to carry on by changing the focus of her work. She moved from family therapy to treating offenders like her own son. And it was that work that had brought her to Bosch. Bosch was thankful that she was in his life and understood the dark serendipity of it. If the son had not committed such a horrendous crime, Bosch would never have met the mother.
“I guess I should’ve told you,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I wasn’t even sure I was going to get the time to try to see him. With the budget cutbacks, they don’t allow overnights up there. You gotta go up and back the same day and so I wasn’t sure.”
“How did he look?”
Spoken with a mother’s fear in her voice.
“I guess he looked all right. I asked him if he was okay and he said he was fine. I didn’t see anything that concerned me, Hannah.”
Her son lived in a place where you were either predator or prey. He wasn’t a big man. His crime had involved drugging his victim, not overpowering her. The tables were turned on him in prison and he was often preyed upon. Hannah had told Bosch all of this.
“Look, we don’t have to talk about it,” Bosch said. “I just wanted you to know. It wasn’t really planned. I had the extra time and I just asked to see him and they set it up for me.”
She didn’t respond at first, but then her words came out with a tone of urgency.
“No, we do have to talk about it. I want to know everything he said, everything you saw. He’s my son, Harry. No matter what he did, he’s my son.”
Bosch nodded.
“He said to tell you he loves you.”
5
The OU squad room was in full form when Bosch returned after lunch. The black box was where he had left it, and his partner was at his desk in the cubicle, working the keyboard on his computer. He spoke without looking up from his screen.
“Harry, how goes it?”
“It goes.”
Bosch sat down, waiting for Chu to mention his birthday, but he didn’t. The cubicle was set up with their desks on either side so they worked back-to-back. In the old Parker Center, where Bosch had spent most of his career, partners faced each other across desks pushed up against each other. Bosch liked the back-to-back setup better. It gave him more privacy.
