The Black Box

dealership to ask about a murder case?”

White laughed uneasily before answering.

“This is the craziest thing,” he said. “No, I did not call the LAPD. I have never called the LAPD in my life. Someone must have used my name and I can’t explain why, Detective. I’m at a loss.”

Bosch asked if there were any names on the paperwork he had checked for the date of purchase. White gave Bosch two names. The salesman was listed as Reggie Banks and the sales manager who signed off on the deal was Jerry Jimenez.

“Okay, Mr. White,” Bosch said. “You have been very helpful. Thank you very much and I’m sorry if I messed up your golf game today.”

“No problem, Detective, my tempo was way off anyway. But I’ll tell you what, if you ever solve this mystery of who called down there using my name, let me know, okay?”

“Will do, sir. Have a nice day.”

Bosch thought about things as he unlocked his car. The Alex White mystery had now gone from a detail that needed clarification to something more. It was apparent that someone had called from the John Deere dealership to inquire about the Jespersen case but had given a false identity, borrowing the name of a customer who had been in the dealership that very day. For Bosch that changed things about the call in a big way. It was no longer an unexplained blip on his radar. There was now something solid there, and it needed to be explained and understood.

8

Bosch decided to skip lunch and get back to the squad room. Luckily, Chu had not left for his lunch, and Bosch gave him the names Reginald Banks and Jerry Jimenez so he could run them through the databases. He then noticed the blinking light on his desk phone and checked the message. He had missed a call from Henrik Jespersen. He cursed as he wondered why Henrik hadn’t also tried Bosch’s cell, which he had provided in his emails.

Bosch checked the wall clock and did the math. It was nine o’clock at night in Denmark. Henrik had left his home number on the message and Harry called it. There was a long silence as the call crossed a continent and an ocean. Bosch started to wonder if the call had gone east or west, but then a man answered after just two rings.

“This is Detective Bosch in Los Angeles. Is this Henrik Jespersen?”

“Yes, this is Henrik.”

“I’m sorry to return your call so late. Can we talk for a few minutes now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. I appreciate your response to my email and have a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I am happy to talk now. Please, go ahead.”

“Thank you. I, uh, first want to say as I said in my email that the investigation of your sister’s death is high priority. I am actively working on it. Though it was twenty years ago, I’m sure your sister’s death is something that hurts till this day. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Detective. She was very beautiful and very excited about things. I miss her very much.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Over the years, Bosch had talked to many people who had lost loved ones to violence. There were too many to count but it never got any easier and his empathy never withered.

“What is it that you wanted to ask me?” Jespersen asked.

“Well, first I wanted to ask you about the postscript you put on your email to me. You said that Anneke was not on vacation and I wanted to clarify that if I could.”

“Yes, she was not.”

“Well, I know she was not on vacation when she was in L.A. to cover the riots for her newspaper, but are you saying that she was never on vacation when she came to the United States?”

“She was working the whole time. She had a story.”

Bosch pulled a pad of paper over in front of him so he could take notes.

“Do you know what the story was?”

“No, she did not tell me.”

“Then, how is it that you know she came over here to work?”

“She told me she was going for a story. She did not tell me what it was because she was a journalist and she kept these things to herself.”

“Would her boss or her editor have known what the story was?”

“I think not. She was freelance, you see. She sold photos and stories to the BT. Sometimes she was assigned to a story but not always. She did her stories and then she would tell them what she had, you see.”

There were references to Anneke’s editor in the reports and news stories, so Bosch knew he had a starting point. But he asked Henrik anyway.

“Do you happen to know the name of her editor from back then?”

“Yes, it was Jannik Frej. He spoke at her memorial service. Very kind man.”

Bosch asked him to spell both names and if he happened to have a contact number for Frej.

“No, I never had a number. I am sorry.”

“That’s okay. I can get it. Now, can you tell me when you last spoke to your sister?”

“Yes, that was the day before she left for America. I saw her.”

“And she didn’t say anything about the story she was on?”

“I did not ask and she did not offer.”

“But you knew she was coming over here, right? You were there to say good-bye.”

“Yes, and to give her the hotel information.”

“What information was that?”

“I work now thirty years in the hotel business. At the time I made Anneke’s hotel bookings for her when she did her travel.”

“Not the newspaper?”

“No, she was freelance and she could get better through me. I always arranged her travel. Even with the wars. We did not have Internet back then, you see. It was more difficult to find the places to stay. She needed me to do it.”

“I see. Do you happen to remember where she stayed in the United States? She was here for several days before the riots. Where was she besides New York and San Francisco?”

“I would have to see if I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I will have to go to my storage room for records. I kept many things from that time . . . because of what happened. I will look. I can remember that she did not go to New York.”

“She only landed there?”

“Yes, and flew on connection to Atlanta.”

“What was in Atlanta?”

“This I don’t know.”

“Okay. When do you think you will be able to go to your storage room, Henrik?”

Bosch wanted to push him but not that hard.

“I am not sure. It is far from here. I will have to take time from work.”

“I understand, Henrik. But it could be very helpful. Will you email me or call me back as soon as you look?”

“Yes, of course.”

Bosch stared at his pad as he tried to think of other questions to ask.

“Henrik, where was your sister before she came to the United States?”

“She was here in Copenhagen.”

“I mean, what was the last trip she was on before going to the United States?”

“She was in Germany for a time, and before that, Kuwait City for the war.”