The email seemed to be of little help. Bosch leaned back restlessly in his seat and stared at the computer screen. The barriers of distance and language were frustrating. Frej’s answers were tantalizing but incomplete. Bosch had to compose a response that led to more information. He leaned forward and started typing.
Mr. Bonn, thank you for this. Is it possible for me to speak directly to Jannik Frej? Can he speak English at all? The investigation is gathering speed and this particular process is moving too slowly, taking a whole day to receive answers to my questions. If I cannot speak directly to him, can we set up a conference call so that you can translate? Please respond as soon as
The phone on Bosch’s desk rang and he grabbed it without taking his eyes off his computer screen.
“Bosch.”
“This is Lieutenant O’Toole.”
Bosch turned and glanced toward the corner office. He could see through the open blinds that O’Toole was at his desk, looking directly back at him.
“What’s up, L-T?”
“Did you not see my note telling you I needed to see you immediately?”
“Yes, I got it last night but you were already gone. Today I didn’t realize you were here yet. I had to send an important email to Denmark. Things are—”
“I want you in my office.
“On my way.”
Bosch quickly finished typing the email and sent it. He then got up and went to the lieutenant’s office, surveying the squad room as he went. No one else was in yet, just O’Toole and him. Whatever was about to happen, there would be no independent witnesses.
As Bosch entered the office, O’Toole told him to sit down. Bosch did so.
“Is this about the Death Squad case? Because I—”
“Who is Shawn Stone?”
“What?”
“I said who is Shawn Stone?”
Bosch hesitated, trying to figure out what O’Toole was trying to do. He instinctively knew that the best move was to play it wide open and honest.
“He’s a convicted rapist serving a sentence at San Quentin.”
“And what is your business with him?”
“I don’t have any business with him.”
“Did you speak to him Monday when you were up there?”
O’Toole was looking at a single-page document that he held in both hands, elbows on his desk.
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you deposit one hundred dollars in his prison canteen account?”
“Yes, I did that, too. What’s—”
“Since you say you have no business with him, what is your relationship with him?”
“He’s the son of a friend of mine. I had some extra time up there, so I asked to see him. Previously, I had never met him before.”
O’Toole frowned, his eyes still on the paper he held between his two hands.
“So at taxpayers’ expense, you paid a visit to your friend’s son and dropped a hundred into his canteen account. Do I have that right?”
Bosch paused as he sized up the situation. He knew what O’Toole was doing.
“No, you don’t have anything right, Lieutenant. I went up there—at taxpayers’ expense—to interview a convict with vital information in the Anneke Jespersen case. I got that information and with time left before I had to return to the airport, I checked on Shawn Stone. I also made the deposit in his account. The whole thing took less than a half hour and it caused me no delay in my return to Los Angeles. If you are going to take a run at me, Lieutenant, you are going to need something more than that.”
O’Toole nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, we’ll let the PSB decide that.”
Bosch wanted to reach over and yank O’Toole across the desk by his tie. The PSB was the Professional Standards Bureau, the new name for Internal Affairs. A black rose by any other name smelled just as rotten to Bosch. He stood up.
“You are filing a one-twenty-eight on me?”
“I am.”
Bosch shook his head. He could not believe the shortsightedness of the move.
“Do you realize you are going to lose the entire room if you go ahead with this?”
He was talking about the squad room. As soon as the rest of the detectives learned that O’Toole was making a move on Bosch for something as trivial as a fifteen-minute conversation at San Quentin, the meager level of respect O’Toole enjoyed would collapse like a bridge made of toothpicks. Oddly, Bosch was more worried about O’Toole and his standing in the unit than about the PSB investigation that would follow his ill-advised move.
“That’s not my concern,” O’Toole said. “My concern is the integrity of the unit.”
“You are making a mistake, Lieutenant, and for what? For this? Because I wouldn’t let you kill my investigation?”
“I can assure you, one has nothing to do with the other.”
Bosch shook his head again.
“I can assure
“Is that some kind of a threat?”
Bosch didn’t dignify that with a response. He turned and headed out of the office.
“Where are you going, Bosch?”
“I have a case to work.”
“Not for long.”
Bosch went back to his desk. O’Toole didn’t have the authority to suspend him. Police Protective League regulations were clear. A PSB investigation must lead to a formal finding and complaint before that could happen. But what O’Toole was doing would wind the clock tighter. He had a greater need than ever to keep his momentum.
When he got back to the cubicle, Chu was there at his desk with his coffee.
“How’s it going, Harry?”
“It’s going.”
Bosch sat down heavily in his desk chair. He hit the spacebar on his keyboard and the computer screen came back to life. He saw that he already had a reply from Bonn. He opened the email.
Detective Bosch, I will make contact with Frej and set up the phone call. I will get back to you with the details as soon as possible. I think at this point we should make our intentions clear. I am promising you confidentiality on this matter as long as you can assure me that I will have the exclusive first story when you make an arrest or wish to seek the public’s help, whichever comes first.
Are we agreed?
Bosch had known that his interaction with the Danish journalist would eventually come to this. He hit the return button and told Bonn that he agreed to provide him with an exclusive once there was something in the case worth reporting.
He fired off the email with a hard strike on the send button, then swiveled his chair and looked back toward the squad lieutenant’s office. He could see O’Toole in there, still at his desk.
“What’s wrong, Harry?” Chu asked. “What did the Tool do now?”
“Nothing,” Bosch said. “Don’t worry about it. But I gotta go.”
“Go where?”
“To see Casey Stengel.”
“Well, you want some backup?”
Bosch stared momentarily at his partner. Chu was Chinese-American, and as far as Bosch could tell, he knew nothing about sports. He had been born long after Casey Stengel was dead. He seemed sincere in not knowing who the Hall of Fame baseball player and manager was.
