“What is he saying?” Bosch finally asked. “What are you two talking about?”
“He is frustrated, Detective Bosch,” Bonn said. “He liked Anneke very much and would like to be of great help to you. But he does not have the information you need. He is frustrated because he knows you are frustrated also.”
“Well, tell him not to take it personally.”
Bonn translated and Jannik started giving a long answer in return.
“Let’s work backwards,” Bosch said, cutting them off. “I know a lot of reporters over here. They’re not war correspondents but I’m sure reporters work the same way. Usually one story leads to another. Or, if they find somebody they trust, then they keep going back to the well. That means that they go back to that same person for other stories. So, see if he remembers the last few stories he worked on with Anneke. I know she was in Kuwait the year before but ask him . . . just see if he remembers what stories she worked on.”
Bonn and Jannik then started a long back-and-forth. Bosch could hear one of them typing and guessed it was Bonn. While he waited for the translation into English, he got a call-waiting beep on his phone. He checked the ID and saw the call was coming from the Firearms Analysis Unit. Pistol Pete. Bosch wanted to take the call immediately but decided to finish the interview with Jannik first.
“Okay, I have it,” Bonn said. “I looked it up in our digital archives. In the year previous to her death, as you say, Anneke was reporting and sending photos from Kuwait during Desert Storm. Several stories and photos we bought at the
“Okay. Anything about war crimes or atrocities, things like that?”
“Uh . . . no, I see nothing that is like that. She wrote stories about the people’s side of it. The people in Kuwait City. She had three photo essays . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘the people’s side’?”
“Life under fire. About the families who lost members. Stories like that.”
Bosch thought for a moment.
“I’ll tell you what,” he finally said. “Can you send me the links to the stories you’re looking at there?”
“Yes, I will do that. You will have to translate them.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How far back do you want me to go from her last story?”
“How about a year?”
“A year. Okay. That will be many stories.”
“That’s okay. Does Mr. Jannik have anything else? Can he remember anything else?”
He waited for the final question to be translated. He wanted to go. He wanted to get back to Pistol Pete.
“Mr. Jannik will think more about this,” Bonn said. “He makes a promise to check the website to see if he remembers more.”
“What website?”
“For Anneke.”
“What do you mean? There’s a website?”
“Yes, of course. It was made by her brother. He made this as a memorial for Anneke and he has many of her photographs and stories on there, you see.”
Bosch was silent a moment because he was embarrassed. He could blame it on Anneke’s brother for not telling him about the website but that would be passing the buck. He should have been savvy enough to ask.
“What is the web address?” he asked.
Bonn told him, spelling it out, and now Bosch finally had something to write down.
It was faster calling than going back in and having to get through security. Pistol Pete answered in two rings.
“It’s Bosch. Did you get something?”
“I told you on the message,” Sargent said.
His voice was flat. Bosch took it as bad news.
“I didn’t listen to it. I just called you back. What happened?”
Bosch held his breath.
“It’s pretty good news, actually. Got it all except for one digit. That narrows it down to ten possibilities.”
Bosch had worked previous gun cases where he had a lot less to go with. He still had his notebook out and he told Sargent to give him what he’d come up with off the gun. He wrote it down and read it back to confirm.
BER0060_5Z
“It’s that eighth digit, Harry,” Sargent said. “It wouldn’t come up. I’ve got a slight crescent at the top, so I’m leaning toward it being another zero or a three, eight, or nine. Something with a crescent on top.”
“Got it. I’m on my way back to the office and will run it through the box. Pistol Pete, you came through. Thank you, man.”
“Anytime, Harry. Anytime you bring the Giamela’s!”
Bosch disconnected the call and started the car. He then called his partner, who took the call at his desk. Bosch read him the Beretta serial number and told him to start tracing all ten possibilities for the full number. The place to start was the California DOJ database because Chu could access it and it would track all weapons sold in the state. If there was no hit there, they would have to request the trace through the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. That would slow things down. The feds weren’t the fastest movers and the ATF had been rocked by a series of scandals and blunders that had also served to slow down action on requests from local law enforcement.
But Bosch stayed positive. He’d gotten lucky with Pistol Pete and the serial number. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t hold.
He pulled into heavy traffic on San Fernando Road and started south. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get back to the PAB.
“Hey, Harry?” Chu said, his voice low.
“What?”
“Somebody from IA came around looking to talk to you.”
So much for his luck holding. O’Toole must’ve hand-delivered the complaint to the PSB—still called IA or IAD by most cops, despite the official name change.
“What was his name? Is he still there?”
“It was a she and she said her name was Detective Mendenhall. She went in with O’Toole and closed the door for a little bit and then I think she left.”
“Okay, I’ll deal with it. Run that number.”
“Will do.”
Bosch disconnected. His lane was not moving and he could not see ahead because the Humvee in front of him blocked his view. He blew out his breath and honked the car horn in frustration. He felt that more than his luck was suddenly ebbing away. His momentum and positive attitude were eroding. It suddenly felt like it was getting dark out.
15
Chu was not in the cubicle when Bosch got back to the PAB. He checked the clock on the wall and saw that it was only 3 P.M. If his partner had left for the day early to make up for the long hours the day before and without running the serial numbers through the DOJ computer, Bosch would be livid. He stepped over and hit the space bar on Chu’s keyboard. The screen lit but it was his password gateway. He scanned Chu’s desk for a printout of a DOJ gun registry form but saw nothing. Rick Jackson’s cubicle was on the other side of the four-foot separation wall.
“You seen Chu?” Bosch asked him.
Jackson straightened up in his chair and looked around the squad room as if he would be able to recognize Chu, whereas Bosch could not.
“No . . . he was here. I think he might’ve gone to the head or something.”
