the same protections—that’s probably why nobody from the League called you back. A contract can be voided on a CUBO.”
Now it hit Bosch. The year before, he had signed a five-year contract under the Deferred Retirement Option Plan. He had effectively retired in order to freeze his pension and then came back to work under the contract. There was a clause in that contract that allowed the department to dismiss him if he was found guilty of committing a crime or if an internal charge of Conduct Unbecoming an Officer was sustained against him.
“Don’t you see what O’Fool is doing?” Jackson asked. “He’s reshaping the squad, trying to make it
Bosch nodded as he saw the scheme come together. He knew what Jackson didn’t; that O’Toole might not be acting alone, just to feather his nest. He might be doing the bidding of the man on the tenth floor.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” he said.
“Oh, shit,” Jackson said. “What?”
“Not here. Let’s go.”
They left Charlie Chaplin behind and headed back to the PAB on foot. Along the way, Bosch told Jackson two stories, one old and the other new. The first was the backstory behind the case Bosch worked the year before involving the death of then-councilman Irvin Irving’s son. Bosch recounted how he had been used by the chief and a former partner he trusted in a successful political coup, resulting in Irving losing his bid for reelection. A police department sympathizer was elected in his stead.
“That already put me on a collision course with Marty,” he said. “And with the case I’m working now, we’ve collided.”
He then explained how the man on the tenth floor was trying through O’Toole to pressure him into slowing down the forward momentum of the Anneke Jespersen case. By the time he was finished with the story, Bosch guessed that Jackson fully regretted having signed on as Harry’s defense rep.
“So, in the grand scheme of things,” Jackson said as they entered the front courtyard of the PAB, “you are not interested in slowing it down, not even just pushing it quietly over into next year?”
Bosch shook his head.
“She’s waited too long,” he said. “And whoever killed her has been free too long. I’m not slowing down for anything.”
Jackson nodded as they went through the automatic doors.
“I didn’t think so.”
18
Bosch was no sooner at his desk in his cubicle in the Open-Unsolved Unit than he was visited by his new nemesis, Lieutenant O’Toole.
“Bosch, did you set up an appointment with the PSB investigator yet?”
Bosch swiveled in his seat so he could look up at his supervisor. O’Toole had his suit jacket off and was wearing suspenders with a design of little golf clubs on them. His tie tack was a miniature LAPD badge. They sold them in the gift shop at the Police Academy.
“It’s taken care of,” Bosch said.
“Good. I want this cleared up as soon as possible.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“It’s nothing personal, Bosch.”
Bosch smiled at that.
“I just want to know one thing, Lieutenant. Did you come up with this all on your own, or did you have help from upstairs?”
“Harry?” Jackson said from across the cubicle divider. “I don’t think you should get into a—”
Bosch held up his hand to stop Jackson from getting involved.
“It’s okay, Rick. It was just a rhetorical question. The lieutenant doesn’t have to answer it.”
“I don’t know what you mean by upstairs,” O’Toole said anyway. “But it would be typical of you to focus on where the complaint came from instead of the complaint itself and your own actions.”
Bosch’s cell phone began to buzz. He pulled it from his pocket and looked away from O’Toole to check the screen. The caller ID was blocked.
“The question is simple,” O’Toole continued. “Did you act properly while up there in the prison or did you —”
“I have to take this,” Bosch said, cutting him off. “I’m working a case, L-T.”
O’Toole turned to leave the cubicle. Bosch connected to the call but told the caller to hold. He then held the phone to his chest so his words would not be overheard by whoever was on the other end.
“Lieutenant,” he said.
He had called to his supervisor loud enough for several detectives in their nearby cubicles to hear. O’Toole turned around and looked back at him.
“If you continue to harass me,” Bosch said, “I will file a formal complaint.”
He held eye contact with O’Toole for a few moments, then raised his phone to his ear.
“This is Detective Bosch, how can I help you?”
“This is Suzanne Wingo, ATF. Are you presently in the PAB?”
It was Rachel Walling’s contact. Bosch felt a tremor of adrenaline hit his bloodstream. She might have already traced the ownership of the gun used to kill Anneke Jespersen.
“Yes, I’m here. Have you—”
“I’m on a bench in the front plaza. Can you come down? I have something for you.”
“Uh, sure. But would you rather come up to the office? I can—”
“No, I would prefer that you come down here.”
“Then I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“Come alone, Detective.”
She disconnected. Bosch sat for a long moment, wondering why she had told him to come alone. He quickly called Rachel Walling’s number.
“Harry?”
“It’s me. This Suzanne Wingo—what’s with her?”
“What do you mean? She told me she would run the numbers. I gave her your cell.”
“I know. She just called me and told me to meet her down in the front plaza. She told me to come alone. What am I getting into here, Rachel?”
Walling laughed before she answered.
“Nothing, Harry. She’s just that way. Very secretive, very cautious. She’s doing you a favor and doesn’t want anybody else to know.”
“You sure that’s all?”
“Yes. And she’ll probably want something in return for the favor. Quid pro quo.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea, Harry. It might not even be right now. You may just owe her one. Either way, if you want to find out who owns the gun you’ve got, go down and see her.”
“Okay. Thanks, Rachel.”
Bosch disconnected and stood up. He looked behind him. Chu was still not at his desk. Bosch hadn’t seen him yet that morning. He saw Jackson looking at him, and Bosch gave him a signal to meet him at the door. Harry waited until they were out in the hallway before speaking.
“You have a few minutes?” he asked.
“I guess,” Jackson said. “What’s up?”
“Come over here.”
Bosch moved to the glass wall that allowed him to look down on the plaza. He scanned the concrete benches until he saw a woman sitting alone, holding a file. She wore a blazer over slacks and a golf shirt. Bosch could see where the blazer rode up into a sharp ridge behind the right pocket. The woman had a gun holstered under the
