The Burning Room

Childers drove. Little Mexico was a twenty-minute drive east from downtown. It was dark but the streets were well lighted and Bosch didn’t see what he expected. The streets were wide with grassy medians. There were houses and churches and businesses with space around them. There were closed businesses, too. He saw a Tulsa patrol car parked at an out-of-business gas station. He had to look long and hard before he saw any graffiti.

“So,” he said. “This is your barrio.”

“This is it,” Childers said.

Bosch was in the backseat, having given Soto the front. This would allow him to sit next to Ojeda should they find him and take him back to the PD for questioning.

Childers first made a slow pass by the El Chihuahua. It looked to Bosch like it had once been a Pizza Hut. It still had the red roof, but the windows were painted over, and there were a variety of hand-painted plywood signs affixed to the facade advertising cervezas, chicharones, and desportes. A lighted sign on a pole announced the name of the bar and depicted a cartoon of the dog breed named for the Mexican state of Chihuahua, its teeth bared for a fight and its front paws up and clad in boxing gloves.

It was near ten o’clock and the parking lot was full. Several men were milling about outside the doors on either side of the building, holding bottles and smoking.

“That’s a violation right there,” Childers said. “Open-container law—they can’t be drinking outside.”

“Good,” Bosch said. “We can use that.”

Childers pulled to the side of the road once they passed. He looked in the rearview at Bosch because he knew Harry called the shots in the partnership with Soto.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

Bosch thought for a moment.

“We passed a Shamu back there in the old gas station,” he said. “Can we bring him in on this?”

“Shamu?” Childers asked.

“The black-and-white. Looked like the guy was writing reports.”

“Shamu—like the whale. I like that. Yeah, I can get him over here.”

“Okay, we get him. We all go in and look around. If we see our guy, we have the uniform ask him to step outside because we have a problem with the public drinking. If that works out, we get him in the car and Lucy and I take it from there. We don’t mention L.A. and we use your badges.”

Childers nodded.

“Sounds good.”

He reached for the police radio between the seats and went through dispatch to instruct the nearby patrol car to respond to their location. He then signed off and put the radio mike down.

“How rough’s the crowd going to be?” Bosch asked.

“We should be all right,” Childers said. “But there ain’t going to be a lot of women in there. Detective Soto might give them…pause, if you know what I mean.”

“I can handle it,” Soto said. “I didn’t come out here to wait in the car.”

Her tone invited no debate.

“Fine by me,” Childers said.

They waited ten minutes for the patrol car to show. Childers flashed his lights as it was approaching on Garnet and the car crossed the oncoming traffic lane to pull up driver’s-side window to driver’s-side window. It was a one-man patrol, typical of cash-strapped municipalities. Childers knew the officer but didn’t bother to introduce Bosch and Soto other than to explain they were from Los Angeles. He relayed Bosch’s plan and the officer said he was good to go.

Childers turned the car around and they followed the patrol car to the bar. There were no parking spaces available in the lot. They drove down one side and around the back and then down the other side, stopping near the door where a group of men were standing, drinking and smoking. Most of them had probably been hassled before for drinking outside. Upon seeing the patrol car, they jostled to get back indoors.

Everybody got out of the cars and headed toward the door. Bosch heard the pulsing music coming from the bar. He moved to Soto’s left side. It was a routine way for them to approach a door where it was unknown what would be behind it. He was left-handed and she was right-handed. It was the safest way to approach.

The uniformed officer was at least six-three and barrel-chested. His girth was accentuated by the bulletproof vest under his uniform. He entered the bar first and started clearing a path through the crowd. Soto drew eyes, as expected, which worked to Bosch’s advantage. He swiveled his focus and took in the faces, looking for one that approximated the ten-year-old photo of Angel Ojeda’s driver’s license from California.

He got lucky. Almost immediately he spotted a man behind the bar on the right side of the room who looked like Ojeda. He appeared to be one of three bartenders, but he wasn’t taking orders or opening bottles of beer. He was leaning against a back counter next to the cash register and watching the crowded barroom. Soon his eyes came to Bosch and registered the white face in a sea of brown faces. Bosch knew in that instant that he had probably made Bosch as a cop. But he doubted Ojeda—if it was Ojeda—would have made him as a cop from L.A.

By now Bosch and Soto were not walking next to each other. The pathway through the crowd was too thin and they were moving in single file. Soto was much shorter than Bosch and her view was totally impeded by the crowd. Electronic dance music with a Latin beat blared from speakers. There were flat screens high on the walls and over the bar, showing soccer and boxing. The unmistakable stink of marijuana was in the air.

Bosch leaned forward and spoke loudly over Soto’s shoulder and into her ear.

“He’s here. Behind the bar. Tell Childers.”

The message was sent up the line, and by the time the small troop made it up to the side of the bar, the patrol officer had his instructions. He signaled the man by the cash register over and told him he needed to step outside. The man hesitated, gesturing to the crowd as if to say he had to stay to take care of business. The big patrol cop leaned farther over the bar and said something that was convincing. The man raised the fold-over countertop and came out from behind the bar. He made some sort of hand signal to one of the bartenders he’d left behind and headed toward the nearest door. The patrol officer redirected him to the door that Bosch and company had come in through and they crossed the barroom again and exited.

Outside the bar, the man Bosch had zeroed in on immediately went on the offensive, directing his protest at the uniformed officer even though he should have known that the suits are always in charge.

“Why you hassling me, man? I have a business here.”

“Sir, calm down,” the uniform said. “We have a problem we need to—”

“What problem? There is no problem.”

Bosch was sure it was Ojeda and was pleased that he obviously spoke English.

“Kevin, let me speak to the man,” Childers said.

The officer stepped back and Childers moved in, getting right in the barman’s face.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Why? Why do I give you my name?”

“Because we have a big problem here, sir, and if you don’t start cooperating, it’s going to get bigger. Now, what is your name?”

“Francisco Bernal. Okay?”

“You got an ID on you, Francisco Bernal? A driver’s license?”

“I don’t drive. I live behind the bar.”

“Good for you. A green card, then? A passport?”

The man looked at Soto with an expression of disgust that she would be part of this shakedown. He pulled his wallet and from the billfold pulled a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Childers, who opened the paper and looked at it quickly before handing it to Bosch. He then stepped aside so Bosch could take things from there.

Bosch looked at the document and the patrol officer helped by holding his flashlight on it. It was a photocopy of a Permanent Resident Card identifying the man as Francisco Bernal. Technically, every bearer of a green card was required to carry it at all times. But the reality was that a Permanent Resident Card was precious and difficult to replace if lost or stolen. Most people carried photocopies and locked the originals away. These copies were usually accepted during casual police stops. But Bosch was also aware that it was easier to make a phony photocopy than a counterfeit green card.

As Bosch studied the document, a few bar patrons stepped outside to see what was going on. Childers aggressively moved toward them, pointing at the door and ordering them back inside. They complied quickly.

Bosch looked up from the document and eyed the man he still believed was Angel Ojeda.

“You know it’s a misdemeanor to not carry the real thing, right?”

The man shook his head in frustration.

“This is bullshit,” he said.

Bosch moved up close to him and held out a folded piece of paper that he had been carrying.

“Is this bullshit?” he asked.

The man grabbed the paper from Bosch’s hand and unfolded it. It was the copy of the California driver’s license with his old picture on it. Bosch saw a flash of recognition in the barman’s eyes. It confirmed he was Ojeda.

“You just lied to a police officer,” he said. “You have what I believe is a false identification and immigration document. Do you know what kind of trouble you’re in?”

Bosch took a step back and nodded to the patrol officer.

“Hook him up, Kevin,” he said.

The patrolman turned off his flashlight and went to work.