The Burning Room

Bosch found Soto sitting in the video room, where she had watched the Ojeda interview. She was alone. She had an open bag of potato chips from a machine. It reminded Bosch that he hadn’t eaten since the brisket sandwich in Dallas.

“Where’s Ricky?”

“He left about halfway through. Said he had his own stuff to do but would be around if we need him. Nice going in there.”

Bosch picked up the bag and dug his hand into it for a potato chip. Soto didn’t protest.

“Thanks.”

“Ricky stayed until you got Ojeda to break. He said you were a ‘true gator’ and didn’t need any help from him. What’s that mean?”

Bosch shrugged.

“I don’t know. He looks too young to have been in Vietnam.”

“What did it mean in Vietnam? My grandfather was in Vietnam.”

“Your grandfather? That makes me feel good.”

She snatched the bag away from him, feigning annoyance that he had not given it back.

“Get your own—there are machines in the hallway. My grandfather was a lot older than you and a lifer in the Marines, believe it or not. What did it mean?”

“They had these CIA types they called ‘gators’—short for interrogators. But they used what they called ‘enhanced’ methods and tools of interrogation.”

“You mean like helicopters? Yeah, my grandfather told some stories.”

Her memory threatened to trigger Bosch’s own memories and he didn’t need that now. He brought the discussion back on point.

“How much of that last part of the interview did you write down in your notes?”

“None of it yet.”

“Good. Let’s keep it off the record for now.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a hot door and we have to be careful. You never open a door on a burning room. You approach cautiously and you—”

He stopped when he realized what he was saying.

“Sorry, that was not the right—”

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I get it. We can keep it out of the report but what about the video? You don’t want to erase it, do you?”

“No, we take the video but the captain won’t look at the video. He’ll just read our report and I don’t want that last part to get to him yet.”

“Got it.”

“Good. What about that name? Bruce Broussard. You heard of him?”

She shook her head.

“It sort of rings a bell but I don’t know from where,” she said. “You?”

“No.”

“Sounds like a big shot—the ‘concrete king.’ Do you believe Ojeda? About him and this woman with the rich husband falling in love.”

Bosch thought for a moment and then nodded.

“So far I do. It could have been love from his side of it. The woman? I don’t know yet. But we don’t talk about this with anyone. Nothing in the reports, nothing to your friends, even if they have badges. We find out more about Maria Broussard first.”

“What will you tell the captain? He’ll want to know what he got for his money, sending us out here.”

“I’ll write the summaries and leave the name Broussard out for now. I know how to make it look like he got his money’s worth. We need to try to get on a plane first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll check online. What about Ojeda?”

Bosch had to think about that for a moment. Letting Ojeda go could always result in his running again. It was a risk they’d have to take. Holding him on the phony ID and green card was a good way to turn a potential witness against the prosecution. He pointed to the equipment that lined one side of the room.

“We have the video of the interview. We take that and we write up a statement. One that includes the whole story. We get him to sign it and then we cut him loose. We keep it all out of the book for now. Just in case.”

“Of what?”

“Of anything.”