The Burning Room

22



Bosch turned his attention back to the Merced investigation. The first thing he did was run Charles Broussard through the computer to see if by chance he had ever been jammed up before. He doubted this would be the case, or the politicians wouldn’t touch him or his money, at least not publicly. The search came up dry—Broussard had a clean record, not so much as a speeding ticket.

Bosch wrote down the home address from his driver’s license and now believed he had the location on Mulholland Drive where Angel Ojeda had come across Maria Broussard and their affair had begun.

He next ran a Los Angeles County property search on Broussard and found several parcels in his ownership, beginning with the address on Mulholland Drive. There were also commercially zoned sites in Pacoima and City of Industry that Bosch assumed were related to the concrete business that Virginia Skinner and Ojeda had mentioned. He found another residential address on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. A beach house. All told, Broussard had his name on properties Bosch estimated were valued at more than $20 million in Los Angeles County alone.

Bosch cleared out of property records and moved his computer sleuthing to the state’s corporate records. After plugging in Broussard’s name, he got matches on several articles of incorporation, some long outdated but most of them current. One business that listed Broussard as president and chief operating officer was called Broussard Concrete Design. Bosch knew this to be the company that provided the concrete barriers used in road construction projects. He had seen B-C-D stenciled on barriers on freeways for as long as he could remember.

Broussard was listed as an officer or member of the board on various other businesses incorporated in the state. None of these drew Bosch’s attention immediately but he wrote them all down along with their addresses.

One of the expired corporations caught Bosch’s eye. Broussard had been listed as president of a now-defunct corporation called White Tail Hunting Ranch and Range in Riverside County, which was just across the eastern border of Los Angeles County and not far from Broussard’s property in City of Industry.

Bosch copied the information even though the state records indicated the incorporation of the hunting ranch and range had lasted only four years and was dissolved in 2006, when the property was sold. What this meant to Harry was that Broussard was a hunter or at least knew hunters. Gun Chung had identified the rifle used to shoot Orlando Merced as a hunting rifle.

It was eleven o’clock and Bosch wanted to be home when his daughter woke up. He started shutting down his computer and looked over his shoulder at Soto. She was consumed with her own work on her screen.

“I’m gonna go,” he said. “I want to spend some time with my kid today.”

“No problem,” she said. “I’m going to stay awhile.”

“Getting anything?”

“Not yet. You?”

“Yeah, I think so. At the time of the Merced shooting, Broussard owned a hunting ranch and shooting range out in Riverside.”

Soto looked away from her computer and directly at Bosch.

“Then he probably knew a hundred guys who could have taken that shot,” she said.

“What I was thinking,” he said.

“That’s good. You said ‘owned.’ No more?”

“He sold it about eighteen months after Merced.”

“And after he had jumped ship from Inglin to Zeyas.”

Bosch nodded. The possibilities were expanding and darkening at the same time.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Okay, Harry,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

It was clear sailing on the 101 on the way home and Bosch made good time. He got off the freeway at the Barham exit and then took Cahuenga down to the turn that would take him up the hill. There were two ways up: Mulholland Drive to the left and his street, Woodrow Wilson Drive, to the right. He turned left, deciding to use the time he’d made on the freeway to get a look at Broussard’s house.

Mulholland rode the spine of the mountains that cut the city in half. The address Bosch had for Broussard was on the north side of the street with a view of the San Fernando Valley. But as Bosch drove by the address, he saw no house, just a gated driveway entrance. The drive went down and disappeared off the edge of the roadway. A block away Bosch pulled into the parking turnout for a city parks scenic overlook. He left the car and walked back along Mulholland. When he got back to Broussard’s gate he looked down at a poured-concrete driveway that snaked down to a parking structure with three double-wide garage doors made of aluminum frames and shaded glass. It took Bosch a moment to realize that the six-car garage was actually the top level of a multi-tiered house that was stepped down the mountainside. The house was entirely and unabashedly constructed of unfinished concrete. The design was what Bosch knew was called industrial chic.

Bosch put his foot up on the guardrail next to Mulholland and pretended to lean over and tie his shoe. As he studied the house, he saw camera boxes at the corners of the garage and up top at the gate. The place no doubt was a fortress. Nobody got in uninvited. Nobody was unseen on approach. Bosch wondered what it was Broussard was protecting himself from.

He took his foot off the guardrail and headed back to his car.





Maddie was awake when Bosch came through the front door. She was sitting on the couch watching television and eating a bowl of cereal. It was fifteen minutes past noon.

“Hey, sweetie.”

“Dad.”

“I thought we were going to have lunch or breakfast.”

“We are, but I couldn’t wait. This is like an appetizer.”

He sat down in the chair opposite the couch. She was still dressed in her pajamas—plaid workout pants and a T-shirt that said “The 1975” on it. Bosch knew it was a band she liked. The year before, he had bought her and her friends tickets to see them at the Henry Fonda.

“What do you feel like doing?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Something outside.”

Bosch nodded.

“When do you report tonight?”

“Five-thirty.”

Bosch checked his watch. His plan would cut things close on timing. He went with it anyway.

“I was thinking, there’s a range out in Riverside I want to check out. How about that? It’s been a while since you’ve been shooting.”

A few years earlier Madeline had been a competitive shooter and had ribboned in several shows. But her dedication had dropped off as more and more school and volunteer activities started crowding her schedule. Her growing interest in boys was a distraction as well.

“Yeah, cool,” she said. “Where’s Riverside?”

“That’s the thing. It’s out east of here, the next county over,” he said. “We would have to go soon so you can be back in time for Meals on Wheels.”

“I just have to change. All right if I do homework in the car?”

“Sure. You go get dressed and I’ll get the guns out.”

They were in the car in fifteen minutes. Bosch had brought her competition pistol as well as the Glock Model 30 he currently carried on the job and the Kimber Ultra he previously used as his sidearm. Since the White Tail range was part of a hunting ranch, he had a feeling it would largely be set up for long-gun shooting, but he didn’t own a rifle or a shotgun. If needed, he would inquire about renting something when he got there.

The Sunday traffic was comparatively light and they made good time. Even so, it still took over an hour to get there, including a food stop in West Covina. Maddie did homework and said little, except when she used her phone to look up fast-food stops. This had become more challenging since she had stopped eating red meat earlier in the year. Fast food had almost always meant In-N-Out Burgers before that. She settled on a place called Johnny’s Shrimp Boat, which was on Glendora just off the 10 freeway. Maddie ordered fried shrimp and Bosch got the chili rice. The food was excellent and Maddie put aside the schoolbooks while they ate in the parked car.

“So how was last night?” Bosch asked.

“It was good,” she said. “Fun. And the movie was really good.”

“Was this Jonathan Pace a gentleman?”

“Yes, Dad. He’s a very nice guy.”

“How many of you went?”

“Well, it ended up being just me and Jon.”

“I thought you said it was a group.”

“It was supposed to be, but things happen. People didn’t show up. So it was me and Jon and everything was fine, okay?”

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.”

He gathered the takeout cartons and took them to a trash can in the parking lot. When he got back to the car, all discussion ceased as she went back to the books and he drove on to Riverside.

The original corporation might be defunct but the White Tail Hunting Ranch and Range still operated under the same name on the outskirts of a town called Hemet. The range was in a private reserve in the foothills of San Jacinto Mountain. It was fronted by the outdoor firing range and several outbuildings that included the office, a bunkhouse, and a skinning-and-dressing barn. Bosch entered the office with his daughter and they were greeted by a wall of photos displaying hunters and their kills. There were deer, mountain goats, and many photos of wild hogs on the ground, hunters and their rifles posed with them.

“Oh my god,” Maddie whispered, as she looked at a photo of the huge crooked teeth and snout of a vanquished razorback boar.

Bosch shushed her as a man came out from a side office to the counter. He was in work clothes and wore a cap with a frayed bill and a Smith & Wesson logo on it.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, my daughter and I were passing through and saw the place,” Bosch said. “Do you need a membership to shoot on the range?”

“You do, but we sell day memberships. Twenty-five dollars.”

“Do you have a short range? We have pistols.”

“Sure do.”

“Then sign us up for the day.”

Bosch paid the money and signed a range rules agreement. They took their weapons and ammo boxes out to the range. The short range had stands that were under shelter. They chose a forty-foot range and put in earplugs. Bosch let his daughter go first, loading the weapon for her. She started off target but on the second clip she began tightening the circle and showing her old form. Bosch had brought in a pair of binoculars he kept in the glove compartment. He watched the target when she shot and called out the groupings. He no longer had to worry about her shooting form.

Maddie used all three guns and did most of the shooting. Eventually, Bosch sat back on a bench behind the stand and just watched her as he also looked around the place.

“Dad, don’t you want to shoot anymore?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just watching you.”

“Is there another reason why we came here?”

“Sort of. I’ll tell you later.”

There were only three other shooters on the range and they were all at the rifle stands, which were separated from the short range and unsheltered. Bosch studied the men. Two were definitely together and one was by himself, working with a scope. All three of them exhibited a familiarity with the surroundings that led Bosch to conclude they were not day members. They belonged.

After forty minutes Maddie had gone through all their ammo. Bosch got a broom off a tool rack and handed it to her. He told her to clean up all the empty shells so they could recycle them. He said he’d wait for her in the office, where he was going to talk to the man behind the counter.

Bosch stepped into the office and over to the trophy photo wall. He was studying the photos, looking for a hunter who might be holding a Kimber hunting rifle, when the man came out from the back room again.

“Enjoy yourselves?” he asked.

“We did,” Bosch said. “Thank you. I wanted to ask you about hunting. Can you also come in on a day pass to hunt?”

“To hunt you need a two-day pass even if you just hunt the one day. You need to bring in your hog and deer tags, too.”

“Got it.”

Bosch went back to the photos. He spoke without turning his eyes to man.

“My daughter’s just picking up our brass and then we’ll be out of here.”

“You got the day pass, stay as long as you like.”

“I’ve been here before, you know. About ten or twelve years ago. I came with Brouss back when he opened it, and I got a hog. I thought maybe the picture would be up here somewhere.”

“That goes back a ways. Those photos—if there are any left—are over there on the other side of the door.”

“Okay.”

Bosch moved over to the area on the right side of the door and started looking.

“There’s not too much from back then,” the man said. “Mr. Broussard took a lot of the photos with him when he sold the place. He took every picture with Dave in it off the wall. Didn’t want the reminder up, I guess.”

Bosch kept his eyes on the photos and his voice casual.

“A reminder of what?”

“The accident. That’s why he sold the place. He didn’t want to be reminded.”

Now Bosch turned from the wall of photos and looked at the man.

“What kind of accident was it?”

The man eyed him for a long moment before answering.

“No need to pick at scabs around here. Mr. Broussard sold the place to me and we’ve had no problems since I took it over. Enough said right there.”

“Sorry. My daughter says I shouldn’t be so nosy.”

“She’s a smart girl, you ask me. And a hell of a shot—I was watching.”

“She sure is.”