The Burning Room

26



Their case theory took on a higher degree of validity after Gun Chung positively identified the Kimber rifle they brought in as the weapon that had fired the bullet that was lodged in Orlando Merced’s spine for ten years.

After the weapon was processed for fingerprints, Chung fired a round from the Kimber into the bullet tank in the lab, fished it out with a net, and then compared it on the double microscope to the slug taken from Merced. The original slug was badly damaged. Still, it took Chung less than ten minutes to declare the comparison a match he would confidently testify to in court.

Bosch had Chung fire rounds from the M60 and the handgun into the tank as well. He asked Chung to run digital profiles of the bullets through the projectile database when he got a chance. The two other weapons may have had nothing to do with the Merced case, but they bore checking out. Willman had hidden the weapons for a reason. The two extra guns were loose ends that needed to be tied up.

The samurai sword should also be checked and traced if possible. But that was not Chung’s domain. Bosch planned to run checks on sword thefts and crimes involving the use of such weapons as soon as he broke clear of the current investigations and had the time.





When Bosch and Soto got back to the PAB, there was no one in the squad to report their news to. Crowder and Samuels were long gone for the day. Almost all the other investigators had signed out as well. Bosch stored the three guns and the sword recovered in Hemet in the firearms vault located in the file room. He planned to run ATF traces on the M60 and the Glock the next morning.

When he got to the module, Soto was reading through the latest batch of tip sheets that Sarah Holcomb had left on her desk.

“Anybody call up and say a guy named Dave Willman took the shot?” Bosch asked. “And that Charles Broussard asked him to do it?”

“You wish,” Soto said.

Bosch sat down at his desk. He was tired. Driving sapped his energy these days.

“Anything else in there?” he asked.

“Not much. Our anonymous lady who thinks the ex-mayor has all the answers returned my call, but Sarah missed it and the woman just left a message saying the same thing—talk to Zeyas. Sarah ran the number this time and it goes to an unregistered cell—a throwaway.”

“Not that surprising. If she’s not a citizen, she wouldn’t have the proper ID and bank account to get a legit carrier. Most of the illegals in this city use throwaways. They’re cheap and available at every bodega in the city.”

Soto was calling the number again, holding her desk phone to her ear while continuing the conversation.

“I have to say, her persistence makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what? Whether the ex-mayor was in on the Merced shooting?”

“No, not that. That’s pretty far-fetched. But who knows, maybe he knows something.”

“Okay, then you’re the one who gets to ask His Honor about that—based on an anonymous caller’s tip. See if they’ll let you keep your Medal of Valor after that.”

“I know. It’s crazy.”

“It’s not crazy. It’s just reckless until something more comes up to support it, and I don’t really think anything else is going to.”

Soto hung up the phone.

“It went to message again.”

Bosch pulled his chair over to hers and said he wanted to change the subject and discuss their next steps. It was imperative that they now gather complete profiles of both Broussard and Willman. He exercised his senior-partner status and elected to take Broussard while Soto took on Willman. He also said that he believed it was time to go to the District Attorney’s Office to talk to a filing deputy about what they had and what was needed to make a prosecutable case. He would attempt to set that up for the next day, hoping to get John Lewin or another deputy he was confident would be up to the task. Lewin was a guy who always looked for ways to work with investigators to get a winnable case filed. Some of his counterparts on the seventeenth floor of the CCB seemed more interested in looking for reasons not to file cases.

“What about Bonnie Brae?” Soto asked when Bosch was finished.

“I think it’s got to wait,” Bosch said. “For now, at least. We have to go with the momentum we’ve got on Merced. On top of that, we have to assume Broussard is working against our momentum. He’s got to know that Merced has died and that we now have the bullet. He might already be watching us. So our time is best spent on Merced and moving quickly.”

She looked disappointed but accepted his decision.

“What if I work it on my own time?” she asked.

Bosch thought for a moment.

“I would never tell you not to work something on your own,” he said. “They call them ‘hobby cases’ around here. But that doesn’t seem like the right description for that case and what it means to you. I understand that you want to keep the momentum you have going. Completing the nexus and all of that. I just want to make sure you keep a hard focus on Merced.”

“I will, Harry. I promise.”

“Okay, then do what you have to do.”





On his way home Bosch once again went up Mulholland instead of Woodrow Wilson so that he could cruise Charles Broussard’s home. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to see. The chances of catching sight of the suspect—yes, Bosch had now reached a point where he considered him a suspect—were almost nonexistent. But still Bosch was drawn to the concrete fortress where Broussard had hidden himself from public exposure and the law for so long.

This time it was dark when Bosch reached the turnout for the northern overlook. The signs said the park was closed from dusk till dawn, but there were cars parked and people out on the promontory, checking out the vast carpet of lights in the Valley. Bosch stepped out to the view and looked to his right along the ridgeline. He could see the forward edge of the concrete house jutting farther out than the houses between it and the overlook. Bosch saw lights on behind floor-to-ceiling windows, and far down the sheer hillside at the bottom level was a lighted blue pool shaped like a kidney. He saw no human activity anywhere.

Bosch sat down on a bench and enjoyed the view like the other tourists on the promontory. But his thoughts were of murder and the kind of people who pay others to kill their competitors and enemies. The ultimate narcissists who think that the world revolves around only them. He wondered how many were out there among the billion lights that glowed up at him through the haze.

Bosch heard an authoritative voice and turned to see a city parks ranger putting the beam of a flashlight in people’s faces and telling them that the park was closed and that they had to leave or be cited for trespassing. He was being an impolite jerk and was wearing a wide-brimmed Dudley Do-Right hat that undercut his authority. When he came up to roust Bosch, the only one who hadn’t scurried out to the parking turnout, Harry held up his badge and said he was working.

“You still have to go,” the ranger said. “Park’s closed.”

Bosch noticed that the nameplate on his uniform said Bender.

“First of all, get that light out of my face. Second, I’m on a case and I’m watching a house over there and this is the only place I can see it from. I’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”

Bender lowered the light. He looked like he was unused to people defying him.

“They really make you wear that hat?” Bosch asked.

Bender studied him for a moment and Bosch looked right back at him. In the glow from the lights below, Bosch could see his temples pulsing.

“Do you have a name to go with that badge?”

“Sure do. It’s Bosch. Robbery-Homicide Division. Thanks for asking.”

Bosch waited. His move.

“Ten minutes,” Bender said. “I’ll be back to check.”

Bosch nodded.

“That makes me feel better.”

The ranger walked off toward the stairs leading to the parking lot, and Bosch turned his attention back to the concrete fortress. He noticed that the pool light was now out. He stood up and moved farther out to the edge of the lookout. There was a thigh-high safety barrier. By propping himself against it and leaning even farther out he improved his angle of sight on the Broussard mansion. He pulled the compact binoculars out of his jacket pocket and looked through them. He could now see in through some of the lighted windows. He saw a living room with large abstract paintings on twenty-foot walls and a kitchen where a woman was moving about behind a counter. It looked like she was emptying a dishwasher. She had dark hair but he could not really see her well. He guessed it was Maria Broussard, the woman whose marital indiscretion had started it all.

Bosch’s phone buzzed and startled him. He pulled himself back from the precipice and put the binoculars in his pocket. He took the call. It was Virginia Skinner.

“First of all, thank you again for dinner last night,” she said. “That was really nice and I had fun.”

“Me, too. We should do it again.”

There was a momentary pause as that registered and then she continued.

“The other thing is, are you still interested in Charles Broussard?”

Bosch stared at the Broussard house for a few moments before answering.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, because it was a slow Monday today, and so I was looking through all the crap that accumulates on my desk. You know, press releases and political invites and all of that. I was really looking to see what I could just throw out and move off my desk, and I came across a press release for a fund-raiser that Broussard is co-hosting tomorrow for the Zeyas exploratory committee.”

“Tomorrow? At his house?”

“No, this one’s actually at the Beverly Hilton. It doesn’t even say that Zeyas will be there but you have to assume he’ll pop in to say a few words.”

“Do you need some kind of ticket or invitation to go?”

“Well, for me, no. I’m media. Otherwise it’s five hundred a plate.”

“Are you going?”

“Probably not…unless…if you were going, then I might.”

Bosch thought about things. His daughter had the alcohol sting the next night. She didn’t want Bosch to embarrass her by coming along, but his plan was to be there and watch over her without her knowing it. He felt the sergeant in charge wouldn’t be as vigilant as he would be—even from afar.

“What time is it at?”

“Seven in the Merv Griffin Room.”

“I might be in the vicinity, maybe stop and get a look at him. How about I let you know tomorrow?”

“Sure. Then you’re still interested in him?”

“I can’t talk about the case. We have a deal, remember?”

“Of course. I’m not writing anything until you give the go-ahead. So you can tell me anything and trust me not to use it.”

Bosch started pacing back toward the steps down to the turnout. The conversation had suddenly turned awkward with Skinner’s precise summary of the deal they made before having dinner the evening before. After that, they hadn’t mentioned it once.

“Harry? You there?”

“Yes, here. I’m sort of in the middle of something. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know if I’ll be going to that thing.”

“Okay, fine. Talk to you then.”

Bosch disconnected and pocketed the phone. He was about to take the steps down to his car but glanced back toward Broussard’s house. He saw a figure standing out on one of the balconies now. Moving back toward the end of the promontory, he pulled out the binoculars once more.

There was a man on the balcony, wearing what looked like an open robe over shorts and a T-shirt. There was the dim glow of a cigarette in one hand. He was heavyset and had a full beard.

And it looked like he was staring back at Bosch.