“Something seems off but I don’t know. It will be interesting to see if he files a complaint.”
“If he’s our guy, he doesn’t file the complaint, because he won’t want the follow-up.”
They walked back to Ballard’s car and got in. Ballard was silent as she pulled away from the curb. She was wondering if joining forces with Bosch had been a career-threatening mistake.
Bosch
12
The search team was waiting outside Pacoima Tire & Muffler when the current owner opened up for a day of business. To say he was surprised by the police presence that greeted him was an understatement. After lifting the garage door, he held his arms aloft and stared wide-eyed at the vehicles amassed in front of him. Bosch was the first out of his car and the first to get to him.
“Mr. Cardinale?” he said. “You can put your hands down. I’m Detective Bosch with the San Fernando Police Department. We have a search warrant for these premises.”
“What?” Cardinale said. “What are you talking about?”
Bosch handed him the warrant.
“It’s a search warrant,” he said. “Signed by a judge. And it allows us to search for specific evidence relating to a crime.”
“What crime?” Cardinale said. “I run a clean business. I’m not like the guy who was here before.”
“We know that, sir. The crime relates to the prior ownership of the business but we still need to search, because we believe the evidence may still be in place.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about. There is no crime here.”
It took Bosch several more exchanges before Cardinale seemed to understand what was happening. He was about fifty with a midlife paunch and gray thinning hair. His hands were scarred from a lifetime spent working on cars. He had blurred blue tattoos on his forearms that looked to Bosch like old military insignia.
“How long ago did you take over the business?” Bosch asked.
“Eight years,” Cardinale said. “I bought it for cash. No loan. My own hard-earned money.”
“When you bought it, did you make any changes inside?”
“A lot of changes. I brought in all new tools. I modernized. Cleared out the old shit.”
“What about the structure of the building? Any changes?”
“I spruced things up. Patched and painted, the usual. Inside and out.”
Bosch assessed the building. It was standard cinder-block construction. Solid on the outside.
“What did you patch?”
“Holes in the walls, broken windows. I can’t remember everything I did.”
“You remember any bullet holes?”
That gave Cardinale pause. His eyes drifted away from Bosch’s as he remembered taking over the shop.
“Are you saying somebody got shot here?” he asked.
“No, not at all,” Bosch said. “We’re looking for bullets that were shot into the walls.”
Cardinale nodded and seemed relieved.
“Yeah, there were bullet holes,” he said. “I mean, they looked like bullet holes. I had ’em patched and painted over.”
“Can you show me where?” Bosch asked.
Cardinale entered his garage and Bosch followed, signaling Lourdes and Luzon to follow. The shop owner led them to the rear of the first garage bay.
“Back here,” he said. “There were holes in this wall that looked like they were from bullets. I remember thinking that at the time. We patched them all up.”
He pointed behind a workbench that was covered with tools and pipe-bending vises. The area fit with the description Bosch had gotten from the witness Martin Perez.
“Okay,” Bosch said. “We’re going to have to move this bench and the tools out of here. We need to open the wall.”
“And who closes it back up?” Cardinale asked.
“We have a city crew here that will make the necessary repairs. I can’t promise it will be all painted and back to normal by the end of the day, but we’ll get it there.”
Cardinale frowned. He didn’t put much stock in the promise. Bosch turned to Lourdes.
“Let’s get the city guys in here to clear this and then bring the metal detector first,” he said. “Let’s move fast, maybe get out of here before the neighborhood takes notice.”
“Too late,” Lourdes said.
She signaled Bosch over into a private conversation.
“We have a problem,” she said in a whisper. “The LAPD guy says Tranquillo Cortez is across the street.”
“Are you kidding?” Bosch said. “How’d he find out so fast?”
“Good question. He’s out there with some of his boys.”
“Come on.”
Bosch walked quickly out of the garage, with Lourdes following. Across the street was a lavandería with a small front parking lot. The business had not yet opened for the day, but there was a car in the lot, a classic old Lincoln Continental with pearl-white paint and suicide doors. Its suspension had been dropped a few notches so that it would barely clear a speed bump. Three men were leaning against its side with their arms folded, their tattoo sleeves on full display. The man in the middle wore a flat-brimmed Dodgers cap and a long white T-shirt that went down to his thighs. He was the smallest of the three but presented as the man in charge. Bosch recognized him from a photo on a SanFers organizational chart at the SFPD gang unit office. Tranquillo Cortez.
Without hesitation Bosch crossed the street.
“Harry, what are we doing?” Lourdes whispered from behind.
“Just gonna ask him a few questions,” Bosch said.
As they entered the laundry’s parking lot, only Cortez pushed his hips off the car and stood tall to greet Bosch.
“Officer, how are you today?” he said.
Bosch didn’t answer. He walked directly up to Cortez and leaned down to get in the shorter man’s face. He noticed the diamond earrings on both sides and the two blue tears tattooed off the outside corner of his left eye.
“Cortez, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m waiting for the laundry to open,” Cortez said. “You know, wash my clothes, see how white my whites can be with Tide and all.”
He picked at his T-shirt and adjusted it like he was looking in a mirror.
“Who told you we were coming here?” Bosch said.
“Hmm, that’s a good question,” Cortez said. “I’m not sure I remember. Who told you to come here?”
Bosch didn’t answer. Cortez wore his hat up high. He had shaved sidewalls with “VSF” tattooed above his right ear and “13” above his left. He smiled and his dark eyes became slits.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Bosch ordered.
“You arresting me if I don’t?” Cortez challenged.
“Yeah, I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation. Then, who knows, maybe they make a mistake and put you in the Pacoima Flats tank and we see what happens next.”
Cortez flashed the smile again.
“That’d be fun,” he said. “For me, but not them.”
Bosch reached up and slapped the brim of Cortez’s Dodgers cap, knocking it off his head to the ground. A dark anger momentarily invaded the gangster’s eyes. But then it cleared and Cortez returned to his standard smirk. He glanced back at his seconds and nodded. They pushed off the car and one opened the back door of the Lincoln for Cortez while the other retrieved his fallen hat.
“Catch you later, homeboy,” Cortez said.
Bosch didn’t respond. He and Lourdes stood there until the Lincoln pulled out of the lot and headed down San Fernando Road.
“Harry, why’d you do that with the hat?” Lourdes said.
Bosch ignored the question and answered with his own.