“Okay, Kiz. Thanks.”
“You coming back to the office?”
“In a little while.”
He closed the phone and got back in the car. He took Figueroa Lane to Chavez Ravine Place and hit another stop sign. At one time the whole area up here was known only as Chavez Ravine. But that was before the city moved all the people out and bulldozed the bungalows and shacks they had called home. A grand housing project was supposed to rise in the ravine, with playgrounds and schools and shopping plazas that would invite back those who had been displaced. But once they cleared it all out the housing project was scratched from the city’s plans and it was a baseball stadium that went in instead. To Bosch it seemed that as far back as he could remember in L.A., the fix was always in.
Bosch had been listening lately to the Ry Cooder CD called Chávez Ravine. It wasn’t jazz but that was okay. It was its own kind of jazz. He liked the song “It’s Just Work for Me,” a dirge about a bulldozer driver who came to the ravine to knock down the poor people’s shacks and refused to feel guilty about it.
You got to go where they send you
When you’re a dozer-drivin’ man…
He took a left on Chavez Ravine and in a few moments he came to Stadium Way and the spot where Waits had first drawn the attention of the CRT patrol as he passed on his way down into Echo Park.
At the stop sign he surveyed the intersection. Stadium Way was the feeder line to the stadium’s huge parking lots. For Waits to have come into the neighborhood this way, as the arrest report stated, he would have to have come in from downtown, the stadium, or the Pasadena Freeway. This would not have been the way in from his home in West Hollywood. Bosch puzzled with this for a few moments but determined there was not enough information to draw any conclusion. Waits could have driven through Echo Park, making sure he was not followed, and then drawn the CRT tail after turning around to go back.
He realized that there was much about Waits he didn’t know and it bothered him that he would come face-to-face with the killer the next day. Bosch felt unprepared. He once again considered the idea he’d had earlier, but this time he didn’t hesitate. He opened his phone and called the FBI field office in Westwood.
“I’m looking for an agent named Rachel Walling,” he told the operator. “I’m not sure what squad she’s with.”
“Hold one.”
By “one” she had apparently meant a minute. As he waited he was honked at by a car that had come up from behind. Bosch moved through the intersection, made a U-turn and then pulled off the road into the shade of a eucalyptus tree. Finally near the two-minute mark his call was transferred and picked up and a male voice said, “Tactical.”
“Agent Walling, please.”
“Hold one.”
“Right,” Bosch said after he heard the click.
But this time the transfer was made quickly and Bosch heard Rachel Walling’s voice for the first time in a year. He hesitated and she almost hung up on him.
“Rachel, it’s Harry Bosch.”
Now she hesitated before responding.
“Harry…”
“So what’s ‘Tactical’ mean?”
“It’s just the squad designation.”
He understood. She didn’t answer because it was eyes-only stuff and the line was probably on tape somewhere.
“Why are you calling, Harry?”
“Because I need a favor. I could use your help, actually.”
“With what? I’m sort of in the middle of something here.”
“Then don’t worry about it. I thought maybe you’d… well, never mind, Rachel. It’s no big deal. I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll let you get back to Tactical, whatever that is. You take care.”
He closed the phone and tried not to let her voice and the memory it conjured distract him from the task at hand. He looked back across the intersection and realized he was probably in the same position the CRT car had been in when Gonzalez and Fennel spotted Waits’s van. The eucalyptus tree and night shadows had provided them cover.
Bosch was hungry now, having missed lunch. He decided he would cross over the freeway into Chinatown and grab takeout to bring back to the squad room. He pulled back onto the street and was debating whether to call the office to see if anybody wanted anything from Chinese Friends when his cell rang. He checked the screen but saw the ID was blocked. He answered anyway.
“It’s me.”
“Rachel.”
“I wanted to switch to my cell.”
There was a pause. Bosch knew he had been right about the phones at Tactical.
“How have you been, Harry?”
“I’ve been fine.”
“So you did like you said you were going to do. You went back to the cops. I read about you last year with that case up in the Valley.”
“Yeah, my first case back. Everything’s been below the radar since then. Until this thing I’ve got working now.”
“And that’s why you called me?”
Bosch noted the tone in her voice. It had been more than eighteen months since they had spoken. And that was at the end of an intense week when they had crossed paths on a case, Bosch working on a private ticket before coming back to the department and Walling working on resuscitating her career with the bureau. The case led Bosch back to the blue fold and Walling to the L.A. field office. Whether Tactical, whatever that was, constituted an improvement over her previous posting in South Dakota was something Bosch didn’t know. What he did know was that before she had fallen from grace and been cast out to the reservation beat in the Dakotas, she had been a profiler in the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico.
“I called because I thought maybe you’d be interested in putting some of your old skills to work again,” he said.
“You mean a profile?”
“Sort of. Tomorrow I have to go head to head in a room with an admitted serial killer and I don’t know the first thing about what makes him tick. This guy wants to confess to nine murders in a deal to avoid the needle. I have to make sure he’s not playing us. I have to figure out if he’s telling the truth before we turn around and tell all the families-what families we know of-that we’ve got the right guy.”
He waited a moment for her to react. When she didn’t he pressed on.
“I’ve got crimes, a couple crime scenes and forensics. I’ve got his apartment inventory and photos. But I don’t have a handle on him. I was calling because I was wondering if I could show you some of this stuff and, you know, maybe get some ideas from you on how to handle him.”
There was another long silence before she answered.
“Where are you, Harry?” she finally asked.
“Right now? Right now I’m heading into Chinatown to pick up some shrimp fried rice. I missed lunch.”
“I’m downtown. I could meet you. I missed lunch, too.”
“You know where Chinese Friends is?”
“Of course. How about a half hour?”
“I’ll order before you get there.”
Bosch closed the phone and felt a thrill that he knew came from something other than the idea that Rachel Walling might be able to help him with the Waits case. Their last encounter had ended badly but the sting of it had eroded over time. What was left in his memory was the night they had made love in a Las Vegas motel room and he had believed he had connected with a kindred soul.
He looked at his watch. He had time to kill even if he was going to order food before she got there. In Chinatown he pulled to the curb outside the restaurant and opened up his phone again. Before he had turned the Gesto murder book over to Olivas he had written down names and numbers he might need. He now called Bakersfield and the home of Marie Gesto’s parents. The call would not be a complete shock to them. His habit had always been to call them every time he pulled the file to take another look at the case. He thought it was some measure of comfort for them to know he had not given up.
The missing woman’s mother answered the phone.
“Irene, it’s Harry Bosch.”
“Oh!”
There was always that initial note of hope and excitement when one of them answered.
“Nothing yet, Irene,” he responded quickly. “I just have a question for you and Dan, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, of course. It’s just good to hear from you.”
“It’s nice to hear your voice, too.”
It had been more than ten years since he had actually seen Irene and Dan Gesto. After two years they had stopped coming to L.A. in hopes of finding their daughter, had given up her apartment and gone home. After that, Bosch always called.
“What is your question, Harry?”
“It’s a name, actually. Do you remember Marie ever mentioning someone named Ray Waits? Maybe Raynard Waits? Raynard is an unusual name. You might remember it.”
He heard her breath catch and he immediately knew he had made a mistake. The recent arrest and court hearings involving Waits had made it into the media in Bakersfield. He should have known that Irene would have a keen eye on such things in L.A. She would know what Waits was accused of. She would know they were calling him the Echo Park Bagman.
“Irene?”
He guessed that her imagination had taken terrible flight.
“Irene, it’s not what you think. I’m just running some checks on this guy. It sounds like you’ve heard of him from the news.”
“Of course. Those poor young girls. Ending up like that. I…”
He knew what she was thinking, maybe not what she was feeling.