In the meantime, the body of Letitia Williams was found exactly one week after her abduction on a hillside in Griffith Park, right below the observatory. It appeared as though the killer had specifically chosen the location because the body would be spotted quickly in daylight hours by someone looking down from the observatory.
The autopsy on the victim determined that she had been repeatedly sexually assaulted and then strangled. The case drew heavy attention from the media and the major crimes unit, but eventually it was shelved. No clues, no evidence, no leads. In 1992 Los Angeles was ripped apart by race riots, and cases like the murder of Letitia Williams dropped off the public radar. The file went to archives until the Open-Unsolved Unit was formed after the start of the new century, and eventually Bosch came to the archived case files and the fingerprints that were matched to Edward Paisley in Boston.
“That’s why I’m here,” Bosch said.
“Did you come with a warrant?”
Bosch shook his head. “No, no warrant. The prints match is not enough. The flashlight was found in the alley, not in Letitia’s bedroom. There is no direct tie to the crime. I came to get DNA. I was going to follow him and collect it. Wait for him to toss a cup of coffee or a pizza crust or something. I’d take it back with me and see if it matches semen collected from the body. Then I’d be in business. Then I’d come back with a warrant and take him down.”
They sat in the car and stared out at the street and Bosch could feel Kenzie stewing on something. He wasn’t a big man and he had a friendly, boyish face; he dressed in the street clothes of a neighborhood guy, kind of guy would pour your beer or fix your car. On first glance and even on a second, he seemed harmless and sweet, kind of guy you’d be happy for your sister to bring home. But Bosch had spent enough time in his company now to feel a hot wire running in the guy’s blood. Most people probably never tripped it. But God help the ones who did.
Kenzie’s right knee started to jackhammer up and down in such a way that Bosch doubted he was aware of it. He turned on the seat, looked at Harry. “You said in your case the girl’s body was found a week after the abduction.”
“That’s right.”
“But she was dumped there because she would be found almost right away by the people at the observatory.”
“Yeah, the body was left at night and noticed the next morning after daylight.”
“How long had she been dead?”
Bosch reached to the back seat and opened the briefcase. He brought back a thick blue binder full of records from the case. He spoke as he looked through the pages. He had the answers in his head already. He was just looking at the autopsy report for confirmation.
“She had been dead seventy-two hours when found.”
“That’s three days. That meant the guy kept her alive for four days.”
“Right. The indications were that she was repeatedly—”
“This is the fourth day. If this asshole follows any sort of pattern, well, shit, Chiffon Henderson was taken Monday afternoon.” He pointed back down the sidewalk at the gray row house. “We need to get in that house.”
Patrick took the front door while Bosch went around back. Patrick had told the L.A. cop he was reasonably proficient picking a lock, but Paisley’s front door sported a lock Patrick had never seen before. New, too. And expensive by the looks of it — a $500 lock on a $40 door. Patrick tried a series of picks, but none of them could get to first base with the cylinders. It was like trying to pass a plastic stirrer through a rock.
The second time he dropped a pick, he bent to retrieve it and the door opened in front of him.
He looked up at Harry Bosch standing on the threshold, a Glock dangling from his left hand. “I thought you said you could pick a lock.”
“I clearly overestimated my prowess.” He straightened. “How’d you get in?”
“He left a window unlocked.” Bosch shrugged. “People, right?”
Patrick had expected a dump inside, but the house was quite clean and mostly bare. The furniture was modern Scandinavian — lots of bright white and brighter chrome that clashed with the older wainscoting and dark wallpaper. Paisley was renting; the landlord probably had no idea about the lock.
“Something in here he doesn’t want people to see,” Patrick said.
“Gotta be in the basement then,” Bosch said. He jerked a thumb back at the shotgun layout of the apartment — foyer and living room and then a long corridor that went straight back to the kitchen, all the other rooms branching off it. “I cleared this floor.”
“You cleared this floor? How long were you planning to leave me out on the front porch?”
“I figured another half an hour before you snapped and kicked in the door. I didn’t have that kinda time.”
“L.A. sarcasm,” Patrick said as they headed down the hallway. “Who knew?”
Halfway down the hall, on the right, was a door the same dark brown as the wainscoting. Patrick exchanged a look with Bosch and the cop nodded — now would be the time.
Patrick drew the.45 Colt Commander off his hip and flicked the safety off. “You see a bulkhead around back?”
Bosch looked puzzled. “A bulkhead?”
“You know, an entrance to the basement. Double doors, steps down.”
Bosch nodded. “Locked from the inside.” And then, as though further explanation was needed, he said, “We generally don’t have basements in L.A.”
“You don’t have snow or a wind-chill factor either, so, you know, fuck you.” He tossed Bosch a bright, tight smile. “Any basement windows out back?”
Another nod. “Black curtains over them.”
“Well, that’s bad,” Patrick said.
“Why?”
“No one puts curtains over their basement windows around here unless they got a home theater or they’re playing Dead Hooker Storage.” He looked around the apartment. “Edward does not strike me as the home theater type.”
Bosch nodded, his pupils adrenalized to twice their size. “Let’s go back out, call it in legit’.”
“What if he’s down there with her right now?”
That was the dilemma, wasn’t it?
Bosch exhaled a long breath. Patrick did the same. Bosch held his hand over the doorknob and said, “On three?”
Patrick nodded. He wiped his right palm on his jeans and readjusted a two-handed grip on his gun.
“One. Two. Three.”
Bosch opened the door.
The first thing they noticed was the padding on the inside of the door — at least six inches thick of premium leather soundproofing. The kind one found only in recording studios. The next thing they noticed was the dark. The scant light to find the stairs came from the hall behind them. The rest of the cellar was pitch-black. Patrick pointed at the light switch just past Bosch’s ear, raised his eyebrows.
Bosch shrugged.
Patrick shrugged.
Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Bosch flicked on the lights.
The staircase split the cellar like a spine, straight down the center, and they went down it fast. A black heating oil tank stood at the bottom, quite old, rust fringing the bottom of it.
Without a word, Bosch went left and Patrick went right.
The element of surprise was no longer an option for them.
Only for him.
On the side of the cellar that Patrick chose — the front — the framing was old and mostly unfinished. The first “room” he came upon contained a washer, a dryer, and a sink with a cake of grimy brown soap stuck to the top of it. The next room had once been a workshop. A long wood table abutted the wall, an old vise still fastened to the table. Nothing else in there but dust and mice droppings. The last room along the wall was finished, however. The framing was filled in with drywall on one side and brick on the other, a door in the middle. Heavy door. And thick. The frame around it was solid too. Try and kick in a door like that and you’d finish your day getting fitted for an ankle cast.