Bosch nodded. She was right. There was not a smooth flow to any of the logic.
“Then again, they knew they had the LAPD on their backs,” he said. “Maybe some of them continued to operate but as sort of an underground movement.”
“Like I said, anything is possible.”
“Okay, so we have Ross Junior supposedly up in Idaho and we have Burkhart in Wayside. The two leaders. Who was left besides Mackey?”
“There are five other names in the file. None of the names jumped out at me.”
“That’s our suspect list for now. We need to run them and see where they went from-wait a minute, wait a minute. Was Burkhart still in Wayside? You said he got a year, right? That meant he’d be out in five or six months unless he got into trouble up there. When exactly did he go in?”
Rider shook her head.
“No, it would have been late March or early April when he checked into Wayside. He couldn’t have -”
“Doesn’t matter when he checked into Wayside. When was he popped? When was the synagogue thing?”
“It was January. Early January. I have the exact date back in the file.”
“All right, early January. You said prints on a paint can tripped them to Burkhart. What did that take back in ’eighty-eight, when they were probably still doing it by hand-a week if it was a hot case like this? If they popped Burkhart by the end of January and he didn’t make bail…”
He held his hands wide, allowing Rider to finish.
“February, March, April, May, June,” she said excitedly. “Five months. With gain time he could easily have been out by July!”
Bosch nodded. The county jail system housed inmates awaiting trial or serving sentences of a year or less. For decades the system had been overcrowded and under court-ordered maximum population counts. This resulted in the routine early release of inmates through gain-time ratios that fluctuated according to individual jail population but sometimes were as high as three days earned for every one day served.
“This looks good, Harry.”
“Maybe too good. We have to nail it down.”
“When we get back I’ll go on the computer and find out when he left Wayside. What’s this do to the wiretap?”
Bosch thought for a moment about whether they should slow things down.
“I think we go ahead with the wiretap. If the Wayside date fits, then we watch Mackey and Burkhart. We still spook Mackey because he’s the weak one. We do it when he’s at work and away from Burkhart. If we’re right, he’ll call him.”
He stood up.
“But we still have to run down the other names, the other members of the Eights,” he added.
Rider didn’t get up. She looked up at him.
“You think this is going to work?”
Bosch shrugged.
“It has to.”
He looked around the cavernous train station. He checked faces and eyes, looking for any that might quickly turn away from his own. He half expected to see Irving in the crowd of travelers. Mr. Clean on the scene. That’s what Bosch used to think when Irving would show up at a crime scene.
Rider stood up. They dropped their empty cups into a nearby trash can and walked toward the front doors of the station. When he got there Bosch looked behind them, again searching for a follower. He knew they now had to consider such possibilities. The place that had been so warm and inviting to him twenty minutes before was now suspicious and forbidding. The voices inside were no longer graceful whispers. There was a sharp edge to them. They sounded angry.
When they got outside he noticed that the sun had moved behind the clouds. He wouldn’t need his sunglasses for the walk back.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Rider said.
“For what?”
“I just thought that it would be different, you coming back. Now here we are, your first case back and what do you get, a case with high jingo all over it.”
Bosch nodded as they crossed to the front walkway. He saw the sundial and the words etched in granite beneath it. His eyes held on the last line.
Courage to Do
“I’m not worried,” he said. “But they should be.”
22
GOOD TO GO,” Commander Garcia replied when Bosch asked if he was ready.
Bosch nodded and went to the door to usher in the two women from the Daily News.
“Hi, I’m McKenzie Ward,” said the one leading the way. She was obviously the reporter. The other woman was carrying a camera bag and a tripod.
“I’m Emmy Ward,” said the photographer.
“Sisters?” Garcia asked, though the answer was obvious because of how much the two women, both in their twenties, looked alike: both attractive blondes with big smiles.
“I’m older,” said McKenzie. “But not by much.”
They all shook hands.
“How did two sisters get on the same paper together, then the same story together?” Garcia said.
“I was here a few years and then Emmy just applied. It’s no big deal. We’ve worked together a lot. It’s just a blind draw on who gets the photo assignments. Today we work together. Tomorrow maybe not.”
“Do you mind if we take some photos first?” Emmy asked. “I have another assignment I need to get to right after this.”
“Of course,” Garcia said, ever accommodating. “Where do you want me?”
Emmy Ward set up a shot with Garcia seated at the meeting table with the murder book open in front of him. Bosch had brought it with him to use as a prop. As the photo session proceeded, Bosch and McKenzie Ward stood off to the side and talked casually. Earlier, they had spoken at length on the phone. She had agreed to the deal. If she got the story into the paper the following day, she would be first in line for the exclusive when they took down the killer. She had not agreed easily. Garcia had initially been clumsy in his approach to her before turning the negotiation over to Bosch. Bosch was wise enough to know that no reporter would allow the police department to dictate when a story would be published and how it would be written. So Bosch concentrated on the when, not the how. He went with the assumption that McKenzie Ward would and could write a story that would serve his purposes. He just needed it in the paper sooner rather than later. Kiz Rider had an appointment with a judge that afternoon. If the wiretap application was approved, they would be in business by the next morning.
“Did you talk to Muriel Verloren?” the reporter asked Bosch.
“Yeah, she’s there all afternoon and she’s ready to talk.”
“I pulled the clips and read everything from back then-like I was eight years old at the time-and there were several mentions of the father and his restaurant. Will he be there, too?”
“I don’t think so. He’s gone. It’s more of a mother’s story, anyway. She’s the one who has kept her daughter’s bedroom untouched for seventeen years. She said you could photograph in there, too, if you want.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Bosch watched her looking at the shot being set up with Garcia. He knew what she was thinking. The mother in the bedroom frozen in time would be a lot better shot than an old cop at a table with a binder. She looked at Bosch while she started digging in her purse.
“Then I have to make a call to see if I can keep Emmy.”
“Go ahead.”
She left the office, probably because she didn’t want Garcia to overhear her telling an editor that she needed Emmy to stay on the assignment because she had a better shot with the mother.
She was back in three minutes and nodded to Bosch, which he took to mean that Emmy was going to stay with her on the story.
“So this thing is a go for tomorrow?” he asked, just to make sure once again.