“What does this mean?”
“It means, if you ask a lot of questions, you get a lot of information. Not all of it is useful, but sometimes you get lucky. I appreciate your patience and your talking with me.”
“Will you solve the case now, Detective?”
Bosch paused before answering.
“I’m giving it my best shot, Henrik. And I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
The call with Henrik energized Bosch, even though he had not gotten all there was to get. He could not put his finger on what was happening with the case, but things had shifted. Little more than a day earlier he believed the investigation was going nowhere and that he would soon be repacking the archive boxes and sending Anneke Jespersen back to the depths of the warehouse of unsolved cases and forgotten victims. But now there was a spark. There were mysteries and irons in the fire. There were questions to be answered and Bosch was still in the game.
His next move was to make contact with Anneke’s editor at the BT. Bosch checked the name Henrik had given him, Jannik Frej, against the news reports and records in the murder book. The names didn’t match. The stories that ran in the wake of the riots quoted an editor named Arne Haagan. The investigators’ chronology also listed Haagan as the editor the RCTF detectives spoke with about Jespersen.
Bosch could not explain the discrepancy. He Googled a phone number for the newsroom of BT and made the call. He guessed that someone would have to be in the newsroom despite the late hour.
“Redaktionen, goddag.”
Bosch had forgotten about the language difficulty he might encounter. He didn’t know if the woman who had answered was saying her name or a Danish word.
“Nyhedsredaktionen, kan jeg hjœlpe?”
“Uh, hello? Do you speak English?”
“A little. How do I help you?”
Bosch referred to his notes.
“I am looking for Arne Haagan or Jannik Frej, please.”
There was a slight pause before the woman on the other end of the line spoke.
“Mr. Haagan is dead, yes?”
“He’s dead? Uh, what about Mr. Frej?”
“No one here.”
“Uh, when did Mr. Haagan pass away?”
“Mmm, hold on the line, please.”
Bosch waited for what seemed to be five minutes. He looked around the squad room as he waited and soon saw Lieutenant O’Toole staring at him through the window of his office. O’Toole fired an imaginary gun and then gave the thumbs-up signal with his eyebrows raised in a question. Bosch knew he was asking if he had qualified at the academy. Bosch gave him a thumbs-up and then looked away. Finally, a male voice came on the line. This speaker’s English was excellent and with only the slightest accent.
“This is Mikkel Bonn. How can I help you?”
“Yes, I wanted to speak with Arne Haagan, but the woman before you said he passed away. Is that true?”
“Yes, Arne Haagan died four years ago. Can I ask why you are calling?”
“My name is Harry Bosch. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m investigating the death twenty years ago of Anneke Jespersen. Are you familiar with the case?”
“I know who Anneke Jespersen was. We are very familiar here. Arne Haagan was the editor of the newspaper at that time. But he retired and then he died.”
“What about an editor named Jannik Frej? Is he still there?”
“Jannik Frej . . . no, Jannik is not.”
“When did he leave? Is he still alive?”
“A few years ago he retired also. He is alive as far as I know.”
“Okay, do you know how I can reach him? I need to talk to him.”
“I can see if someone has contact information. Some of the copyeditors may still be in touch with him. Can you tell me if there is activity on the case? I am a reporter and would want to—”
“The case is active. I’m investigating but there is nothing other than that. I’m just starting.”
“I see. Can I get back to you with contact information for Jannik Frej?”
“I’d rather hold while you get it for me now.”
There was a pause.
“I see. Very well, I will try to be quick.”
Bosch was put on hold again. This time he didn’t look toward the lieutenant’s office. He turned and looked behind him and saw that Chu was gone, probably having stepped out for lunch.
“Detective Bosch?”
It was Bonn back on the line.
“Yes.”
“I have an email for Jannik Frej.”
“What about a phone number?”
“We don’t have that available at the moment. I will keep looking and will get it to you. But for now, do you want the email address?”
“Yes, I do.”
He copied Frej’s email address down and then gave Bonn his own email and phone number.
“Good luck, Detective,” Bonn said.
“Thank you.”
“You know, I wasn’t here back then, when it happened. But ten years ago I was here and I remember we did a big story on Anneke and the case. Would you like to see it?”
Bosch hesitated.
“It would be in Danish, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but there are several translation sites on the Internet that you could use.”
Bosch wasn’t sure what he meant but invited Bonn to send him a link to the story. He thanked him again and then disconnected.
9
Bosch realized he was famished. He took the elevator down to the lobby, went out the main entrance, and crossed the front plaza. The plan was to walk over to Philippe’s for a roast beef sandwich but his cell buzzed before he even got across First Street. It was Jordy Gant.
“Harry, we already got your guy.”
“Two Small?”
“That’s right. I just got the call from one of my guys. They picked him up coming out of a McDonald’s on Normandie. One of the guys I got to in roll call this morning had his picture on the visor. Sure enough, it was Two Small.”
“Where’d they take him?”
“Seventy-seventh. He’s being booked as we speak, and right now they’re only holding him on the bench warrant. I figure if you move now, you can get there before he can get to a lawyer.”
“I’m on my way.”
“How ’bout I meet you and sit in?”
“See you there.”
It took him only twenty minutes in midday traffic to get to 77th Street Station. The whole way he thought about how to play Washburn. Bosch had nothing on 2 Small but a hunch based on proximity. No evidence of anything and nothing for sure. It seemed to him that his one shot was a play. To convince Washburn that he had something and to use the lie to draw out an admission. It was the weakest way to go, especially with a suspect that had been around the block a few times with the police. But it was all he had.
At 77th, Gant was already in the watch office waiting for him.
“I had him moved down to the D bureau. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Bosch saw a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on a counter behind the patrol lieutenant’s desk. It was open and there were only two doughnuts left, probably sitting there since the morning’s roll call.
“Hey, does anybody mind?”
He pointed toward the doughnuts.
“Knock yourself out,” Gant said.
Bosch took a glazed doughnut and ate it in four bites while he followed Gant down the back hallway of the station to the detective bureau.
They entered the sprawling squad room of desks, file cabinets, and piles of paperwork. Most of the desks were empty and Bosch figured the detectives were out working cases or on lunch break. He saw a tissue box on one of the empty desks and pulled out three tissues to wipe the sugar off his fingers.
A patrol officer was sitting outside the door of one of the two interrogation rooms. He stood up as Gant and Bosch approached. Gant introduced him as Chris Mercer, the patrolman who had spotted 2 Small Washburn.