“I’m working a case, trying to establish an alibi of someone accused of a crime.”
“What, here?”
“No, actually down the street at the Haven House.”
“That dump? They should tear that place down.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that.”
“So then how does HoFo fit in?”
It took Bosch a moment to translate HoFo into Hollywood Forever. They were in Gascon’s tiny office, sitting on either side of a small table that passed for his desk. There was a stack of pamphlets displaying headstones and statues and Bosch got the idea that Gascon wasn’t only security director at the place. He was also in sales.
“Well, it doesn’t really fit in, but I am interested in your cameras,” Bosch said. “I’m wondering if any of them capture the front of Haven House down the street.”
Gascon whistled as if Bosch had just asked for the moon and stars in a box with a ribbon on it.
“What date are we talking about?” he asked.
“February ninth,” Bosch said. “Do you keep video going back that long?”
Gascon nodded and tapped the screen of an ancient computer on a second table to his side.
“Yeah, we’re backed up on the cloud,” he said. “Insurance makes us keep everything a year. But I don’t know. That’s a whole block away. I doubt anything would be in focus that far off.”
He stopped there and waited. Bosch knew what he was doing. Harry picked up one of the pamphlets and glanced at it.
“You sell these, too?” he asked.
“Yeah, on the side,” Gascon said.
“What do you get for one of these — as a salesman?”
“Depends on the stone. I made a grand on the Johnny Ramone statue. That had to be designed and special ordered.”
Bosch put the pamphlet back down.
“Tell you what,” he said. “My employer is on his way here to meet me. He would be willing to buy a stone if there is something on the cameras we can use.”
The men studied each other. Gascon looked very interested in the prospect of making money.
“Do you have access to the camera on the Paramount tower?” Bosch asked. “It looked like it was pointed over here.”
“Yeah, that’s ours,” Gascon said. “We needed an overview perspective. We have a joint agreement with them. They have access to it, too.”
Bosch nodded.
“So, should we take a look?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Gascon said. “Why not? Nothing’s going on around here. I mean, it’s pretty dead.”
Bosch said nothing.
“Get it?” Gascon asked.
Bosch nodded. He was sure Gascon used that line whenever he could.
“Yeah, I get it,” he said.
Gascon turned to the computer and went to work. As he was typing commands, Bosch adopted a gossipy, casual tone when he asked his next question.
“Did you know there was a murder over there at the Haven House in March?”
“Maybe there was,” Gascon said. “The cops that came in here said they weren’t sure where it went down but that the guy that got himself killed was living there. They said he was a dragon.”
It was old LAPD slang for drag queen. That was the catchall for the whole slew of different classifications running the gamut from transvestite to transgender. It even often used to go on reports, something that nowadays would draw protest. Gascon’s mention of it made Bosch remember that official police reports often abbreviated the term “drag queen” to DQ. He now wondered if that was known to Da’Quan Foster and a reason for his nickname.
“So they came in to look at video, too?” Bosch asked.
“Yeah, they were here,” Gascon said. “But just like you’re gonna find out, there’s not much to see of that place on our cameras.”
Bosch waited for Haller in the parking lot. He wanted to talk to him before they went back in and talked to Gascon and played the video again.
When the Lincoln finally pulled in Bosch saw that Haller was in the backseat. He got out with his briefcase.
“You’ve got a driver now,” Bosch said.
“Had to,” Haller said. “Got my license suspended because of that little stunt the cops pulled on me the other night. Why are we meeting at a cemetery?”
Bosch pointed across the expanse of the cemetery to the back wall. The Paramount Studios water tower was the highest profile structure behind the wall.
“Cameras,” he said. “They’ve got a reciprocal security agreement with Paramount here. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. There is a camera up on that tower. Takes in the whole cemetery and then some.”
They headed toward the office door.
“This guy, you’re going to have to buy a headstone,” Bosch whispered.
Haller stopped in his tracks.
“What?”
“To get him to cooperate. I don’t have a badge anymore, you know. He sells gravestones on the side and I told him if he cooperated, you’d buy a stone.”
“First of all, why would I want a headstone? Whose name do I put on it? And secondly, and most importantly, we can’t be paying potential witnesses. You know how that will look in court?”
“He doesn’t matter. His video is what matters.”
“But I might need him to introduce it in court. To authenticate it. You see? And I don’t want the prosecutor asking him how much we paid him. It looks bad to a jury.”
“Look, if you don’t want a headstone, don’t buy a headstone, but this guy needs to be compensated for his cooperation. What he’s got is important. It changes things.”
Five minutes later Bosch and Haller were standing behind a seated Gascon as he manipulated the video playback from the Paramount water tank camera.
On the screen was the entire cemetery. It was a macro security image. The confines of the picture extended out to Santa Monica Boulevard. At the very top left corner was the Santa Monica entrance to the Haven House motel. The frame cut off the view of the actual motel and its rear parking lot. But it did show vehicular ingress and egress from that entrance. A code along the bottom frame showed the time as 9:44 p.m. on February 9, 2015.
“Okay, what am I looking at?” Haller asked.
Bosch pointed out the particulars.
“This is Santa Monica Boulevard and this is the entrance to Haven House — where DQ says he was on the night of the ninth.”
“Okay.”
“The Haven House is on a flag lot. You know what that is?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so this is the only ingress and egress point. You go in and drive by the office and the parking is in the back by the rooms. Very private.”
“Got it.”
“Okay, now watch this van. Go ahead, Oscar.”
Gascon started the video moving. Bosch reached over his shoulder to point out the white van moving in a westerly direction on Santa Monica. It was crossing in front of the cemetery. He added commentary.
“The reports you gave me said the Sheriff’s impounded and searched Foster’s nineteen ninety-three white Ford Econoline, turning up no evidence in the case. That on the screen is a white Ford Econoline. I can tell by the lights. I don’t know the year at this point but it’s no spring chicken. It turns into Haven House at nine forty-five p.m. February ninth.”
“Okay, this is good.”
“Oscar, jump it.”
Gascon put the playback on fast-forward and they watched traffic on Santa Monica speed by and the minutes on the time counter move like seconds until Gascon slowed things down at the 11:40 mark.
“Now watch,” Bosch said.
At 11:43 the van came back into the picture, waiting to turn left out of the motel lot. Eventually traffic opened up and the van exited the motel lot and proceeded east on Santa Monica, back the way it had come.
“If your client was coming up from his studio, he would take the one-ten to the one-oh-one and then exit on Santa Monica,” Bosch said. “He’d drive west to the motel, then he’d drive east on his way back.”