“Are you working for the defense in the Parks case?”
“I am.”
“Are you a licensed private investigator, sir?”
“I was one about a dozen years ago but the license lapsed. So I am working for a state-licensed private investigator while I apply for my own to be reinstated. I have a letter of engagement from him that explains this and makes it clear — and legal.”
“Can we take a look at that letter, Mr. Bosch?”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.”
Bosch closed the door and left them there. He went and got the letter Haller had provided and came back to the door with it. Schmidt, who hadn’t said anything so far, took it and read it while her partner lectured Bosch.
“That was uncool, what you did yesterday,” Cornell said.
“What was that?” Bosch asked.
“You know what it was. You presented yourself in a false light to gain access to a crime scene.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I went to look at a house that’s for sale. I’ve been thinking about selling this place. I’ve got a kid with four years of college coming up and I could use the equity I’ve got in it.”
“Look, Bosch, I’m not going to fuck around with you. You cross the line again and there will be consequences. I’m giving you a break here. We checked you out and you used to be legit. Used to be. Now not so much.”
“Fuck off, Cornell. I’ve seen your work on this. It’s weak.”
Schmidt handed the letter back to Bosch but Cornell snatched it out of her hand before Bosch reached for it.
“This is what I think of your letter,” he said.
He reached inside his suit jacket and around the back of his pants. He pantomimed wiping his ass with the letter, then held it out to Bosch. He didn’t take it.
“Nice,” Bosch said. “Classy and clever.”
Bosch took a step back so he could close the door on them. Cornell quickly used two hands to crunch the letter in a ball and then threw it at Bosch as he was closing the door. It bounced off his chest and fell to the floor.
Bosch stood at the door, listening to the steps as Cornell and Schmidt walked away. He could feel his face burning red with humiliation. If they had checked him out, it meant that everybody in the LAPD would know he had crossed to the dark side. It would not matter to them that Bosch actually believed there was a good chance that the man accused of the crime was innocent. The bottom line would be that Bosch was now a defense investigator.
He leaned his forehead against the door. A week ago he was a retired LAPD detective. He now seemed to have a whole new identity. He heard their car start out at the curb. He waited, head against the door, for it to drive away, and then he left, too.
27
Bosch was parked at the curb in front of Nelson Grant & Sons before it opened. He saw lights go on first and then at 10:05 he watched a young Asian man inside the shop come to the front glass door and stoop down to unlock it at the bottom. He then stepped outside with a folding sign that advertised Estate Sales, positioned it on the sidewalk and returned to the shop. Nelson Grant & Sons was open for business. Bosch took the last drink of his coffee and got out of the Cherokee. It was midmorning and traffic was thick on Sunset but the sidewalks and shops of Sunset Plaza were deserted. It was a shopping and eating destination largely favored by European visitors, and things usually didn’t start stirring until lunchtime and later.
There appeared to be no one in the store when Bosch entered, setting off a low chime somewhere in the back. A few seconds later the man he had seen before stepped out from a back room, his mouth full and chewing. He took a position behind the center segment of the U-shaped glass display counter and held up a finger, asking for a moment. He finally swallowed whatever he was eating and smiled and asked Bosch if he could help him.
“I hope so,” Bosch said, stepping to the counter directly across from the man. “Do you sell watches by Audemars Piguet?”
“Audemars Piguet,” the man said, pronouncing it quite differently than Bosch had. “We are not a dealer. But on occasion we sell AP watches through estate sales. We had two last year but they sold. They’re collector’s items and they go quickly when we get them.”
“So they would have been used.”
“We prefer to say estate owned.”
“Got it. Estate owned. You know, now that you mention it, I think I was in here last year and saw one. It was a ladies’ watch? Was that back in December when you had it?”
“Uh, yes, I believe so. That was the last one we had.”
“A Royal Oak, right?”
“Actually, the model was a Royal Oak Offshore. Are you a collector, sir?”
“A collector? In a way, yeah. So I have a friend. Vincent Harrick? You know him? He was the one who bought that AP watch back in December, right?”
The man looked suspicious and confused at the same time.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss our clients, sir. Is there a watch here that we do have that I can show you?”
He gestured with his arm across the glass top of the counter. Bosch looked at him without answering. There was something off. As soon as Bosch mentioned Harrick and the watch bought in December, the man seemed to grow nervous. He had made a furtive glance behind him at the door to the back room.
Bosch decided to push things a bit and to gauge the man’s reactions.
“So who died?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?” the man replied, his voice almost shrill.
“To have an estate sale, somebody’s gotta die, right?”
“No, that is not always the case. We have people who decide for whatever reason to sell their jewelry collections. Their watches. These are considered estates.”
He turned slightly and looked back at the door again.
“Is Mr. Grant back there?” Bosch asked.
“Who?”
“Nelson Grant. Is he back there?”
“There is no Nelson Grant. It’s just a name on a sign. My father made it up when he opened the store. People would have trouble pronouncing our name.”
“Is your father back there?”
“No, no one is back there and my father retired long ago. My brother and I run the shop. What exactly is this all about?”
“It’s about a murder. What is your name, sir?”
“I don’t have to give you my name. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, sir, if you are not interested in making a purchase.”
Bosch smiled.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Please go.”
Bosch saw a plastic business card holder on the glass top of the case to his right. He calmly walked over to it and picked off the top card in the stack. There were two names on it. The brothers. He read them out loud.
“Peter and Paul Nguyen. Did I pronounce that right? Like you can’t win ’em all?”
“Yes. Please leave now.”
“I can see why the old man went with Grant. Are you Peter or Paul?”
“Why do you need to know this?”
“Well, because I’m conducting an investigation.”
Bosch pulled his wallet out and produced his LAPD identification card. When he held it up to the man, he kept it clipped between his fingers, with the finger on the front strategically placed over the word RETIRED. He had practiced this move in front of the mirror over the bureau in his bedroom.
“Okay, what about a badge?” the man said. “Don’t you have a badge?”
“I don’t need a badge to ask you a few simple questions — if you are willing to cooperate.”
“Whatever will get this over with the quickest.”
“Good. Okay, so which is it, Peter or Paul?”
“Peter.”
“Okay, Peter, take a look at this.”
Bosch opened the photo archive on his phone. He quickly pulled up the photo of Lexi Parks he had taken from one of the Times stories on the murder. He held it up to Nguyen.