He handed the file to Schubert, who reluctantly took it. So far, things were going according to the pitch Bosch had worked out. The next ten seconds would determine if it stayed that way.
“Look at it,” Bosch said. “I’m investigating a series of murders, Dr. Schubert. And I have reason to believe you — and possibly your wife — could be next in line.”
Schubert reacted as if the file were red hot. Bosch was studying him. It was more a reaction of fear than surprise.
“Open it,” Bosch commanded.
“This is not how you do this,” the doctor protested. “You don’t—”
He stopped short when he saw the image clipped to the inside of the file. The close-up of Alexandra Parks’s horribly damaged face. His eyes widened and Bosch assumed that the plastic man had never seen a face like that in all his years of work.
Schubert’s eyes scanned the other side of the file. Bosch had clipped the incident report to the right side, not for its content but because it was a copy of an official document and he knew the imprimatur of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department printed at the top would further his legitimacy in Schubert’s eyes. Harry wanted him thinking he was a real cop for as long as possible. The charade would be over if Schubert asked to see a badge. To keep that from happening, Bosch’s plan was to keep him off balance and play on his fears.
Schubert closed the file and looked stricken. He tried to hand it back but Bosch did not take it.
“Look, what is this about?” he pleaded. “What does it have to do with me?”
“It all started with you, Doctor,” Bosch said. “With you and Ellis and Long.”
The recognition was unmistakable in Schubert’s face. Recognition and dread, as if he had expected all along that his business with Ellis and Long — whatever it was — was not done.
Bosch stepped forward and finally took the file away.
“Now,” he said. “Where can we go to talk?”
42
Schubert used a key to unlock the elevator. The steel box rose slowly, and neither he nor Bosch spoke. Once the doors opened, the two men moved through a high-luxury reception area and waiting room with plush seating and a coffee bar. The spaces were empty and unmanned. It appeared that everyone had gone home for the day. They moved down a hallway and into Schubert’s private office. He flipped on the light switch as they entered a large room with an informal seating arrangement of couch and chairs on one side and a desk and computer station on the other side. The two areas were separated by a folding partition of Japanese design. Schubert sat down heavily in the high-backed leather chair positioned behind the desk. He shook his head like a man who suddenly understands that the trappings of his life that were so perfectly put in place are now changing.
“I just can’t believe this,” he said.
He gestured toward Bosch as though he were responsible for it all. Bosch sat down in a chair in front of the desk and put the file down on the ultra-modern brushed-aluminum desktop.
“Relax, Doctor,” Bosch said. “We’ll work this out. The woman in the photo you don’t want to look at was Alexandra Parks. Does that name ring a bell with you?”
Schubert started to shake his head in a reflex response but then his mind snagged on the name.
“The woman from West Hollywood?” he asked. “The one who worked for the city? I thought they caught somebody for that. A black gang member.”
Bosch thought it interesting that Schubert had described the suspect by race, like there was a causal relationship to the crime. It gave Bosch a small insight into the man he had to convince in the next five minutes to open up and talk.
“Yeah, well, we got the wrong guy,” Bosch said. “And the right guys are still out there.”
“You mean those two men? The two L.A. cops?”
“That’s right. And I need to know what you know about them so that we can stop them.”
“I don’t know anything about this.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I can’t get involved. In my business, reputation is everything. I—”
“Your reputation won’t mean much if you’re dead, and we have good reason to believe you are on their list.”
“That’s impossible. I paid and I’ll pay again by the end of next month. They know that. Why would they—”
Schubert realized that in his panic and fear he had already revealed himself.
Bosch nodded.
“That’s why we need to talk,” he said. “Help us end this thing. We’ll do it quietly and safely. As much as possible I will keep you out of it. I need your information, not you.”
Now Schubert nodded, not so much to Bosch but to acknowledge that a moment he had been dreading for a long time was finally here and had to be dealt with.
“Okay, good,” Bosch said. “But before we start, I need to check in with my partner and tell him where I’m at. It’s a safety thing.”
“I thought you were supposed to be with a partner at all times.”
Bosch took out his phone and typed in the password.
“In a perfect world,” he said. “But with an investigation like this, we cover more ground if we split up. We keep momentum.”
Bosch checked his watch and acted like he was making a call. Instead, he had opened the memo app and started a recording. He then held the phone up to his ear as though he had made the call and was waiting for an answer. He waited several seconds and then left a message.
“Hey, it’s Harry. It’s five forty-five and I’m with Dr. Schubert at his office and I’ll conduct the interview here. He wants to cooperate. I’ll let you know if anything comes up I can’t handle. Talk to you later.”
Finished with his message, he pantomimed disconnecting the call and put the phone down on the file on the desktop. At the same time, he leaned forward to pull his notebook out of his back pocket. He then patted the pockets of his jacket, looking for a pen. Not finding one, he reached over to a cup on the desk that was filled with pens and pencils.
“All right if I borrow one of these and take some notes?” he asked.
“Look, I didn’t exactly say I wanted to cooperate,” Schubert said. “You are forcing me. You tell someone they’re going to get murdered, and sure they want to talk to you and find out what it’s about.”
“So is that an okay on the notes?”
“Whatever.”
Bosch looked at the file that had been placed on the desk and then up at Schubert.
“Why don’t we start with the watch?” he said.
“What watch?” Schubert asked. “What are we talking about?”
“Dr. Schubert, you know what watch I’m talking about. The Audemars Piguet that you bought in Las Vegas two years ago. The ladies’ Royal Oak Offshore model. The one your wife said was stolen but then you said was sold to pay a gambling debt.”
Schubert seemed stunned by Bosch’s knowledge.
“But that was a lie, wasn’t it?” Bosch said. “I can’t help you unless you start talking and telling the truth. Four people are dead, Doctor. Four. What connects them is that watch. You want to protect yourself, then tell me the real story.”
Schubert closed his eyes as if this could help ward off the terrible predicament he was in.
“This can’t go anywhere,” he said. “I have clients. I have...”
He faltered.
“A reputation, yes, you said that,” Bosch said. “I get that. I can’t promise you anything but I’ll do my best for you. If you tell the truth.”
“My wife doesn’t know,” Schubert said. “I love her and it would hurt her very, very badly.”
He said it more to himself, and Bosch elected to hold back, to wait and let him work through it. Finally a resolve seemed to come to him and Schubert opened his eyes and looked at Bosch.