“No, I didn’t,” Schubert said. “That was their rule. They didn’t want the stuff reported stolen because it would make it hard for them to sell it and get their money. They told me if they found out I’d made a claim, they would come back and kill my wife and me.”
“So didn’t your wife wonder about that? The insurance, I mean.”
“I told her we were negotiating with them and then I went out and made some cash calls, slowly got the money together, and made it look like it had come from the insurance company.”
“‘Cash calls’?”
“Like I said before, I do house calls on occasion. There are people out there, Detective, who have money and are willing to pay for privacy. They don’t use medical insurance. They pay cash for procedures so there is no record and no one will ever know. I get requests like that — mostly I’m talking about Botox injections and other minor things but it sometimes goes to full surgeries.”
This wasn’t news to Bosch. The rich and famous in Los Angeles had such power. Michael Jackson came to mind. The megastar singer had died while at home and under the care of a private doctor. In a place where image often counted more than anything else, a plastic man who made cash calls could do well.
“Is that how you planned to get the money to pay them fifty grand every six months?”
“That was the plan. There is a payment at the end of June and I’m almost ready for it.”
Bosch nodded. He wanted to tell Schubert that he wouldn’t have to make that payment but he held off. There was no telling for sure how long the investigation would wind out. He brought the interview back on point.
“Did they take anything else in this phony burglary?”
“A piece of artwork. It wasn’t worth much. It was just special to me. I think it’s why they took it. They said they owned me and could take whatever they wanted.”
Schubert was slouched with his elbows on the arms of his seat. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers.
“This is all going to come out now, isn’t it?” he said.
“We’ll do our best to keep you away from it,” Bosch said. “Everything that has happened occurred after this anyway. It was all triggered by Alexandra Parks sending the watch out to be fixed.”
“Then, what makes you so sure that I’m in danger?”
“Because these two guys are cops and they know how the system works. If there are no witnesses, then there is no threat to them. They haven’t come back to you because they don’t know yet that everything has been traced back to that watch. When they do, they’ll come — and it won’t be just to collect the next fifty grand.”
“Well, don’t you have enough to arrest them now? You seem to know everything.”
“I think with confirmation of parts of your story, there will be more than enough evidence to do that.”
“Are you Internal Affairs?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then—”
There was a noise from outside the office. It sounded like the thump of a door closing.
“Is there anybody else still here?” Bosch asked.
“Uh, maybe one of the girls,” Schubert said.
Bosch stood up.
“I didn’t see anybody when we walked in,” he said quietly.
He walked to the door, thought about opening it and looking into the hallway, but then thought better of it. He leaned his head toward the jamb and listened. He heard nothing at first but then clearly heard a whispered voice from out in the hallway say, “Clear.”
It was a man. He knew then that Ellis and Long were in the building and were coming for them.
45
Bosch quickly pushed the button on the doorknob, locking it, then reached over and flicked off the office’s overhead light. He moved quickly back toward the desk, pulling his weapon out of the holster on his hip.
Schubert stood up from his chair and his eyes grew wider with every step Bosch took toward him.
“They’re here,” Bosch whispered. “They must’ve followed me or they were watching you and waiting.”
“For what?”
“For me to make the connection.”
Bosch pointed to a door to the left of the desk.
“Where does that go?” he asked.
“It’s just a bathroom,” Schubert said.
“Is there a window?”
“Yes, but it’s small and it’s a twenty-foot drop.”
“Shit.”
Bosch turned around and surveyed the room, trying to come up with a plan. He knew that going out into the hall would be a mistake. They’d be open targets. They were going to have to make their stand right where they were.
He turned back and grabbed the corded phone off the desk. He knew calling on the landline would automatically deliver the building’s address to the 911 operator. It would speed the response.
“How do I get an outside line?” he asked quickly.
Schubert reached over and hit a button on the bottom of the phone base. Bosch heard the dial tone and punched in 9-1-1. He then pointed toward the office window.
“Close the curtain, make it dark.”
The call to 911 started ringing. Schubert did as instructed, hitting a button on the wall next to the window. A curtain started automatically moving across the ceiling track. Bosch kept his eyes on the office door.
“Come on, come on, come on, pick up,” he said.
Once the curtain closed off direct light, the room dropped into shadow. Bosch then pointed at the bathroom door.
“Go in there,” he commanded. “Lock the door and stay low.”
Schubert didn’t move.
“You dialed nine-one-one,” he said. “Can’t you just call for backup?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a cop. Now go in there.”
Schubert looked puzzled.
“I thought—”
“I said GO!”
There was nothing whispered about the command this time. It propelled Schubert backwards toward the bathroom door. He went inside and closed the door. Bosch heard the click of the lock. He knew it wouldn’t stop Ellis and Long if it came to that. But it might buy a few more seconds.
The 911 operator finally answered and Bosch spoke in a loud and exaggeratedly panicked voice. He wanted Ellis and Long to know he was calling for help. They were probably in the hallway outside at that moment and Bosch thought there was a chance they would retreat if they heard him making the call.
“Yes, hello, I need help. There are two armed men in my office and they’re going to kill everybody,” he said loudly. “Their names are Ellis and Long, Ellis and Long, and they came here to kill us.”
“Hold on, sir,” the operator said. “Your location is fifteen-fifteen West Third Street?”
“Yes, that’s it. Hurry!”
“What is your name, sir?”
“What does that matter? Just send help.”
“I need your name, sir.”
“Harry Bosch.”
“Okay, sir, we are sending help. Please stay on the line for me.”
Bosch moved directly behind the desk. He put the phone in the crook of his neck and used his thigh and his free hand to lift the edge of the desk and tip it over on its side, its aluminum top now a barricade facing the door. Everything on the desk, including the desk phone, his own phone, and the cup full of pens slid off and loudly crashed to the floor. The phone’s handset was yanked from his neck when the cord reached its maximum extension. Bosch knew there was no time to go back around to retrieve it. He had to hope the call wasn’t disconnected and that the operator didn’t decide it was a prank.
Bosch crouched down behind the barricade. He knocked a fist on the underside of the desktop and felt and heard wood. The double layer of wood and metal might actually stop bullets — if he was lucky.
He squatted down further behind the blind and pointed his Glock at the door. He had brought the gun as part of the show to trick Schubert into believing he was a cop. Now it might be the only thing that kept them alive. The gun was maxed with thirteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. He hoped it would be enough.