Bosch finally came away from his thoughts and looked at Rollins.
“What did McQuillen say when you told him you saw Irving?”
“Nothing. I think he asked if the guy was checking in.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I thought he was. I mean, he was dumping his car at the garage. That garage is too small; they only let hotel guests park there. If you’re just going to the bar or something, you have to use the outside valet.”
Bosch nodded. Rollins was right about that.
“Okay, we’re going to take you back now, Hooch. If you tell anybody what we talked about here, I’m going to know. And I promise you if that happens, it’s not going to turn out good for you.”
Rollins raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m straight with that,” he said.
19
After they dropped Rollins off they headed back toward downtown and the PAB.
“So, McQuillen,” Chu said, as Bosch knew he would. “Who is he? I could tell the name meant something to you.”
“Like Hooch said, a former cop.”
“But you know him? Or knew him?”
“I knew of him. I never met him.”
“Well, what’s the story?”
“He was a cop who was sacrificed to the gods of appeasement. He lost his job for doing it just the way they taught him.”
“Stop talking in circles, Harry. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that I have to go up to the tenth floor and talk to somebody.”
“The chief?”
“No, not the chief.”
“And this is one of those times again where you’re not going to tell your partner what’s going on until you feel like it.”
Bosch didn’t answer. He was grinding things down.
“Harry! I’m talking to you.”
“Chu, when we get back, I want you to start a moniker search.”
“Who?”
“Somebody who went by the name Chill in the North Hollywood — Burbank area about twenty-five years ago.”
“What the fuck? Are you talking about the other case now?”
“I want you to find this guy. His initials are C. H. and people called him Chill. It’s got to be a variation on his first name.”
Chu shook his head.
“That’s it, man, I’m done after this. I can’t work this way. I’ll tell the lieutenant.”
Bosch just nodded.
“‘After this’? Does that mean you’ll do the moniker search first?”
Bosch didn’t call ahead to Kiz Rider. He just took the elevator up to the tenth floor and entered the OCP suite without invitation or appointment. He was met by twin desks with twin adjutants behind them. He went to his left.
“Detective Harry Bosch. I need to see Lieutenant Rider.”
The adjutant was a young officer in a crisp uniform with the name RIVERA on his nameplate. He picked up a clipboard from the side of his desk and studied it for a moment.
“I don’t have anything here. Is the lieutenant expecting you? She’s in a meeting.”
“Yes.”
Rivera seemed surprised by the answer. He had to check the clipboard again.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Detective, and I’ll check on availability.”
“You do that.”
Rivera didn’t move. He waited for Bosch to go away. Harry walked over to some chairs arranged near a set of windows that looked out upon the civic center — the signature spire of City Hall took up most of the view. He stayed standing. When Harry was a safe distance from the desk, Rivera picked up his phone and made a call, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece when he spoke to someone on the other end. Soon he hung up but did not even glance in Bosch’s direction.
Bosch turned back to the window and looked down. He saw a television camera crew set up on the steps of City Hall, waiting for a sound bite from some politician with something to sell. Bosch wondered if it would be Irving who would come out and descend the marble steps.
“Harry?”
He turned. It was Rider.
“Walk with me.”
He wished she hadn’t said that line. But he followed when she turned and walked out the double doors to the hallway. Once they were alone she turned on him.
“What’s going on? I have people in my office.”
“We need to talk. Now.”
“So talk.”
“No, not here like this. Things are breaking. It’s going the way I warned you. The chief should know. Who’s in your office? Is it Irving?”
“No, stop being paranoid.”
“Then why are we talking out here?”
“Because the office is busy and because it was you who demanded complete confidentiality on this. Give me ten minutes and meet me by Charlie Chaplin.”
Bosch walked over and pushed the elevator button. There was only a down button.
“I’ll be there.”
It was a block’s walk to the Bradbury Building. Bosch went in the side door on Third and into the dimly lit stairwell vestibule. There was a bench there and next to it was a sculpture of Charlie Chaplin as his signature character, the Tramp. Bosch took a seat in the shadows next to Charlie and waited. The Bradbury was the oldest and most beautiful building in downtown. It housed private offices as well as LAPD offices, including the board of rights hearing rooms used by Internal Affairs. It was an odd choice for a surreptitious meeting, but it was the spot Bosch and Rider had used in the past. No discussion or direction was needed once Kiz had said meet me at Charlie Chaplin.
Rider was almost ten minutes past the first ten minutes but that was okay with Bosch. He had used the time to construct the story he would tell her. It was complicated and still emerging, even improvisational.
He had just finished walking himself through it when he felt the buzz of an incoming text on his phone. He pulled it from his pocket, half expecting the message to be a cancellation of the meeting from Rider. But it was from his daughter.
Having dinner and study hall at Ash’s. Her mom makes goooood pizza. K?
He felt a slight pang of guilt because he welcomed the message. With his daughter taken care of for the evening, he had more time to work his cases. It also meant he could see Hannah Stone again if he could come up with a viable investigative reason. He sent back his approval but told his daughter she had to be home by ten. He told her to call if she needed a ride.
Bosch was pocketing his phone when Rider came in, hesitated a moment while her eyes adjusted to the shadows and then sat down next to him.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said.
He waited a moment for her to settle but she wasn’t interested in wasting time.
“Well?”
“You ready?”
“Of course. I’m here. Tell me the story.”
“Well, it goes like this. George Irving has a consulting firm that is really an influence firm. He sells his influence, his connection to his father and the faction his father is part of on the city council. He—”
“Do you have documentary evidence of this?”
“Right now it’s just a story, Kiz, and it’s just you and me here. Let me tell it and then you can ask your questions when I’m done.”
“Go ahead, then.”
The door on Third opened and a uniformed officer walked in, took off his sunglasses and looked around, blindly at first and then focusing on Bosch and Rider and correctly sizing them up as cops.
“Is this where the BORs are heard?” he asked.