The story was not surprising to Bosch. It was the story of the epidemic. People start out hurt and just want to kill the pain and get better. Then they’re hooked and need more than the prescriptions allow. People like Santos fill the space, and there is no turning back.
“When the pills ran out, what did you do?”
“I bought a can opener.”
“What?”
“A can opener and thirty days of rations. I then had a friend put me in a windowless room with a toilet and nail the door shut. He came back in thirty days and I was clean. I’ll never take another pill again. I’ll take a fucking root canal but I still won’t take a pill.”
Bosch could only nod at the end of that story. A waitress came by and Cisco asked for an iced tea and one of their garlic pickles sliced into quarters.
“You want more than that?” Bosch asked. “I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Nah, I’m good. I like the pickles they have here. The garlic brine. One other thing is no eye contact. In the pharmacy. Keep your head down, hand them the piece of paper and your ID, and don’t make eye contact.”
“Got it. The people I’m dealing with are giving me a Medicare card too.”
“Of course, saves you a ton of money. Sticks it on the government.”
Bosch nodded.
“You mind me asking why you’re doing this?” Cisco asked.
“I’m working a case,” Bosch said. “Two pharmacists murdered up in San Fernando. A father and son.”
“Yeah, I read about that. Looks like some dangerous people. You got backup? I’m free at the moment.”
“I do. But I appreciate the offer.”
“I’ve been in the black hole, man. I know what it’s like. Anything I can do to help.”
Bosch nodded. He was aware that the Road Saints, Cisco’s motorcycle “club,” had once been suspected of being a primary manufacturer and mover of crystal meth, a drug with similarly devastating consequences for the addicted. The waitress arrived with iced tea and a sliced pickle, saving Bosch from bringing up the irony of Cisco’s offer.
Cisco used his fingers to take a slice of pickle off the dish and slid it into his mouth in two bites. When the waitress had brought the plate, Bosch had moved his phone out of the way and accidentally activated its screen. Cisco pointed a wet finger at it.
“What’s that?” he asked.
The screen was frozen on an image of Soto using the cutter on the evidence box. Bosch picked up the phone.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s another case. I was trying to figure something out while I was waiting for you.”
“Is that what you’re working with Mickey on?” Cisco asked.
“Uh, yeah. But I have to figure the thing out before we can go into court.”
“Can I see?”
“Nah, it’s kind of meant to be private. I can’t show — well, you know, why not?”
Bosch realized he was grasping at straws when it came to the sealed box. Maybe fresh eyes would bring a fresh idea.
“It’s a video of a detective cutting open an old evidence box, and they filmed it to prove it hadn’t been tampered with. To prove nobody had gotten into it.”
Bosch started the playback from the beginning of the video and then put the phone down on the table and turned it toward Cisco. He took it off mute as well, hoping the couple eating on the other side of the room would not object.
Cisco leaned down and watched the screen while eating another slice of pickle. When it was over, he straightened back up.
“Looked legit to me,” he said.
“Like it hadn’t been tampered with?” Bosch asked.
“Right.”
“Yeah, that’s my take too.”
Bosch took the phone off the table and buried it in his pocket.
“Who’s the guy?” Cisco asked.
“Her partner,” Bosch said. “He took it on his phone and narrated. He talks too much.”
“No, the other guy. The one watching.”
“What guy watching?”
“Give me the phone.”
Bosch pulled the phone out again, set up the video playback, and handed it across the table. This time Cisco held it and poised one of his pickle fingers over the play button. Bosch waited. Cisco eventually stabbed at the screen several times.
“Come on, stop. Shit. I have to go back.”
He manipulated the phone’s screen until it was playing again and once again hit the play/stop button.
“This guy.”
He handed the phone to Bosch, who quickly looked at the screen. It was nearly in the identical spot where he had paused the playback when Cisco had arrived. Soto was cutting through the seals down the lengthwise seam on the top of the box. Bosch was about to ask what Cisco was talking about, when he saw the face in the background. It startled him because he had not noticed it before. But someone had been watching Soto from outside the viewing room. Someone from the next room was leaning across the property counter and looking in.
During all his previous viewings of the video Bosch had been so consumed with checking the integrity of the seals on the evidence box that his eyes had not wandered to the borders of the frame. And now he saw it. A counterman who was interested enough in what Soto and Tapscott were doing to lean over to watch them.
Bosch recognized the man but couldn’t immediately recall his name. Bosch had worked cold cases the last several years of his time with the LAPD and had gone to property control often to look at old evidence for new clues. The man on the screen had pulled the boxes for him on numerous occasions, but it was one of those quick bureaucratic relationships that never went much past the “Howyadoin’?” phase. He thought his name was Barry or Gary or something along those lines.
Bosch looked up from the phone to Cisco.
“Cisco, you working on something right now for Haller?”
“Uh, no. Just sort of standing by till he needs me. Like I said, I’m free at the moment.”
“Good. I’ve got a job for you. It’s the thing I’m doing with Haller, so it won’t be a problem.”
“What do I do?”
Bosch held the phone up so Cisco could see the screen.
“You see this guy? I want to know everything there is to know about him.”
“He a cop?”
“No, a civilian employee called a property officer. He works in Property Control at Piper Tech downtown. He’ll get off at five and come out past the guard shack on Vignes. If you set up under the freeway underpass, you should get a look at him when he puts his car window down and key-cards the exit gate. Tail him from there.”
“You paying or Mick?”
“Doesn’t matter. I pay you or he pays you and charges me. It’s part of the same case. I’m calling him as soon as we’re done here.”
“When do you want me to start?”
“Right now. I’d do it myself but this guy knows me. If he saw me tailing him, the whole thing could blow up.”
“Okay, what’s his name?”
“I can’t remember. I meant that he knows me on sight — from when I was LAPD. If he’s part of this and he saw me, the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Got it. I’m on it.”
“Call me when you have him at his home. But you need to go. You’re going to get caught in traffic going downtown.”
“Lane splitting — it’s why I ride a Harley.”
“Oh, right.”
Cisco finished the last slice of pickle and then climbed out of the booth.
From the parking lot behind the deli, Cisco rode off on his Harley, and Bosch headed home to wait to hear from him. The first thing he did when he got there was text the video from his burner to his real phone. He then e-mailed it to himself and for the first time watched the video on the thirteen-inch screen of his laptop.