Though he studied the opening of the box once more, his eyes were drawn now to the figure who was momentarily caught watching Soto cut through the labels. On the larger screen Bosch saw a clearer expression on the man’s face but could not read whether he was watching out of curiosity or something more. His excitement over Cisco’s find began to give way to disappointment. They were chasing a dead end and Bosch was back to the question: How did Cronyn get the DNA into the evidence box?
He stepped away from the computer, taking the cane and knee brace Cisco had given him down the hall to his daughter’s bedroom. The room seemed so still. She had not been up to L.A. in weeks. He sat on the bed and wrapped the brace around his left knee and over his pants, then secured it tightly with the buckles and straps. He then got up and walked stiff-legged to the center of the room, where he could see himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Holding the cane in his right hand, he walked toward the mirror, the brace minimizing the mobility of his knee. He pushed against the restraint and practiced walking. He didn’t want to present himself as someone who was actually injured. Rather, he wanted to be a man using props to appear injured. There was a difference, and in that difference was the secret to being the perfect pill shill.
Soon he was moving about the house, working the brace and the cane into a rocking gait that he thought would be effective in his undercover capacity. At one point, he accidentally put the rubber tip of the cane into the sliding door track as he stepped onto the back deck. The cane momentarily became stuck and he twisted his wrist to pull it free. He felt the curved handle turn loose from the barrel of the cane. Thinking he might have broken it, he examined the handle and saw a seam just below its curve. He grasped the barrel and pulled, sliding the two pieces apart. The handle was attached to a four-inch blade with a dagger point.
Bosch smiled. It was what every undercover pill shill needed.
Satisfied with his physical prep work, Bosch went to the kitchen to make an early dinner. He was spreading peanut butter on a piece of whole wheat bread when his cell buzzed. It was Cisco. Bosch answered the call with a question.
“Hey, how come you didn’t tell me the cane was a deadly weapon?”
There was a pause before Cisco answered.
“Holy shit, I forgot about that. The blade. Sorry, man, I hope that didn’t get you in trouble. Don’t try to go through TSA with that thing.”
“The kind of flying I’m expecting to do, there won’t be any TSA. Actually, it’s all good. I like having a little something up my sleeve if I need it in a jam. What’s happening with our guy?”
“I’ve got him tucked in already at home. Not sure if that’s for the night or what.”
“Where’s he live?”
“Altadena. Has a house.”
“Were you able to get his name yet?”
“I got his whole package, man. This is what I do. His name is Terrence Spencer.”
“Terry, yeah, I knew it was something like that. Terry Spencer.”
Bosch ran the name through his memory to see if it came up in any other way besides the routine interactions at the property control counter. No other connections came to light.
“What’s the whole package include?” he asked.
“Well, no criminal record, or I guess he wouldn’t be working there,” Cisco said. “I pulled his credit history. He’s owned the house I’m sitting here looking at for eighteen years and is carrying a mortgage of five-sixty-five on it. I’d say that is a bit high for this neighborhood. He’s probably maxed out on it. He’s been spotty making his payments the past few years, a couple months late here and there, but about seven years ago he went through a real shaky period. The house went into foreclosure. He apparently fought it off somehow and got the refi he’s on now. But that and his late-payment dings have pretty much tanked his credit score.”
Bosch wasn’t really interested in Spencer’s credit score.
“Okay, what else?”
“Drives a six-year-old Nissan, is married, his wife drives a newer Jaguar. Both cars were financed but paid off over time. Don’t know about kids. This guy’s fifty-four, so if he had them, they’re probably out of the house. I can knock on doors in the neighborhood if you want me to go deeper.”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t want to alert him.”
Bosch thought for a few moments about Cisco’s report. Nothing stood out in a big way. The mortgage trouble was of note, but since the financial crash a decade earlier, the middle class was squeezed, and missing payments and dodging foreclosure were not unusual. Spencer, however, was essentially a clerk, and the size of his mortgage would stand out if it were not for the fact that he had owned the house for eighteen years. In that length of time it was likely that the property’s value had more than doubled. If he took equity out of it, then it might explain how he got stuck with a high-six-figure note.
“Any idea what his wife does?” Bosch asked.
“Lorna’s still working on that,” Cisco said.
Bosch knew that Lorna Taylor was Mickey Haller’s ex-wife and office manager, even though he didn’t have an office. She was also currently married to Cisco, completing an incestuous circle in which everybody was somehow happy and worked together.
“You want me to stay on him?” Cisco asked.
Bosch thought about making a move that would bring clarity to the Spencer situation and allow Bosch to move on or focus in. He checked his watch. It was six fifteen.
“Tell you what,” he finally said. “Sit tight for a few minutes. I gotta make a quick call and then I’ll call you right back.”
“I’ll be here,” Cisco said.
Bosch disconnected and went to his laptop in the dining room. He closed down the Tapscott video on the laptop and Googled the name Lance Cronyn. He got a website and the general number for a law firm called Cronyn & Cronyn.
He then pulled the burner phone out of his pocket and called the number. Most law offices were nine-to-five establishments but the call for defense attorneys could come at any hour, and most often those hours were at night. Most lawyers specializing in criminal defense had answering services or forwarding numbers so they could be reached quickly — especially by paying customers.
As expected, Bosch’s call eventually reached a live human being.
“I need to speak to Lance Cronyn right away,” Bosch said. “It’s an emergency.”
“Mr. Cronyn has left for the day,” said the voice. “But he will check soon for messages. Can I have your name?”
“Terry Spencer. I need to talk to him tonight.”
“I understand and will give him the message as soon as he checks in. What number should he call?”
Bosch gave the burner’s number, repeated that it was an emergency situation, and disconnected. He knew that saying Cronyn would check in for messages was just a way of giving the lawyer an out if he didn’t want to call back. Bosch was certain that the go-between would forward his message right away.
He got up and went to the kitchen to finish making his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Before he was done, he heard the burner’s generic ringtone in the other room. He left the sandwich on the counter and went to the phone. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen but assumed it was Cronyn’s cell phone or home number. He answered with one word spoken into the palm of his hand in an attempt to disguise it.
“Yes.”
“Why are you calling me? I’m not your contact.”
Bosch stood frozen. There it was. Cronyn obviously knew who Spencer was. The annoyed tone and the intimacy of what was said showed without a doubt that the lawyer knew who he was talking to.