“She got booked and sent to Van Nuys.”
The SFPD’s jail was not used for holding female arrestees. They were transported to the Van Nuys jail, which was operated by the LAPD and had a female ward as well as a detox center.
“Did you happen to get her name?”
“Uh, yeah, I did. It was... what was it?... Elizabeth something. Clayburgh or Clayton, one of those. I’ll remember in a sec.”
“Was she cooperative?”
“You mean like was she thanking us for pulling her out of the virtual slavery you described in the debrief? No, Harry, she didn’t mention it. She was pretty pissed off, in fact, that she was under arrest and not going to be able to get her next fix in jail.”
“You don’t sound like you have a lot of sympathy.”
“I do to an extent. I’ve dealt with addicts all my life, including in my own family, and it’s hard to balance sympathy for them with the damage they do to their families and others.”
Bosch nodded. She had a point. But he could tell she was also upset about something else.
“You think I planted evidence in that case thirty years ago?”
“What? Why are you bringing that up?”
“’Cause I can tell I’ve got people upset all around me. If it’s that case, then you don’t have to worry. The paper makes it look bad, I know, but it’s not going to stick. It’s a frame.”
“You’re being framed?”
The skepticism in her voice began to offend Bosch but he tried to keep it in check.
“That’s right and it will all come out at the hearing,” he said.
“Good. I hope so.”
They got to the station and parked in the side lot. Bosch went into the new jail, where he took off his clothes in front of the duty officer and dropped them all into a cardboard box. While the officer took the box out to Lourdes to process, Bosch went into the jail shower and stood under the lukewarm spray for twenty-five minutes, repeatedly using the jail’s industrial-strength antibacterial soap on every part of his body.
When he was clean and dry, he was given a pair of jail pants and a golf shirt left over from the department’s annual fund-raiser tournament. There had been blood on his shoes, so they had gone into the box as well and were replaced with a pair of paper jail slippers.
Bosch didn’t care how he looked. He was clean and felt human again. He went to the detective bureau to get the key to his office in the old jail — he had left his car keys, phone, and real ID there. Lourdes was in the war room. She had spread butcher paper on the meeting-and-eating table and was taking photos of the individual pieces of Bosch’s clothing before bagging each item individually in a plastic evidence bag.
“You cleaned up nice,” she said.
“Yeah, ready to take up golf for the cause,” he said. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the nasty job.”
“Lot of blood.”
“Yeah, I went for his bleeders.”
She looked up at him. Her face told him that she understood how close he had come to being killed.
“So you still have the key I gave you to the old jail.”
“Yeah, in my top drawer. You taking off?”
“Yeah, I want to call my lawyer and my daughter and then I want to sleep for about twenty hours.”
“We have follow-up on all of this tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I was just kidding about the twenty hours. I just need to get some sleep.”
“Okay, then I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”
“Right, see you.”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks, Bella.”
Bosch crossed the street, ducked through the Public Works yard, and entered the old jail. When he got to his makeshift desk, he saw that someone — probably Lourdes — had used the key to enter the cell and drop off a stamped letter addressed to him at the police department. Bosch decided to get to it later. He folded it and was about to put it in his back pocket when he realized that his jail pants had no pockets. He tucked it into the waistband, then gathered his things and headed back out, locking the doors behind him.
His phone screen said he had seventeen messages. He waited until he got on the freeway heading south and then played them over the phone’s speaker as he drove.
Friday, 1:38 p.m.: Just wanted you to know that we are locked and loaded. Request-to-be-heard motion filed, salvos fired. And word to the wise, my brother? Be prepared; there could be some major pushback on this. Okay, later, talk next week. Oh, and by the way, this is your attorney and it’s Friday afternoon. I know you are off doin’ secret cop stuff somewhere. Give a call if you need to over the weekend.
Friday, 3:16 p.m.: Harry, it’s Lucy, call me back. It’s important.
Friday, 4:22 p.m.: Detective Bosch, Alex Kennedy. I need you to give me a call as soon as possible. Thank you.
Friday, 4:38 p.m.: Harry, Lucy again, what the fuck did you do? I was trying to watch out for you and now you do this? You just — Kennedy is out for blood now. Call me back.
Friday, 5:51 p.m.: Shit, Harry, this is your old partner, remember me? I had your back and you had mine. Kennedy wants to blow you out of the water. I’m trying to contain this but I’m not sure he’s listening to me. You gotta call me back and you have to tell me what you have. I want the truth just as much as you do.
Friday, 7:02 p.m.: Hello, Detective Bosch, this is David Ramsey at the Los Angeles Times. Sorry to call you on your personal line but I am working on a story for this weekend about the Preston Borders case. I would love to have your response to some of the things that have come up in court documents. I’ll be at this number all night. Thank you.
Saturday, 8:01 a.m.: You don’t miss a trick, do you? I thought if I called from a strange number, you might pick up and talk to your old partner. I don’t understand you, Harry. But my hands are tied now. The Times is running with this. Supposedly it’s hitting the website today and in the paper tomorrow. I didn’t want this and if you had just talked to me, I think it could have been avoided. Just remember, I tried.
Saturday, 10:04 a.m.: Detective Bosch, this is David Ramsey from the Times again. I really want to get your side of things on this story. Court documents allege that you planted key evidence that tied Preston Borders to the murder of Danielle Skyler in nineteen eighty-seven. I really need you to respond to that. It’s in documents filed by the D.A.’s Office so it’s fair game to report but I would want your side of it. I’m at this number all day.
Saturday, 11:35 a.m.: Hey, Dad, just wanted to say hi and see what you’re up to this weekend. I was thinking of coming up today. Okay, love you.
Saturday, 2:12 p.m.: Dad, oh Dad, hello, this is your daughter. Remember me? Are you there? My window for coming up is closing. Call me back.
Saturday, 3:00 p.m.: David Ramsey again. We aren’t holding the story any longer, Detective Bosch. I’ve been to your house, I’ve called all your numbers. No response. It’s been almost twenty-four hours. If I don’t hear back from you in the next couple of hours, then my editors say we go with the story without your response. We will, however, out of fairness, document our many efforts to reach you. Thank you. I hope you will call back.
Saturday, 7:49 p.m.: Haller here. Have you seen the fucking Times online? I knew there would be pushback but this is beyond the pale. They didn’t even call me. They make no mention of our petition or our side of it. This is what you call a hit job. This asshole Kennedy is trying to stack the deck. Well, he just poked the wrong fucking beehive. I’m going to eat his lunch. Call me, bro, so we can put our heads together on this.