“Already did,” she called back down the hall to him. “I was so nervous I did it twice!”
“Good!” he called down the hall. “I won’t have to worry about it for a week.”
It felt good to get out of the jail pants and slippers. As he did so, the envelope that had been mailed to him at the police station fell to the floor. Bosch put it on the bed table to open and read later. Before putting on his own clothes, he slipped into the bathroom and shaved five days of stubble off his face. He pulled on blue jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a pair of black running shoes. On his way back up the hall, he stopped in the kitchen to put the jail pants and slippers in the trash can under the sink.
He then went to the refrigerator for a beer. But there was none and his leaning down to look into the far recesses of the box didn’t change that.
He straightened up and looked at the bottle of bourbon on top of the refrigerator. He decided against it, even though he could have used something to help chill things out. Seeing the bottle, however, made him think that he should give what remained of the precious brand to Edgar to thank him for his warning about the plane ride over the Salton Sea.
“Dad?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
He went out to the living room to tell the story. There was no one in the world Bosch trusted more than his daughter. He told her everything, more detail than he had even told the collective in the mobile command post. He felt the details would mean more to her, and at the same time, he knew he was telling her about the dark side of the world. It was a place she had to know about, he believed, no matter where she went with her life. He ended the story with an apology.
“Sorry,” he said. “Maybe you didn’t need to know all of that.”
“No, I did,” she said. “I can’t believe you volunteered for it. You were so lucky. What if you had gotten killed by those guys. I would have been all alone.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I figured you’d be all right. You’re strong. You’re on your own now. I know you have roommates but you’re independent. I thought...”
“Thanks a lot, Dad.”
“Look, I’m sorry. But I wanted to catch these guys. What that kid did, the son, it was noble. When this all comes out, people will probably say he was stupid and naive and didn’t know what he was doing. But they won’t know the truth. He was being noble. And there isn’t a lot of that out there in the world anymore. People lie, the president lies, corporations lie and cheat... The world is ugly and not many people are willing to stand up to it anymore. I didn’t want what this kid did to go by without... I didn’t want them to get away with it, I guess.”
“I understand. Just think of me next time, okay? You’re all I have.”
“Right. I will. You’re all I have too.”
“So now tell me the other story. About what’s in the paper today.”
She held up the business card from David Ramsey she had found left at the front door. It reminded Bosch that he had not read the full Times story. He now told her about the Danielle Skyler case and the move by Preston Borders to get off death row and frame Bosch for planting evidence in the process. This story ran right up until she felt pressed for time, having to drive all the way back to Orange County. She had already decided to pick up dinner on the way instead of cooking it late.
She gave Bosch another long embrace and he walked her out to her car.
“Dad, I want to come up for the hearing on Wednesday,” she said.
Normally Bosch didn’t like her to go to hearings on his cases. But this one would be different because it would feel like he was on trial. He could use all the moral support he could get.
“What about Imperial Beach?” he asked.
“I’ll just come back early,” she said. “I’ll take the train up.”
She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and opened an app.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s the Metrolink app. You keep saying you’re going to take the train down to see me. You gotta get the app. There’s a six thirty I could take up, gets to Union Station at eight twenty.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it says it right—”
“No, I mean about you coming up.”
“Of course. I want to be there for you.”
Bosch hugged her again.
“Okay, I’ll text you the details. I don’t think court starts till about ten. Maybe we do breakfast before — unless I have to meet with your uncle.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
“What are you going to pick up for dinner?”
“I want to get Zankou and bring it down, but then my car will smell like garlic for about a month.”
“That might be worth it.”
Zankou Chicken was a local chain of Armenian fast-food restaurants that had been a favorite takeout source for them over the years.
“Bye, Dad.”
He stayed on the curb until he watched her car make the turn and disappear down the hill. Back in the house, he looked at the business card she’d left on the table and thought about calling Ramsey to set him straight. He decided against it. Ramsey wasn’t his opponent and it would be better not to use the newspaper to let his real opponents know what was coming. The Times reporter would undoubtedly be in court Wednesday and would get the full story then. Bosch just had to nut it out for three days under the shadow the newspaper story had shrouded his life in.
Bosch opened his phone and, after doing some research online to get the number, called the Van Nuys jail and asked for the control officer. He identified himself and said he wanted to set up an interview with a custody on the female tier.
“Can it wait?” the officer asked. “It’s Sunday night and I don’t have people to sit on an interview room.”
“It’s a double homicide,” Bosch said. “I need to talk to her.”
“Okay, what’s the name?”
“Elizabeth Clayburgh.”
Bosch heard him type it into his computer.
“Nope,” the officer said. “We don’t have her.”
“Sorry, I meant Clayton,” Bosch said. “Elizabeth Clayton.”
More typing.
“We don’t have her either,” the officer said. “She R-O-R’ed a couple hours ago.”
Bosch knew that meant she was released on her own recognizance.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You let her go?”
“No choice,” the officer said. “Capacity protocol. Nonviolent offense.”
Countywide, the jail system was overcrowded, and nonviolent offenders were regularly released early from minor sentences or released without having to post bail. Elizabeth Clayton had apparently fallen into the latter category and was released after one day and before she could be placed in a drug rehabilitation unit.
“Wait a minute, wasn’t she in detox?” Bosch asked. “You release early from detox now?”
“I don’t have her on the box as having been in detox,” the officer said. “They have a waiting list in detox, anyway. Sorry, Detective.”
Bosch held his frustration in check and was about to thank the officer and hang up. Then he thought about something else.
“Can you put another name in, just to see if you have him?”
“Give it to me.”
“Male, white, last name Brody. I don’t have a first handy.”
“Well, that might be a — no, I found him. James Brody, also arrested Saturday, same charge — prescription fraud. Yeah, he got kicked too.”
“Same time as Clayton?”
“No, earlier. By a couple hours. Most violent offenders are male and that’s who we need to make room for. So the male NVs get out sooner than the ladies.”