Authors: Michael Connelly
Feb. 5—Gerard examines watch—still registered to Schubert
Feb. 5—Gerard calls Mrs. Schubert (watch stolen)
Feb. 5—Parks calls Gerard, learns her watch may have been stolen
Feb. 5—Parks calls Grant & Sons (conversation unknown)
Feb. 5—Dr. Schubert calls Gerard—watch not stolen, paid gambling debt
Feb. 5—Gerard calls Parks (watch not stolen)
Feb. 9—Alexandra Parks murdered
Mar. 19—Da’Quan Foster arrested—DNA match
Mar. 21–22—James Allen murdered—orange Camaro in Haven House lot—two car doors in alley—two killers?
Apr. 1—Cisco crashes—orange Camaro
May 5—Haller arrested—Ellis and Long
May 7—Nguyen brothers questioned by Bosch—Nguyen brothers murdered—two killers?
Bosch finally put the pen down and studied the dates and events on each line. Deconstructing the case to a simple timeline helped him see how everything was connected and how the events fell like dominoes, one leading to the next. And through all of it was the watch. Could four murders actually be linked by the changing ownership of a watch?
Bosch knew that it was time to meet Dr. Schubert and finish the puzzle. He sat back and considered how to best do this. He drew certain conclusions about the man he had never met or even seen before—conclusions based on what he did for a living and where and how he lived.
He decided that the best approach would be to scare Schubert and gain his cooperation through fear. And in this case, he wasn’t going to have to fake it.
Bosch got up from the table and headed down the hallway to his bedroom. It was time to change into real detective clothes.
E
llis was in the new apartment with the twins. He was reviewing the last day’s recordings, looking for the next project to work. Long called him on the burner.
“You were right,” he said. “He just showed up. I think you need to get over here.”
One of the girls was sitting on the couch, painting her fingernails. The other was taking a nap because the night before had been so busy. Ellis moved into the kitchen so he would have some privacy. He spoke in a low voice to Long.
“What’s he doing?” he asked.
“Well, he’s wearing a suit and tie for one thing,” Long said.
“Trying to look like a detective. That’ll be his play. What else?”
“He’s holding a file.”
“Where exactly is he?”
“The garage, leaning against a car that looks like a plain-wrap. You should get over here. Something is going to go down, I think.”
“He’ll want to get him away by himself. Someplace private.”
Ellis had to think about this. What would be the best opportunity for their own play?
“You still there?” Long asked.
“I’m here,” Ellis said. “Can you tell, is he carrying?”
“Uh … yeah, he’s carrying. Left hip. I see the jacket riding up on it.”
“We’ll have to remember that. And you’re sure he didn’t see you.”
“No, man, he drove in right by me.”
“In the Cherokee?”
“No, he’s got a Chrysler. Looks like a rental.”
Ellis considered this. Bosch knew that they had tagged the Cherokee. Did he know they were watching Schubert?
“You coming or not?” Long asked.
“Soon.”
He disconnected and walked into the living room.
T
he Center for Cosmetic Creation was located in a two-story structure a block from Cedars-Sinai in West Hollywood. The entire first level served as a parking garage with the medical facilities just a short elevator ride up. Bosch found Schubert’s car easily in the parking garage—he had a reserved spot with his name stenciled on the wall in front of it. There was a sleek-looking silver Mercedes-Benz sitting in the space. Bosch drove past it and found an open space nearby. He parked and waited. As he did so, he looked through the file of reports and photos he had put together, and worked on his pitch. That was what it was going to be. A pitch to Schubert. An offer to save his life.
While Bosch waited he saw a few patients of the cosmetic surgery center come out of the elevator and leave after being discharged from whatever treatment they had elected. They were wheeled out by nurses and then helped into waiting Town Cars. Bosch noticed that the Lincolns all had license plate frames from the same car service and he got the idea that the ride was part of the surgery package. All but one of the patients had bandages on her face. Bosch guessed that the one who didn’t had gone in for breast enhancement or liposuction. She carried herself gingerly when she stood from the wheelchair and climbed slowly into the back of the waiting car.
All of the patients Bosch saw leaving were women. All of them middle-aged or older. All of them by themselves. All of them probably trying to hold on to an image of youth, pushing back that moment when they feared men would stop looking at them.
It was a rough and tough world out there. It made Bosch think about his daughter and how soon she would be leaving home and going out on her own. He hoped that she would never have a destination like this place. He pulled out his phone and fired off a text to her, even though she had told him it was unlikely they would be camping in a place with cellular service. He sent the text anyway, more for himself than for her.
Hey, hope you’re having fun. I miss ya!
Bosch was looking at the phone’s screen, hoping for a reply, when he heard the chirp of a car being unlocked. He looked up and saw two women in patterned nursing scrubs heading toward their cars. The medical offices were probably closing for the day. Moments behind them came a man who Bosch guessed was possibly a doctor. He was heading toward the Mercedes in the parking spot marked for Schubert but he walked by it to the car right next to it. After the man pulled out of the spot, Bosch started his car and moved it over to the open space next to Schubert’s. He got out with the file and walked around to Schubert’s Mercedes. Leaning against the back of the car, he put the file down on the trunk lid and folded his arms across his chest.
For the next twenty minutes nurses and staff members continued to sporadically emerge from the elevator and enter the garage, but no one approached Schubert’s Mercedes. A few gave Bosch an inquisitive look but no one asked him why he was there or what he was doing. It was Friday afternoon, the end of the week, and they wanted to get out of there. Bosch used his phone to search Google images for an online photo of the plastic surgeon. He found only one and it was from a 2003 article in a Beverly Hills society paper. The photo depicted the doctor and his wife, Gail, attending a charity event at the Beverly Hilton. It looked to Bosch as though the wife had made a visit or two to her husband’s office for professional reasons. There was a chiseled look to her chin and the ridge of her eyebrows.
A text from Maddie popped up on his phone screen.
Really cold at night. See you Sunday!
It was like her to keep it succinct and deliver the real message outside the words—the message being that she would be holding off on communicating until she got back home. Bosch opened up a window to tap out a return message but was unsure what to say.
“Excuse me.”
Bosch looked up. A man was approaching and Bosch recognized him from the twelve-year-old photo he had just pulled up on his phone. Schubert gestured toward the Mercedes that Bosch was leaning against.
“My car, if you don’t mind,” he said.
He wore green pants and a light-blue button-down shirt and gray tie. He wore no sport coat, most likely because he wore a doctor’s white coat inside the center. Bosch pushed off the trunk of the car and adjusted his jacket, being sure to flip it enough to show off the gun holstered on his hip. He saw Schubert’s eyes hold on it.
“What is this?” Schubert said.
“Dr. Schubert, my name’s Bosch and I’m here to save your life,” Bosch said. “Is there a place we can talk privately?”
“What?” the doctor exclaimed. “Is this some kind of a joke? Who the hell are you?”
Schubert gave Bosch a wide berth as he moved toward the driver’s-side door of his car. He pulled a key from his pocket and clicked it, unlocking the doors.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Bosch said.
Schubert stopped, his hand in midreach to the door, as if Bosch were warning him that he might trigger a bomb should he pull the handle. Bosch came around the back of the car, sliding the file off the trunk as he approached.
“Look, who are you?” Schubert said.
“I told you who I am,” Bosch said. “I’m the guy trying to keep you breathing.”
He handed the file to Schubert, who reluctantly took it. So far, things were going according to the pitch Bosch had worked out. The next ten seconds would determine if it stayed that way.
“Look at it,” Bosch said. “I’m investigating a series of murders, Dr. Schubert. And I have reason to believe you—and possibly your wife—could be next in line.”
Schubert reacted as if the file were red hot. Bosch was studying him. It was more a reaction of fear than surprise.
“Open it,” Bosch commanded.
“This is not how you do this,” the doctor protested. “You don’t—”
He stopped short when he saw the image clipped to the inside of the file. The close-up of Alexandra Parks’s horribly damaged face. His eyes widened and Bosch assumed that the plastic man had never seen a face like that in all his years of work.
Schubert’s eyes scanned the other side of the file. Bosch had clipped the incident report to the right side, not for its content but because it was a copy of an official document and he knew the imprimatur of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department printed at the top would further his legitimacy in Schubert’s eyes. Harry wanted him thinking he was a real cop for as long as possible. The charade would be over if Schubert asked to see a badge. To keep that from happening, Bosch’s plan was to keep him off balance and play on his fears.
Schubert closed the file and looked stricken. He tried to hand it back but Bosch did not take it.
“Look, what is this about?” he pleaded. “What does it have to do with me?”
“It all started with you, Doctor,” Bosch said. “With you and Ellis and Long.”
The recognition was unmistakable in Schubert’s face. Recognition and dread, as if he had expected all along that his business with Ellis and Long—whatever it was—was not done.
Bosch stepped forward and finally took the file away.
“Now,” he said. “Where can we go to talk?”
S
chubert used a key to unlock the elevator. The steel box rose slowly, and neither he nor Bosch spoke. Once the doors opened, the two men moved through a high-luxury reception area and waiting room with plush seating and a coffee bar. The spaces were empty and unmanned. It appeared that everyone had gone home for the day. They moved down a hallway and into Schubert’s private office. He flipped on the light switch as they entered a large room with an informal seating arrangement of couch and chairs on one side and a desk and computer station on the other side. The two areas were separated by a folding partition of Japanese design. Schubert sat down heavily in the high-backed leather chair positioned behind the desk. He shook his head like a man who suddenly understands that the trappings of his life that were so perfectly put in place are now changing.
“I just can’t believe this,” he said.
He gestured toward Bosch as though he were responsible for it all. Bosch sat down in a chair in front of the desk and put the file down on the ultra-modern brushed-aluminum desktop.
“Relax, Doctor,” Bosch said. “We’ll work this out. The woman in the photo you don’t want to look at was Alexandra Parks. Does that name ring a bell with you?”
Schubert started to shake his head in a reflex response but then his mind snagged on the name.
“The woman from West Hollywood?” he asked. “The one who worked for the city? I thought they caught somebody for that. A black gang member.”
Bosch thought it interesting that Schubert had described the suspect by race, like there was a causal relationship to the crime. It gave Bosch a small insight into the man he had to convince in the next five minutes to open up and talk.
“Yeah, well, we got the wrong guy,” Bosch said. “And the right guys are still out there.”
“You mean those two men? The two L.A. cops?”
“That’s right. And I need to know what you know about them so that we can stop them.”
“I don’t know anything about this.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I can’t get involved. In my business, reputation is everything. I—”
“Your reputation won’t mean much if you’re dead, and we have good reason to believe you are on their list.”
“That’s impossible. I paid and I’ll pay again by the end of next month. They know that. Why would they—”
Schubert realized that in his panic and fear he had already revealed himself.
Bosch nodded.
“That’s why we need to talk,” he said. “Help us end this thing. We’ll do it quietly and safely. As much as possible I will keep you out of it. I need your information, not you.”
Now Schubert nodded, not so much to Bosch but to acknowledge that a moment he had been dreading for a long time was finally here and had to be dealt with.
“Okay, good,” Bosch said. “But before we start, I need to check in with my partner and tell him where I’m at. It’s a safety thing.”
“I thought you were supposed to be with a partner at all times.”
Bosch took out his phone and typed in the password.
“In a perfect world,” he said. “But with an investigation like this, we cover more ground if we split up. We keep momentum.”