Authors: Michael Connelly
“Who’s there?”
he called out.
Bosch didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.
“Show yourself !”
Bosch snaked his hand under the raid jacket and closed his hand on his gun’s grips. He knew the indications were that Jessup had obtained a weapon. If he made even a feint in Bosch’s direction, Harry was going to pull his own weapon and be ready to fire first.
But it never happened. Jessup started moving quickly back to the entrance hole and soon he disappeared in the darkness. Bosch listened but all he could hear was the crashing of the waves. He waited another thirty seconds and then started moving toward the opening in the wall. He didn’t turn on the light. He wasn’t sure Jessup had actually left.
As he moved around the stack of scaffolding frames, he banged his shin hard on a metal pipe that was extending out from the pile. It sent a sudden burst of pain up his left leg and shifted the balance of metal frames. The top two loudly slid off stack, clattering to the sand. Bosch threw himself to the sand next to the pile and waited.
But Jessup didn’t appear. He was gone.
Bosch slowly got up. He was in pain and he was angry. He pulled his phone and called SIS dispatch.
“You were supposed to call me when Jessup moved!” he whispered angrily.
“I know that,” said the dispatcher. “He hasn’t moved.”
“What? Are you—patch me through to whoever’s in charge out there.”
“I’m sorry, Detective, but that’s not how—”
“Look, shithead, Jessup is not
tucked in
for the night. I just saw him. And it almost turned bad. Now let me talk to somebody out there or my next call is to Lieutenant Wright at home.”
While he waited Bosch moved to the sidewall so he could get out of the storage area. His leg hurt badly and he was walking with a limp.
In the darkness he couldn’t find the spot where he could slip under the wall. Finally, he put the light on, holding it low to the ground. He found the spot but saw that Jessup had pushed sand into the hole, just as he had the night before.
A voice finally came to him over the phone.
“Bosch? This is Jacquez. You claim you just saw our subject?”
“I don’t claim I saw him. I did see him. Where are your people?”
“We’re sitting on his zero, man. He hasn’t left.”
Zero was a surveillance subject’s home location.
“Bullshit, I just saw him under the Santa Monica pier. Get your people up here. Now.”
“We got his zero down tight, Bosch. There’s no—”
“Listen, Jackass, Jessup is my case. I know him and he almost just crawled up my ass. Now call your men and find out which one went off post because—”
“I’ll get back to you,” Jacquez said curtly and the line went dead.
Bosch turned the phone’s ringer back on and put it in his pocket. Once again he dropped to his knees and quickly dug out the hole, using his hands as a scoop. He then pushed his body through, half expecting Jessup to be waiting for him when he came up on the other side.
But there was no sign of him. Bosch got up, gazed south down the beach in the direction of Venice and saw no one in the light from the Ferris wheel. He then turned and looked up toward the hotels and apartment buildings that ran along the beach. Several people were on the beach walk that fronted the buildings but he didn’t recognize any of the figures as Jessup.
Twenty-five yards up the pier was a set of stairs leading topside and directly to the pier’s parking lot. Bosch headed that way, still limping badly. He was halfway up the stairs when his phone rang. It was Jacquez.
“All right, where is he? We’re on our way.”
“That’s the thing. I lost him. I had to hide and I thought you people were on him. I’m going to the top of the pier now. What the hell happened, Jacquez?”
“We had a guy step out to drop a deuce. Said his stomach was giving him trouble. I don’t think he’ll be in the unit after tonight.”
“Jesus Christ!”
Bosch got to the top of the steps and walked out onto the empty parking lot. There was no sign of Jessup.
“Okay, I’m up on the pier. I don’t see him. He’s in the wind.”
“Okay, Bosch, we’re two minutes out. We’re going to spread. We’ll find him. He didn’t take the car or the bike, so he’s on foot.”
“He could’ve grabbed a cab at any one of the hotels over here. The bottom line is we don’t know where—”
Bosch suddenly realized something.
“I gotta go. Call me as soon as you have him, Jacquez. You got that?”
“Got it.”
Bosch ended the call and then immediately called his home on the speed dial. He checked his watch and expected Sue Bambrough to answer, since it was after eleven.
But his daughter picked up the call.
“Dad?”
“Hey, baby, why are you still up?”
“Because I had to do all that homework. I wanted a little break before I went to sleep.”
“That’s fine. Listen, can you put Mrs. Bambrough on the line?”
“Dad, I’m in my bedroom and I’m in my pajamas.”
“That’s okay. Just go to the door and tell her to pick up the phone in the kitchen. I need to talk to her. And meantime, you have to get dressed. You’re leaving the house.”
“What? Dad, I have—”
“Madeline, listen to me. This is important. I am going to tell Mrs. Bambrough to take you to her house until I can get there. I want you out of the house.”
“Why?”
“You don’t need to know that. You just need to do what I ask. Now, please, get Mrs. Bambrough on the phone.”
She didn’t respond but he heard the door of her room open. Then he heard his daughter say, “It’s for you.”
A few moments later the extension was picked up in the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Sue, it’s Harry. I need you to do something. I need you to take Maddie to your house. Right now. I will be there in less than an hour to get her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sue, listen, we’ve been watching a guy tonight who knows where I live. And we lost him. Now, there is no reason to panic or to believe he is heading that way but I want to take all precautions. So I want you to take Maddie and get out of the house. Right now. Go to your place and I will see you there. Can you do this, Sue?”
“We’re leaving right now.”
He liked the strength in her voice and realized it probably came with the territory of being a teacher and assistant principal in the public school system.
“Okay, I’m on my way. Call me back as soon as you get to your place.”
But Bosch wasn’t really on his way. After the call, he put the phone away and went back down the steps to the beach. He returned to the hole he had dug under the storage area wall. He crawled back under and this time used his flashlight to find his way to the locked storage room. He used his picks again on the padlock and the whole time he worked he was distracted by thoughts of Jessup’s escape from the surveillance. Had it just been a coincidence that he had left his apartment at the same time the SIS watcher had left his post, or was he aware of the surveillance and did he break free when he saw the opportunity?
At the moment, there was no way to know.
Finally, he got the lock open, taking longer than he had the first time. He entered the storage room and moved the light to the blanket and pillow on the ground. The bag Jessup had carried was there. It said
Ralphs
on its side. Bosch dropped to his knees and was about to open it when his phone buzzed. It was Jacquez.
“We got him. He’s on Nielson at Ocean Park. It looks like he’s walking home.”
“Then try not to lose him this time, Jacquez. I gotta go.”
He disconnected before Jacquez could reply. He quickly called his daughter’s cell. She was in the car with Sue Bambrough. Bosch told her they could turn around and go back home. This news was not received with a thankful release of tension. His daughter was left upset and angry over the scare. Bosch couldn’t blame her but he couldn’t stay on the line.
“I’ll be home in less than an hour. We can talk about it then if you’re still awake. I’ll see you soon.”
He disconnected the call and focused on the bag. He opened it without moving it from its spot next to the blanket.
The bag contained a dozen single-serving-size cans of fruit. There were diced peaches in heavy syrup, chopped pineapple and something called fruit medley. Also in the bag was a package of plastic spoons. Bosch stared at the contents for a long moment and then his eyes moved up the wall to the crossbeams and the locked trapdoor above.
“Who are you bringing here, Jessup?” he whispered.
Wednesday, April 7, 1:05
P.M
.
A
ll eyes were on the back of the courtroom. It was time for the main event, and while I had ringside seats, I was still going to be just a spectator like everybody else. That didn’t sit very well with me but it was a choice I could live with and trust. The door opened and Harry Bosch led our main witness into the courtroom. Sarah Ann Gleason told us she didn’t own any dresses and didn’t want to buy one to testify in. She wore black jeans and a purple silk blouse. She looked pretty and she looked confident. We didn’t need a dress.
Bosch stayed on her right side and when opening the gate for her positioned his body between her and Jessup, who sat at the defense table, turned like everybody else toward his main accuser’s entrance.
Bosch let her go the rest of the way by herself. Maggie McFierce was already at the lectern and she smiled warmly at her witness as she went by. This was Maggie’s moment, too, and I read her smile as one of hope for both women.
We’d had a good morning, with testimony from Bill Clinton, the former tow truck driver, and then Bosch taking the case through to lunch. Clinton told his story about the day of the murder and Jessup borrowing his Dodgers cap just before they became part of the impromptu lineup outside the house on Windsor Boulevard. He also testified to the Aardvark drivers’ frequent use of and familiarity with the parking lot behind the El Rey Theatre, and Jessup’s claim to Windsor Boulevard on the morning of the murder. These were good, solid points for the prosecution, and Clinton gave no quarter to Royce on cross.
Then Bosch took the stand for a third time in the trial. Rather than read previous testimony, this time he testified about his own recent investigation of the case and produced the Dodgers cap—with the initials
BC
under the brim—from property that had been seized from Jessup during his arrest twenty-four years earlier. We were forced to dance around the fact that the hat as well as Jessup’s other belongings had been in the property room at San Quentin for the past twenty-four years. To bring that information out would be to reveal that Jessup had previously been convicted of Melissa Landy’s murder.
And now Sarah Gleason would be the prosecution’s final witness. Through her the case would come together in the emotional crescendo I was counting on. One sister standing for a long-lost sister. I leaned back in my seat to watch my ex-wife—the best prosecutor I had ever encountered—take us home.
Gleason was sworn in and then took her seat on the stand. She was small and required the microphone to be lowered by the courtroom deputy. Maggie cleared her voice and began.
“Good morning, Ms. Gleason. How are you today?”
“I’m doing pretty good.”
“Can you please tell the jury a little bit about yourself?”
“Um, I’m thirty-seven years old. Not married. I live in Port Townsend, Washington, and I’ve been there about seven years now.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a glass artist.”
“And what was your relationship to Melissa Landy?”
“She was my younger sister.”
“How much younger was she than you?”
“Thirteen months.”
Maggie put a photograph of the two sisters up on the overhead screen as a prosecution exhibit. It showed two smiling girls standing in front of a Christmas tree.
“Can you identify this photo?”
“That was me and Melissa at the last Christmas. Right before she was taken.”
“So that would be Christmas nineteen eighty-five?”
“Yes.”
“I notice that she and you are about the same size.”
“Yes, she wasn’t really my little sister anymore. She had caught up to me.”
“Did you share the same clothes?”
“We shared some things but we also had our favorite things that we didn’t share. That could cause a fight.”
She smiled and Maggie nodded that she understood.
“Now, you said she was taken. Were you referring to February sixteenth of the following year, the date of your sister’s abduction and murder?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Okay, Sarah, I know it will be difficult for you but I would like you to tell the jury what you saw and did on that day.”
Gleason nodded as if steeling herself for what was ahead. I checked the jury and saw every eye holding on her. I then turned and glanced at the defense table and locked eyes with Jessup. I did not look away. I held his defiant stare and tried to send back my own message. That two women—one asking the questions, the other answering them—were going to take him down.
Finally, it was Jessup who looked away.
“Well, it was a Sunday,” Gleason said. “We were going to go to church. My whole family. Melissa and I were in our dresses so my mother told us to go out front.”
“Why couldn’t you use the backyard?”
“My stepfather was building a pool and there was a lot of mud in the back and a big hole. My mother was worried we might fall down and get our dresses dirty.”
“So you went out to the front yard.”
“Yes.”
“And where were your parents at this time, Sarah?”
“My mother was still upstairs getting ready and my stepfather was in the TV room. He was watching sports.”
“Where was the TV room in the house?”
“In the back next to the kitchen.”
“Okay, Sarah, I am going to show you a photo called ‘People’s prosecution exhibit eleven.’ Is this the front of the house where you lived on Windsor Boulevard?”
All eyes went to the overhead screen. The yellow-brick house spread across the screen. It was a long shot from the street, showing a deep front yard with ten-foot hedges running down both sides. There was a front porch that ran the width of the house and that was largely hidden behind ornamental vegetation. There was a paved walkway extending from the sidewalk, across the lawn and to the steps of the front porch. I had reviewed our photo exhibits several times in preparation for the trial. But for the first time, I noticed that the walkway had a crack running down the center of its entire length from sidewalk to front steps. It somehow seemed appropriate, considering what had happened at the home.