The Black Box (11 page)

Bosch asked if there were any names on the paperwork he had checked for the date of purchase. White gave Bosch two names. The salesman was listed as Reggie Banks and the sales manager who signed off on the deal was Jerry Jimenez.

“Okay, Mr. White,” Bosch said. “You have been very helpful. Thank you very much and I’m sorry if I messed up your golf game today.”

“No problem, Detective, my tempo was way off anyway. But I’ll tell you what, if you ever solve this mystery of who called down there using my name, let me know, okay?”

“Will do, sir. Have a nice day.”

Bosch thought about things as he unlocked his car. The Alex White mystery had now gone from a detail that needed clarification to something more. It was apparent that someone
had called from the John Deere dealership to inquire about the Jespersen case but had given a false identity, borrowing the name of a customer who had been in the dealership that very day. For Bosch that changed things about the call in a big way. It was no longer an unexplained blip on his radar. There was now something solid there, and it needed to be explained and understood.

8

B
osch decided to skip lunch and get back to the squad room. Luckily, Chu had not left for his lunch, and Bosch gave him the names Reginald Banks and Jerry Jimenez so he could run them through the databases. He then noticed the blinking light on his desk phone and checked the message. He had missed a call from Henrik Jespersen. He cursed as he wondered why Henrik hadn’t also tried Bosch’s cell, which he had provided in his emails.

Bosch checked the wall clock and did the math. It was nine o’clock at night in Denmark. Henrik had left his home number on the message and Harry called it. There was a long silence as the call crossed a continent and an ocean. Bosch started to wonder if the call had gone east or west, but then a man answered after just two rings.

“This is Detective Bosch in Los Angeles. Is this Henrik Jespersen?”

“Yes, this is Henrik.”

“I’m sorry to return your call so late. Can we talk for a few minutes now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. I appreciate your response to my email and have a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I am happy to talk now. Please, go ahead.”

“Thank you. I, uh, first want to say as I said in my email that the investigation of your sister’s death is high priority. I am actively working on it. Though it was twenty years ago, I’m sure your sister’s death is something that hurts till this day. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Detective. She was very beautiful and very excited about things. I miss her very much.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Over the years, Bosch had talked to many people who had lost loved ones to violence. There were too many to count but it never got any easier and his empathy never withered.

“What is it that you wanted to ask me?” Jespersen asked.

“Well, first I wanted to ask you about the postscript you put on your email to me. You said that Anneke was not on vacation and I wanted to clarify that if I could.”

“Yes, she was not.”

“Well, I know she was not on vacation when she was in L.A. to cover the riots for her newspaper, but are you saying that she was never on vacation when she came to the United States?”

“She was working the whole time. She had a story.”

Bosch pulled a pad of paper over in front of him so he could take notes.

“Do you know what the story was?”

“No, she did not tell me.”

“Then, how is it that you know she came over here to work?”

“She told me she was going for a story. She did not tell me
what it was because she was a journalist and she kept these things to herself.”

“Would her boss or her editor have known what the story was?”

“I think not. She was freelance, you see. She sold photos and stories to the
BT
. Sometimes she was assigned to a story but not always. She did her stories and then she would tell them what she had, you see.”

There were references to Anneke’s editor in the reports and news stories, so Bosch knew he had a starting point. But he asked Henrik anyway.

“Do you happen to know the name of her editor from back then?”

“Yes, it was Jannik Frej. He spoke at her memorial service. Very kind man.”

Bosch asked him to spell both names and if he happened to have a contact number for Frej.

“No, I never had a number. I am sorry.”

“That’s okay. I can get it. Now, can you tell me when you last spoke to your sister?”

“Yes, that was the day before she left for America. I saw her.”

“And she didn’t say anything about the story she was on?”

“I did not ask and she did not offer.”

“But you knew she was coming over here, right? You were there to say good-bye.”

“Yes, and to give her the hotel information.”

“What information was that?”

“I work now thirty years in the hotel business. At the time I made Anneke’s hotel bookings for her when she did her travel.”

“Not the newspaper?”

“No, she was freelance and she could get better through me. I always arranged her travel. Even with the wars. We did not have Internet back then, you see. It was more difficult to find the places to stay. She needed me to do it.”

“I see. Do you happen to remember where she stayed in the United States? She was here for several days before the riots. Where was she besides New York and San Francisco?”

“I would have to see if I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I will have to go to my storage room for records. I kept many things from that time . . . because of what happened. I will look. I can remember that she did not go to New York.”

“She only landed there?”

“Yes, and flew on connection to Atlanta.”

“What was in Atlanta?”

“This I don’t know.”

“Okay. When do you think you will be able to go to your storage room, Henrik?”

Bosch wanted to push him but not that hard.

“I am not sure. It is far from here. I will have to take time from work.”

“I understand, Henrik. But it could be very helpful. Will you email me or call me back as soon as you look?”

“Yes, of course.”

Bosch stared at his pad as he tried to think of other questions to ask.

“Henrik, where was your sister before she came to the United States?”

“She was here in Copenhagen.”

“I mean, what was the last trip she was on before going to the United States?”

“She was in Germany for a time, and before that, Kuwait City for the war.”

Bosch knew he meant Desert Storm. He knew Anneke had been there from the news stories about her. He wrote down
Germany
. That was something new to him.

“Where in Germany, do you know?”

“She was in Stuttgart. I remember that.”

Bosch noted this on his pad. He thought he had all he was going to get from Henrik until he could go to his storage room and look for travel records.

“Did she tell you why she went to Germany? Was there a story?”

“She did not tell me. She asked me to get a hotel that would be close to the U.S. military base. I remember that.”

“She didn’t tell you anything else?”

“That was all. I don’t understand why it matters when she was killed in Los Angeles.”

“It probably doesn’t, Henrik. But sometimes it’s good to cast a big net.”

“What does this mean?”

“It means, if you ask a lot of questions, you get a lot of information. Not all of it is useful, but sometimes you get lucky. I appreciate your patience and your talking with me.”

“Will you solve the case now, Detective?”

Bosch paused before answering.

“I’m giving it my best shot, Henrik. And I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

The call with Henrik energized Bosch, even though he had not gotten all there was to get. He could not put his finger on what was happening with the case, but things had shifted. Little more than a day earlier he believed the investigation was going nowhere and that he would soon be repacking the archive boxes and sending Anneke Jespersen back to the depths of the warehouse of unsolved cases and forgotten victims. But now there was a spark. There were mysteries and irons in the fire. There were questions to be answered and Bosch was still in the game.

His next move was to make contact with Anneke’s editor at the
BT
. Bosch checked the name Henrik had given him, Jannik Frej, against the news reports and records in the murder book. The names didn’t match. The stories that ran in the wake of the riots quoted an editor named Arne Haagan. The investigators’ chronology also listed Haagan as the editor the RCTF detectives spoke with about Jespersen.

Bosch could not explain the discrepancy. He Googled a phone number for the newsroom of
BT
and made the call. He guessed that someone would have to be in the newsroom despite the late hour.

“
Redaktionen, goddag.”

Bosch had forgotten about the language difficulty he might encounter. He didn’t know if the woman who had answered was saying her name or a Danish word.

“
Nyhedsredaktionen, kan jeg hjœlpe?”

“Uh, hello? Do you speak English?”

“A little. How do I help you?”

Bosch referred to his notes.

“I am looking for Arne Haagan or Jannik Frej, please.”

There was a slight pause before the woman on the other end of the line spoke.

“Mr. Haagan is dead, yes?”

“He’s dead? Uh, what about Mr. Frej?”

“No one here.”

“Uh, when did Mr. Haagan pass away?”

“Mmm, hold on the line, please.”

Bosch waited for what seemed to be five minutes. He looked around the squad room as he waited and soon saw Lieutenant O’Toole staring at him through the window of his office. O’Toole fired an imaginary gun and then gave the thumbs-up signal with his eyebrows raised in a question. Bosch knew he was asking if he had qualified at the academy. Bosch gave him a thumbs-up and then looked away. Finally, a male voice came on the line. This speaker’s English was excellent and with only the slightest accent.

“This is Mikkel Bonn. How can I help you?”

“Yes, I wanted to speak with Arne Haagan, but the woman before you said he passed away. Is that true?”

“Yes, Arne Haagan died four years ago. Can I ask why you are calling?”

“My name is Harry Bosch. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m investigating the death twenty years ago of Anneke Jespersen. Are you familiar with the case?”

“I know who Anneke Jespersen was. We are very familiar here. Arne Haagan was the editor of the newspaper at that time. But he retired and then he died.”

“What about an editor named Jannik Frej? Is he still there?”

“Jannik Frej . . . no, Jannik is not.”

“When did he leave? Is he still alive?”

“A few years ago he retired also. He is alive as far as I know.”

“Okay, do you know how I can reach him? I need to talk to him.”

“I can see if someone has contact information. Some of the copyeditors may still be in touch with him. Can you tell me if there is activity on the case? I am a reporter and would want to—”

“The case is active. I’m investigating but there is nothing other than that. I’m just starting.”

“I see. Can I get back to you with contact information for Jannik Frej?”

“I’d rather hold while you get it for me now.”

There was a pause.

“I see. Very well, I will try to be quick.”

Bosch was put on hold again. This time he didn’t look toward the lieutenant’s office. He turned and looked behind him and saw that Chu was gone, probably having stepped out for lunch.

“Detective Bosch?”

It was Bonn back on the line.

“Yes.”

“I have an email for Jannik Frej.”

“What about a phone number?”

“We don’t have that available at the moment. I will keep looking and will get it to you. But for now, do you want the email address?”

“Yes, I do.”

He copied Frej’s email address down and then gave Bonn his own email and phone number.

“Good luck, Detective,” Bonn said.

“Thank you.”

“You know, I wasn’t here back then, when it happened. But ten years ago I was here and I remember we did a big story on Anneke and the case. Would you like to see it?”

Bosch hesitated.

“It would be in Danish, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but there are several translation sites on the Internet that you could use.”

Bosch wasn’t sure what he meant but invited Bonn to send him a link to the story. He thanked him again and then disconnected.

9

B
osch realized he was famished. He took the elevator down to the lobby, went out the main entrance, and crossed the front plaza. The plan was to walk over to Philippe’s for a roast beef sandwich but his cell buzzed before he even got across First Street. It was Jordy Gant.

“Harry, we already got your guy.”

“Two Small?”

“That’s right. I just got the call from one of my guys. They picked him up coming out of a McDonald’s on Normandie. One of the guys I got to in roll call this morning had his picture on the visor. Sure enough, it was Two Small.”

“Where’d they take him?”

“Seventy-seventh. He’s being booked as we speak, and right now they’re only holding him on the bench warrant. I figure if you move now, you can get there before he can get to a lawyer.”

“I’m on my way.”

“How ’bout I meet you and sit in?”

“See you there.”

It took him only twenty minutes in midday traffic to get to
77th Street Station. The whole way he thought about how to play Washburn. Bosch had nothing on 2 Small but a hunch based on proximity. No evidence of anything and nothing for sure. It seemed to him that his one shot was a play. To convince Washburn that he had something and to use the lie to draw out an admission. It was the weakest way to go, especially with a suspect that had been around the block a few times with the police. But it was all he had.

At 77th, Gant was already in the watch office waiting for him.