The Black Box (31 page)

“It was during the riots in ’ninety-two. It was a year after Desert Storm.”

He waited to see if she would react to that, but there was only silence.

“I think it was somehow connected to that boat,” he said. “Do you remember anything else about her being on the boat? Was she drunk when you saw her the next day?”

“I don’t know about drunk. But she had a bottle in her hand. We both did. That’s what you did on that boat. Drink.”

“Right. Anything else you remember about it?”

“I just remember that her being the blond bombshell that she was, she was having a harder time than any of us keeping the boys at bay.”

“Us” meaning the women in the bar and on the boat.

“That’s what she asked me about when she came to see me at Benning.”

Bosch froze. He didn’t make a sound, he didn’t take a breath. He waited for more. When nothing came forth, he tried to gently coax the story out.

“When was that?” he asked.

“About a year after Storm. I remember I was a short-timer by then. It was like two weeks before my discharge. She somehow found me and came to the base, asking all these questions.”

“What exactly did she ask, do you remember?”

“She asked about that second day, you know, when she was off duty. First she asked if I’d seen her, and I said, don’t you remember? She then asked me who she was with and when was the last time I saw her.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I remembered that she went off with some of the guys. They said they were going to go to the disco and I didn’t want to go. So they left. I didn’t see her again until she came to Fort Benning.”

“Did you ask her why she wanted this information?”

“Not really. I think I kind of knew.”

Bosch nodded. It was likely the reason she remembered the last conversation so clearly after twenty years.

“Something happened to her on that boat,” he said.

“I think so,” Jackson said. “But I didn’t ask the specifics. I didn’t think she wanted to tell me. She just wanted answers to her questions. She wanted to know who she was with.”

Bosch thought he now understood many of the mysteries of
the case. What the war crime was that Anneke Jespersen was investigating, and why she shared what she was doing with no one else. He felt a deeper heartbreak for the woman he never met or knew.

“Tell me about the men she went off with on the boat. How many were there?”

“I don’t remember, three or four.”

“Do you remember anything else about them? Anything at all?”

“They were from California.”

Now Bosch paused as Jackson’s answer rang in his head like a bell.

“Is that all, Detective? I need to go.”

“Just a few more, Ms. Jackson. You are being very helpful. How did you know the men were from California?”

“I don’t know. I just knew it. They must’ve told us, because I knew they were California guys. That’s what I told her when she came to see me at the base.”

“Do you remember any names or anything like that?”

“No, not now. It’s been forever since then. I only remember what I’m telling you because she came to see me that time.”

“What about back then? Do you remember if you gave her any of the names of these guys?”

There was a long pause while Jackson thought about it.

“I can’t remember if I knew any names. I mean, I might have known their first names when we were on the boat, but I don’t know if I remembered them a year later. There were so many guys on that boat. I just remember they were from California and we were calling them the truckers.”

“The truckers?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you call them that? Did they say they drove trucks?”

“They might have, but what I remember is that they had tattoos of the Keep on Truckin’ guy with the big shoes. You remember that comic?”

Bosch nodded, not at her question but at the confirmation of things.

“Yes, I do. So these guys had that tattoo? Where?”

“On their shoulders. It was hot on that boat and we were in the pool bar so they either weren’t wearing shirts or they had their wifebeaters on. At least a couple of them had matching tattoos and so we—meaning the girls in the bar—just started calling them the truckers. It’s hard for me to remember the details and I’m already going to be late for work.”

“You are doing good, Ms. Jackson. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Did those guys kill her?”

“I don’t know yet. Do you have email?”

“Of course.”

“Can I send you a link? It will be to a photo on a website that shows some guys on the
Saudi Princess
back then. Can you look at it and tell me if you recognize any of them?”

“Can I do it when I get to work? I need to go.”

“Yes, that will be fine. I’ll send it as soon as we hang up.”

“Okay.”

She gave him her email address and he wrote it down on a pad that was on the bedside table.

“Thank you, Ms. Jackson. Let me know about the link as soon as you can.”

Bosch disconnected. He went to the kitchenette table, fired up his laptop, and connected to the Wi-Fi signal of the house behind the motel. Using skills picked up from both his partner and daughter, he then located the link to the
Saudi Princess
photo on the 237th Company’s website and sent it in an email to the Charlotte Jackson he had just spoken to.

He went to the window and checked through the curtain. It was still dark outside without even a hint of sunrise yet. Overnight the parking lot had somehow gotten almost half full. He decided to shower and get ready for the day while waiting for the response on the photo.

Twenty minutes later he was drying off with a towel that had been washed a thousand times. He heard the email ding from his computer and went to the kitchenette to check it. Charlotte Jackson had replied.

I think it’s them. I can’t be sure but I think so. The tattoos are right and that’s the boat. But it has been a long time and I was drinking. But, yes, I think it’s them.

Bosch sat down at the table and reread the email. He felt a growing sense of both dread and excitement. It was not a rock-solid identification from Charlotte Jackson, but it was close. He knew that occurrences of twenty years ago or longer were now coming together at an undeniable speed. The hand of the past was reaching up through the ground, and there was no telling who or what it would grab and pull down when it finally broke through the surface of the earth.

29

B
osch spent the morning in his room, leaving only briefly to walk across the parking lot to the liquor store to buy a carton of milk and some doughnuts for breakfast. He left the “Do Not Disturb” sign hooked on the knob and chose to make the bed and hang the towels himself. He called his daughter before she left for school and talked to Hannah as well. Both conversations were quick and of the have-a-great-day variety. He then got down to work, spending the next two hours on his laptop, updating in full detail the ongoing summary of the investigation. Once finished, he returned the computer and all the documents he’d used to his backpack.

Before leaving, he prepared his room, sliding the bed against one wall to create an open center space under the ceiling light. He then moved the table from the kitchenette under the light. His last move was to take the shades off the two bedside lamps and position the lights so they would shine toward the face of the individual who sat on the left side of the table.

At the door he reached into the back pocket of his pants to make sure he still had the room key. He felt the plastic fob attached to the key and something else. He pulled out Detective
Mendenhall’s business card and realized it had been in his pants since he found it waiting for him on his desk.

The card prompted him to think about calling Mendenhall to see if she had gone to San Quentin yesterday as she had told Hannah she would. He dismissed the idea, deciding to stay focused on the wave of momentum the call from Charlotte Jackson had provided. He pocketed the card again and opened the door. He made sure the “Do Not Disturb” sign remained in place and pulled the door closed.

It was an investigative standard. The best and fastest way to break a conspiracy was to identify the weakest link in the chain and find a way to exploit it. When one link was broken, the chain would come loose.

Most often the weakest link was a person. Bosch believed he was looking at a twenty-year-old conspiracy that involved at least four people, possibly five. One was dead, two were wrapped in the protections of power, money, and the law. That left John Francis Dowler and Reginald Banks.

Dowler was out of town and Bosch didn’t want to wait for him to come back. He had speed and he wanted to keep it. That left Banks, not only by default but because Bosch believed it had been Banks who had made the call ten years ago to check on the case. That was an indication to Bosch of worry. Of fear. And those were signs of weakness that Bosch could exploit.

After an early lunch at the In-N-Out Burger on Yosemite Avenue and then a stop at a nearby Starbucks, Bosch drove back to Crows Landing Road and found the same spot at the curb from which he could watch Reginald Banks at work.

At first he didn’t see Banks at the desk that he had occupied the day before. The other salesman was in place at his desk but no Banks. But Bosch waited patiently, and twenty minutes later Banks appeared, coming from a back room in the dealership and carrying a cup of coffee. He sat down, tapped the space bar on his keyboard and started making a series of phone calls, each time after running a finger across his computer screen. Bosch guessed he was cold-calling former customers, seeing if they were ready to trade that old tractor in.

Bosch watched for another half hour, working on his story as he watched. When the other salesman got busy with a live customer, Bosch made his move. He got out of his car and walked across the street to the dealership. He stepped into the showroom and moved to the all-terrain vehicle closest to where Banks sat at his desk talking on the phone.

Harry started circling the machine, which was a two-seat four-wheeler with a small flatbed and a roll bar. The price tag was on a molded plastic stand right next to it. As Bosch expected, Banks soon hung up his phone.

“You looking for a Gator?” he called from his desk.

Bosch turned and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time.

“I might be,” he said. “You don’t have a used one of these, do you?”

Banks got up and came over. He was wearing a sport coat and a tie pulled loose at the collar. He stood next to Bosch and looked at the ATV as if assessing it for the first time.

“This is the top-of-the-line XUV model. You got all-wheel drive, fuel injection, four-stroke engine so it’s nice and quiet . . . and let’s see, adjustable shocks, disc brakes, and the
best damn warranty you’ll ever get on one of these bad boys. I mean everything you need’s right there. It’s as unstoppable as a tank but you get John Deere comfort and reliability. By the way, I’m Reggie Banks.”

He put his hand out and Bosch shook it.

“Harry.”

“Okay, Harry, nice to meet you. You want to write it up?”

Bosch chuckled like a nervous buyer.

“I know it’s got what I want. I just don’t know if I need it to be brand-new. I didn’t realize these things cost so much. I could almost buy a car.”

“Worth every penny, though. Plus we got a rebate program that’ll take some of the sting off.”

“Yeah, how much of the sting?”

“Five hundred cash back and two fifty in service coupons. I could talk to my manager about knocking a dollar or two off the sticker. But he won’t go much. We sell a lot of these things.”

“Yeah, but why do I need service coupons when you say the thing runs like a tank?”

“Maintenance and upkeep, my man. Those coupons will cover you at least a couple years, get what’m saying?”

Bosch nodded and stared at the vehicle as if contemplating things.

“So you don’t have anything used?” he finally asked.

“We could go look out back.”

“Let’s do that. I gotta at least be able to tell my old lady I checked the inventory.”

“Good deal. Let me grab some keys.”

Banks went into the manager’s office along the back wall of
the showroom and soon came out with a large ring of keys. He led Bosch down a hallway to the rear of the building. They went out a doorway into the fenced lot, where the used tractors and ATVs were stored. A row of ATVs lined the rear wall of the dealership.

“What I got is over here,” Banks said, leading the way. “Recreation or commercial?”

Bosch wasn’t sure what he meant, so he didn’t answer. He acted like he didn’t hear the question because he was mesmerized by the shiny row of vehicles.

“You got a farm or a ranch, or are you just going mud jumping?” Banks asked, making it clearer to Bosch.

“I just bought a vineyard up near Lodi. I want something that can fit between the rows and get me out there fast. I’m too old to be walking that far.”

Banks nodded like he knew the story.

“A gentleman farmer, huh?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Everybody’s buying up vineyards because it’s cool to be in the wine biz. My boss here—the owner—owns lots of grapes up in Lodi. You know the Cosgrove Vineyard?”

Bosch nodded.

“Hard to miss it. But I don’t know them. I’m small-time compared to that.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta start somewhere, get what’m saying? Maybe we can work out something here. What do you like?”

He gestured toward the six flatbed ATVs that all looked the same to Bosch. All of them were green, and the only differences he could perceive were whether they had roll bars or complete cages and how badly beaten-up and scratched
the beds were. There was no fancy plastic stand with price tags.

“They only come in green, huh?” Bosch asked.

“Only green on our used line right now,” Banks replied. “This is John Deere. We’re proud to be green. But if you want to talk about something new, we can order you one in camo.”

Bosch nodded thoughtfully.

“I want a cage,” he said.