The Black Box (32 page)

“All right, safety first,” Banks said. “Good choice there.”

“Yeah,” Bosch said. “Always safety first. Let’s go take a look at that one inside again.”

“No problem.”

An hour later Bosch returned to his car, seemingly having come close to buying the ATV in the showroom but ultimately backing away, saying he needed to think about it. Banks was left frustrated by coming so close to a sale, but he tried to salvage things for another day. He gave Bosch his card and encouraged him to call back. He said he’d go over the manager’s head and ask the big boss to discount the new ATV further than the rebates and coupons. He told Bosch that he and the big boss were tight and that the relationship went back twenty-five years.

There had been no purpose to the encounter other than for Bosch to get close to Banks and try to take his measure, maybe move him a little bit out of his comfort zone. The real move would come later, when part two of his plan began.

Bosch started the rental car and pulled away from the curb, just in case Banks was watching him go. He then drove two blocks up Crows Landing, made a U-turn, and came back
down to the dealership. He parked half a block short of it and on the other side of the street this time, but still with a view of Banks at his desk.

Banks never got another live customer the rest of the day. He worked the phones and computer sporadically, but it didn’t look to Bosch as though he had much success. He fidgeted nervously in his seat, repeatedly drumming his fingers on the desk and getting up and down to refill his coffee cup from the back. Twice Bosch saw him sneak a pour out of a pint bottle taken from a desk drawer into his coffee.

At 6
P.M.
Banks and the rest of the staff closed shop and left the dealership en masse. Bosch knew that Banks lived north of Modesto in Manteca, so he pulled away from the curb, drove past the dealership, and then turned around so he would be in position to follow him home.

Banks pulled out in a silver Toyota and started north as expected. But then he surprised Bosch by taking a left on Hatch Road and vectoring away from the 99. At first Bosch thought Banks was following a shortcut, but soon it became apparent that was not the case. He’d have been home already if he’d just jumped on the freeway.

Bosch followed him into a neighborhood that was a mixture of industrial and residential. On one side were lower-income and middle-class homes jammed together as tight as teeth, while on the other side, there was a steady procession of junkyards and auto-crushing operations.

Bosch had to fall back on Banks for fear he would be noticed. He lost sight of him when Hatch Road started bending along with the shape of the nearby Tuolumne River.

He sped up and came around a bend but the Toyota was
gone. He kept going, increasing his speed, and realized too late that he had just driven by a VFW post. On a hunch he slowed down and turned around. He drove back to the VFW and pulled into the lot. He immediately saw the silver Toyota parked around behind the building, as if hidden. Bosch guessed that Banks was stopping for a drink on his way home and didn’t want anyone to know it.

It was dimly lit when Bosch walked into the bar. He stood still for a moment while his eyes adjusted so he could look for Banks. He didn’t have to.

“Well, look who it is.”

Bosch turned to his left and there was Banks, sitting by himself on a barstool, his sport coat off and his tie long gone. A young bartender leaned over as she put a fresh drink down in front of him. Bosch acted surprised.

“Hey, what are you—I just came in for a quick one before heading north.”

Banks signaled him over to the stool next to him.

“Join the club.”

Bosch came over, pulling out his wallet.

“I’m already in the club.”

He pulled out his VA card and tossed it on the bar. Before the bartender could check it, Banks snatched it off the scarred bar top and looked at it.

“I thought you said your name was Harry.”

“It is. People call me Harry.”

“Hi—er . . . how do you say this crazy name?”

“Hieronymus. It’s the name of a painter from a long time ago.”

“I don’t blame you for going with Harry.”

Banks handed the ID card to the bartender.

“I can vouch for this guy, Lori. He’s good people.”

Lori didn’t give the card much of a look before passing it back to Bosch.

“Harry, meet the Triple-L,” Banks said. “Lori Lynn Lukas, the best bartender in the business.”

Bosch nodded his greeting and slid onto the stool next to Banks. It seemed to him that he had pulled it off. Banks was not suspicious of the coincidence. And if he kept drinking, any suspicions would move even farther away.

“Lori, put him on my tab,” Banks declared.

Bosch said thanks and ordered a beer. Soon an ice-cold bottle was in front of him, and Banks brought his glass up to toast.

“To us warriors.”

Banks clinked his glass off Bosch’s bottle and slurped down a third of what looked like a Scotch rocks. When Banks had extended his glass, Bosch saw that he wore a big military watch with multiple dials and a timing bezel. It made him wonder how that fit in with selling tractors.

Banks looked at Bosch with squinted eyes.

“Let me guess. Vietnam.”

Bosch nodded.

“And you?”

“Desert Storm, baby. The first Gulf War.”

They clinked bottle to glass once again.

“Desert Storm,” Bosch said appreciatively. “That’s one I don’t have.”

Banks narrowed his eyes.

“One you don’t have of what?” he asked.

Bosch shrugged.

“I’m sort of a collector. Something from every war, that sort of thing. Mostly enemy weapons. My wife thinks I’m a nut.”

Banks didn’t say anything, so Bosch kept the riff going.

“My prize piece is a tanto taken off the body of a dead Jap in a cave on Iwo Jima. He had used it.”

“What, is that a gun?”

“No, a blade.”

Bosch pantomimed dragging a knife left to right across his stomach. Lori Lynn made a sound of disgust and moved toward the other end of the bar.

“I paid two grand for it,” Bosch said. “It would’ve been less if, you know, it hadn’t been used. Did you bring back anything interesting from Iraq?”

“Never was there, actually. I was based in S-A and made a few runs into Kuwait. I was in transport.”

He finished his drink as Bosch nodded.

“So no real action, huh?”

Banks rapped his empty glass on the bar.

“Lori, you workin’ t’night or what?”

He then looked directly at Bosch.

“Hell, man, we had plenty action. Our whole unit almost got smoked by a SCUD. We kicked some ass, too. And like I said, I was in transpo. We had access to everything and knew how to get it back stateside.”

Bosch turned to him like he was suddenly interested. But he waited until Lori Lynn was finished freshening Banks’s drink and moved away again. Bosch spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial tone.

“What I want is something from the Republican Guard. You know anybody with that stuff? This is the reason I stop at
the VFW every time I’m in a new town. This is where I find this stuff. I got the tanto off an old guy I met in the post bar over in Tempe. That was like twenty years ago.”

Banks nodded, trying to follow the words through his growing alcoholic fog.

“Well . . . I know guys. They got all kinds of stuff back here. Guns, uniforms, whatever you want. But you gotta pay and you can start by buyin’ the fuckin’ Gator you spent all day lookin’ at.”

Bosch nodded.

“I hear ya. We can talk about that. I’ll come on back by the dealership tomorrow. How’s that?”

“Now you’re talking, partner.”

30

B
osch managed to get out of the VFW without buying Banks a drink and apparently without Banks noticing that Bosch drank less than half of his beer. Once back in his car, Bosch drove to the far end of the parking lot, where there was a boat ramp providing access to the river. He parked next to a line of pickup trucks with empty boat trailers attached. He waited another twenty minutes before Banks finally came out of the bar and got into his car.

Bosch had seen him put down three drinks in the bar. He assumed there had been one before he got there and at least one after. His concern was that if Banks showed obvious evidence of driving impairment, Bosch would have to pull him over too soon to stop him from possibly hurting himself and others.

But Banks was a skilled drunk driver. He pulled out and started east on Hatch, back the way he had come. Bosch followed from a distance but kept his eyes on the taillights in front of him. He saw no swerving, speeding, or unexplained braking. Banks appeared to have control of his car.

Nevertheless, it was a tense ten minutes as Bosch followed
Banks to the entrance ramp to the 99 freeway, where he headed north. Once they were on the freeway, Bosch narrowed the gap and pulled up right behind Banks. Five minutes later, they passed the Hammett Road exit and then came to the sign that welcomed travelers to San Joaquin County. Bosch put the strobe light on the dashboard and turned it on. He closed the space between the two cars even more and flicked on the bright lights, illuminating the interior of Banks’s car. Bosch had no siren but there was no way Banks could miss the light show behind him. After a few seconds, Banks put on his right-turn signal.

Bosch was counting on Banks not pulling off onto the freeway shoulder, and he was right. The first exit to Ripon was a half mile away. Banks slowed down and exited, then pulled to a stop in the gravel lot of a closed fruit stand. He killed the engine. It was dark and deserted. That made it perfect for Bosch.

Banks didn’t get out of his car, unlike many protesting drunks. He didn’t lower his window either. Bosch walked up, his large Mag-Lite held on his shoulder so that it would be too bright should Banks try to look up at his face. He rapped his knuckles on the window and Banks grudgingly lowered it.

“You had no cause to pull me over, man,” he said before Bosch could speak.

“Sir, you’ve been swerving the whole time I’ve been behind you. Have you been drinking?”

“Bullshit!”

“Sir, step out of the car.”

“Here.”

He handed his driver’s license out the window. Bosch took
it and held it up into the light as if he were looking at it. But he never took his eyes off Banks.

“Call it in,” Banks said, a clear challenge in his voice. “Call it in to Sheriff Drummond and he’ll tell you to go back to your undercover car and get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t need to call Sheriff Drummond,” Bosch said.

“You better, buddy, ’cause your job’s on the line here. Take a hint from me. Make the fucking call.”

“No, you don’t understand, Mr. Banks. I don’t need to call Sheriff Drummond because this isn’t Stanislaus County. This is San Joaquin County, and our sheriff is named Bruce Ely. I could call him but I don’t want to piss him off over something as small as a suspected drunk driver.”

Bosch saw Banks drop his head down as he realized he had crossed the county line and gone from protected to unprotected territory.

“Step out of the car,” Bosch said. “I won’t ask you again.”

Banks shot his right hand to the ignition and tried to start the car. But Bosch was ready for it. He dropped the MagLite and quickly reached into the car, prying Banks’s hand off the ignition before he could get the car started. He then held Banks by the wrist with one hand while he used the other to open the door. He pulled Banks out of the car and spun him around, pushing his chest against the side of the car.

“You are under arrest, Mr. Banks. For resisting an officer and suspicion of drunk driving.”

Banks struggled as Bosch pulled his arms behind his back to cuff him. He managed to turn and look back. The driver’s door was open and the interior light was on. There was enough light for him to recognize Bosch.

“You?”

“That’s right.”

Bosch managed to finish cuffing Banks’s wrists together.

“What the fuck is this?”

“This is you being arrested. Now we’re going to walk to the back door of my car, and if you struggle with me again, you are going to trip and fall right on your face, you understand? You’ll be spitting out gravel, Banks. You want that?”

“No, I just want a lawyer.”

“You get a lawyer once you’re booked. Let’s go.”

Bosch jerked him away from his car and walked him back to the Crown Vic. The strobe light was still pulsing. Bosch took him to the rear passenger-side door, put him in the seat, and then buckled his seat belt.

“If you move from this spot while we’re driving, you’re going to get the butt end of my flashlight in your mouth. Then you’ll want a dentist to go with your lawyer. Am I clear?”

“Yes. I won’t fight. Just take me in and get me my lawyer.”

Bosch slammed the door shut. He went back to Banks’s car, took the keys out of the ignition, and locked it up. The last thing he did was go back to his car for the “Out of Gas” note he had used the night before. He took it to Banks’s car and clipped it under the windshield wiper.

As he returned to his car, Bosch saw a car silhouetted by the lights from the freeway. The car was dark and parked on the shoulder of the freeway exit. Bosch didn’t remember passing a car parked there when he exited behind Banks.

The interior of the car was too dark for Bosch to see if there was anyone in it. He opened his door and got in, killed the strobe, and dropped it into drive. He then quickly pulled out
of the gravel lot and drove down the freeway frontage road. The whole way he kept his eye on the rearview mirror, half to check on Banks and half to check for the mystery car.

Bosch pulled into the parking lot of the Blu-Lite and saw that there were only two other cars and they were on the other side of the lot from Bosch’s room. He backed into the slot that put the passenger side of his car closest to his room’s door.

“What’s going on here?” Banks demanded.

Bosch didn’t answer. He got out and used his key to open his room’s door. He then went back to the car and scanned the parking lot before getting Banks out of the backseat. He walked him quickly toward the door, his arm around him as if he were supporting a drunk being taken to his room.