The Night Fire: A Ballard and Bosch thriller (Harry Bosch 22) (15 page)

Falcone adjourned court and left the bench. Haller stood for the exit and finally looked around to see Bosch in the last row. He smiled and shot a finger at him, then blew on his finger as though it was the imaginary barrel of a gun. Finally, he reached down and squeezed his seated client’s shoulder. He bent down and started whispering in his ear.

Saldano and her second got up from the prosecution table and started making their way toward the jury assembly room door. Gustafson stood up and headed back down the aisle toward the courtroom exit. He stopped to look at Bosch. Years back they had worked together in the massive Robbery-Homicide Division squad room, but did not know each other well.

“Happy, Bosch?”

“What exactly happened?”

“Saldano dropped the case to keep her perfect record clean. Herstadt walks and whatever happens, that’s on you, asshole. I know you teed this up for Haller.”

“You still think he did it.”

“Fuck you, man. I know he did it and so do you.”

“What about the other five, Gustafson?”

“What five?”

“We got the murder book in discovery. You and your partner, you were chopping wood on five other people who would’ve been happy to have Montgomery dead, but you just dropped it when you got the DNA hit on Herstadt. You going to go back to them?”

Gustafson pointed to the front of the room where Haller was still whispering in Herstadt’s ear.

“There’s your killer right there, Bosch. I don’t have to go back to anybody. It was him, we had him, and then you blew it up. Good job. You should be proud. You just undid everything you ever did with a badge.”

“So that’s a no?”

“Bosch, as far as I’m concerned, this case is CBA. And that’s on you.”

Gustafson walked out of the courtroom.

Bosch remained seated, his face burning with indignation. He tried to calm himself while Haller finished with his client and allowed the courtroom deputy to take Herstadt back into the courthouse jail so he could be processed out and released. Haller quickly gathered his files and legal pads and threw them into his briefcase. He then snapped its two brass locks closed and came through the railing, where four reporters were waiting for him. Talking over one another, they peppered him with questions about exactly what had just happened in the judge’s chambers.

Haller told them he would answer their questions in the hallway. He led them out of the courtroom, winking at Bosch as they passed by his row. Then Bosch got up and followed them through the doors. Haller took a position in the middle of the hallway and the reporters gathered around him in a semicircle. Bosch stood outside the circle but close enough so he could hear what was said.

The reporters started shouting variations on the same questions.

“All right, all right, listen instead of talking and I shall enlighten you,” Haller said, his voice almost giddy from the courtroom win.

He waited for them to quiet before he continued.

“Okay, ready?” he said. “Faced with more than reasonable doubt about the evidence it presented to the jury, the state took the high road today and withdrew the flimsy case it had against my client. Mr. Herstadt is currently being processed out of holding and will be a free man shortly.”

“But this case started as a slam dunk,” said a reporter Bosch knew was from the
Times.
“They had a confession and a DNA match. What happened?”

Haller spread his arms and smiled.

“What can I tell you? Reasonable doubt for a reasonable fee,” he said. “What happened here was that they didn’t do their homework. The confession was bogus—it came from a man who would have confessed to killing the Black Dahlia if he had been asked. And there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the DNA match. The judge saw that, knew this case was a duck without wings, and called the prosecution on it. Ms. Saldano made a call to her boss and reasonable minds prevailed. She did what any prudent prosecutor would do: she folded her tent.”

“So the case was dismissed?” asked another reporter.

“It was withdrawn by the D.A.’s Office,” Haller said. “They dropped all charges.”

“So that means they could still refile,” said a third reporter.

“Nope,” Haller said. “This case already went to trial. To charge my client again would be to submit him to double jeopardy. This case is over, folks, and an innocent man was proved so today.”

“Who did Saldano call to get approval to drop the case?” the
Times
reporter asked.

“I don’t know,” Haller said. “She stepped out of chambers to make that call. You’ll have to ask her.”

“What happens to your client now?” the
Times
reporter asked.

“He’s a free man,” Haller said. “I am going to see if I can get him a place to stay and back into therapy. I’m thinking of starting a GoFundMe page to help with his expenses. He’s got no home and no money. They’ve held him in jail for seven months.”

“Are you going to ask the city and county for reparations?” a reporter asked.

“Maybe,” Haller said. “I think amends have to be made. But that’s a question for another day. Thank you all. Remember, that’s a double
el
in
Haller.
Get it right.”

Haller stepped back from the semicircle and raised his arm in the direction of the elevators, dismissing the journalists. As she walked by him, the
Times
reporter handed him a business card and said something in a low voice Bosch didn’t hear. Haller took her card and slid it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, behind the red-white-and-blue pocket square. He then sauntered over to Bosch, the smile seemingly a permanent feature of his face.

“You don’t get many days like this one, Harry.”

“I don’t suppose you do. What really happened in chambers?”

“Pretty much what I just told them. I left out the part about the judge telling Saldano that it looked to him like there was no way a jury could return a verdict of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. He did give her the option of continuing and hearing my DNA expert and then my very persuasive motion to dismiss. That was when she stepped out and made her call to the powers that be. The rest is just like I told it. Maybe now they’ll go out and get the right guy for this.”

“I doubt it. Gustafson still thinks your client did the deed. He stopped by on his way out to tell me.”

“Wounded pride, that’s all that is. I mean, what else is he going to say?”

“Yeah, but don’t you see? He’s not going to go after the real killer. He said it himself as he was leaving: ‘CBA’—the case is closed.”

“Meaning?”

“Cleared By Arrest. It means no further investigation. Meantime, whoever really did this is still out there.”

“But that’s not our problem, is it? We work for Herstadt and Herstadt is free.”

“Maybe it’s not
your
problem.”

Haller stared at Bosch for a long moment before responding.

“I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Bosch nodded.

“I’m going to hang on to the discovery files and the copy of the murder book.”

“Sure. Be my guest. I’ll be in touch soon about that other thing we talked about. The medical thing.”

“I’ll be around.”

Ballard woke with a deep soreness between her shoulder blades and pins and needles in her left foot. She sat up in the tent groaning and found that Lola had decided to sleep with all thirty-five pounds of her body across Ballard’s foot. She pulled her foot free, waking the dog, who looked at her with betrayal in her eyes.

“You crushed my foot,” Ballard said.

She began massaging and working her ankle until the burning feeling started to recede. Once she brought it back to life, she started rolling her shoulders, trying to loosen her back muscles. Before sleeping she had pushed herself on the board, paddling all the way down to the rock jetty at the inlet and then back up, the return being a battle against a strong wind coming down from Malibu.

Lola’s eyes were now expectant and Ballard read the message.

“A short one, Lola. I’ve got work.”

Ballard crawled out of the tent on her knees and looked around. The beach was deserted. Aaron was in the lifeguard stand, slouched so low only the top of his head was visible. Ballard picked the leash up off the sand and Lola heard its metal clip jingle. She shot out of the tent, pushed through Ballard’s legs, and took a seated position in front of her. She looked back over her shoulder at Ballard, ready for the leash to be clipped to her collar.

“Don’t be so pushy. It’s only a short one.”

Ballard put her feet in the sandals she had left outside the tent and they went up toward the boardwalk, where Lola liked to walk and observe the world. Ballard decided to walk north since she had paddled south earlier. They went all the way up to Rose Avenue and then turned around, Lola unsuccessfully tugging against the turn back.

After a half hour it was time for Ballard to get ready. It was almost four and she wanted to get back into the city before the crush of traffic moving east got into full swing. She went to her van, opened a can of food for Lola, and put it in her bowl on the ground in the parking lot. While the dog ate, Ballard looked through the work clothes she had on a hanging bar in the van to make sure she had a clean suit for the night.

After dropping Lola at night care, Ballard avoided the freeways and took surface streets toward Hollywood. She got there by 5:30, parked in the Hollywood Station lot, and changed clothes in the locker room before returning to the parking lot and switching to her city-ride. She then drove to West Hollywood, cruising by the apartment building she believed was the home of Nathan Brazil, John Hilton’s roommate at the time of his murder.

She found parking on Willoughby and walked back to the apartment. There was no security gate, another indication that the building was not a sought-after address. She was able to approach apartment 214 directly and knock. Almost immediately the door was opened by a man with short black hair and a neatly kept beard. Ballard didn’t recognize him from the four-year-old driver’s license photo she had previously pulled up on the computer.

She had unclipped her badge from her belt and was holding it up.

“Mr. Brazil?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m Detective Ballard with the LAPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Well, what’s it about? This is West Hollywood, not L.A.”

“Yes, I know it is West Hollywood. I’m investigating the murder of John Hilton in Hollywood and I know it’s been a long time but I’d like to ask you about him and about his life back when you lived together.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never lived with anyone named that.”

“You are Nathan Brazil, right?”

“Oh, no. I’m Dennis. Nathan’s my husband—I took his name. But I’m sure he doesn’t know anything about a murder. What was—”

“Is he here?”

“No, he’s at work.”

“Where is work?”

Dennis started getting cagey.

“He works at a restaurant, so you can’t just go barging—”

“He still works at Marix?”

His eyes confirmed this by widening slightly in how-do-you-know-that surprise.

“Do you have a card?” he said. “I’ll have him call you.”

“Or you could just text him now, tell him I’m on my way and to be ready. This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Brazil. We don’t make appointments at people’s convenience. You understand?”

“I guess I do now.”

“Good. Thank you for your time.”

Ballard walked back to her car. Marix was around the corner on Flores and it might have been faster to walk but she wanted to park the city-ride out front as part of her show of authority. If Nathan Brazil had the same attitude as his husband, he might need to be reminded of the power and might of the state.

She parked in the red zone in front of the three-step walk-up to the restaurant. Before she got to the first step, the glass door opened, and a man in his mid-fifties and unsuccessfully fighting baldness stepped out and positioned himself on the top step with his hands on his hips. He wore black jeans, white shirt, black tie, and black apron.

“Table for one cop?”

Sarcasm dripped off his words like melted cheese.

“Mr. Brazil?”

“It’s amazing! You only took thirty years to respond to my call.”

Ballard joined him on the top step.

“What call was that, sir?”

“I wanted to talk about my friend. I called many times and they never came and they never called back because they didn’t give a shit about John.”

Ballard saw a holding area near the front door with bar tables where patrons could drink and congregate while waiting to be seated. It was empty now, too early for a wait for a table. Ballard gestured to the space.

“Can we speak privately over there?”

“Sure, but I have one early bird I need to keep an eye on.”

“No problem.”

They moved into the waiting corral and Brazil positioned himself so that he could see through the glass windows of the restaurant to a table of four men.

“How long have you been working here?” Ballard asked.

“Almost eight years,” Brazil said. “Good people, good food, and I can walk to work.”

“I know it’s good food. I’ve eaten here several times.”

“Is this where you butter me up and then say the case will never be solved?”

“No, it’s not. This is where I tell you I’m going to solve it.”

“Sure.”

“Look, Nathan, I’m not going to lie to you. A lot of time has gone by. John’s parents are dead, one of the original detectives is dead, and the other is retired in Idaho. There are—”

“They never did give a shit anyway. They didn’t care.”

“Is that based on them not returning your calls?”

“More than that, honey. Not that things are all that different now, but back then they weren’t going to jump through hoops for a drug-addicted poof. That’s just the way it was.”

“You mean a gay man?”

“Poof, fag, queer—whatever you want to call us. LAPD didn’t give a shit. Still doesn’t.”

“To me it’s a victim and that’s all I see, okay? I inherited this case because it was lost and then it got found. I’m on it now and it doesn’t matter to me who John Hilton was or what his lifestyle choices were.”