The Night Fire: A Ballard and Bosch thriller (Harry Bosch 22) (29 page)

She moved the recording forward a minute to the part where Kidd asked Dorsey who gave him his number and Dorsey revealed that it had been Marcel Dupree. She turned the playback off again.

“So you tell Kidd that Marcel Dupree gave you his number and what does Kidd do? He hangs up on you and then sends a text to Marcel saying he wants a meet.”

Ballard now held up her phone and showed Dorsey a freeze-frame that clearly depicted Kidd, with Dupree in profile, sitting at the table at Dulan’s.

“I took this picture yesterday when they met at Dulan’s,” Ballard said. “You know the place down on Crenshaw? At that meeting Kidd gave Marcel three thousand dollars. What do you think that was for, Dennard?”

“I suppose you’re gonna tell me,” Dorsey said.

“It was to set you up for a hit in Men’s Central. To have you whacked by one of your fellow Crips. You know Clinton Townes, right?”

Dorsey shook his head, as if he was trying to keep the information Ballard was laying on him from getting inside his ears.

“You’re just spinning stories here,” he said.

“That’s why we had you pulled out of the tank, Dennard,” Ballard said. “To save your life. Then we picked up Marcel and flipped him as easy as a pancake. Got him to call Kidd back and tell him it was all taken care of and you weren’t going to be a problem. Take a listen.”

Ballard cued up the scripted call between Dupree and Kidd and played it in its entirety. She sat back and watched Dorsey’s face as he came to realize his own people had turned against him. Ballard knew how he felt, having once been betrayed by her partner, her boss, and the department itself.

“And wait, I’ve got one more,” she said after. “Kidd even called the Medical Examiner’s Office to make sure your cold dead body was there, waiting to be cut up in autopsy.”

She played the last recording. Dorsey closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Mother
fucker
,” he said.

Ballard closed the laptop but kept her phone on the table. It was recording the conversation. She stared at Dorsey, who was now staring down at the table, his eyes filling with hate.

“So …,” she said. “Elvin Kidd wanted you dead and now thinks you
are
dead. You want him to get away with that? Or do you want to tell me what you really know about what happened in that alley where that white boy got murdered?”

Dorsey looked up at her silently. She knew he was an inch away from breaking.

“You help me, I can help you,” she said. “I just came from talking to a prosecutor. She wants Kidd for the murder. She’ll talk to your parole officer, see about getting your violation lifted.”

“You were supposed to do that,” Dorsey said.

“I was going to, but having a prosecutor do it is money. But that doesn’t happen unless you help me out here.”

“Like I tol’ you before, he told us to stay out the alley that day. Next thing I know, there was a murder back in there and police shut down our operations. We found a different location on the other side of the freeway.”

“And that was that? You never spoke to Kidd about it, never asked any questions again? I don’t believe that.”

“I did ask him. He told me some shit.”

“What shit, Dennard? This is the moment where you either help or hurt yourself. What did Elvin Kidd say?”

“He said he had to take care of this white kid he knew from when he was away.”

“Away? What does that mean?”

“Prison. They were up there in Corcoran together and he said the kid owed him money from up there for protection.”

“Did he mention the kid’s name?”

“Nope. He just said he wouldn’t pay what he owed so he arranged the meet and cleared us all out. Then the kid got shot.”

“And you assumed Elvin Kidd shot him.”

“Yeah, why not? It was his alley. He controlled everything. Nobody got shot there without his okay or him doin’ it his own self.”

Ballard nodded. It was not a direct confession from Kidd to Dorsey but it was close, and she thought it would be good enough for Selma Robinson. Then Dorsey, unprompted, added icing to the cake.

“When we had to move locations because the heat was on with the killing, I looked it up in the paper,” he said. “I only found one thing but I remember the kid got shot had a name like a hotel.
Hilton
or
Hyatt
or some shit like that. And so I wondered if’n he had all that hotel money, how come he didn’t just pay what he owed. He was stupid. He shoulda paid and then he’d be alive.”

Dorsey had just pulled it all together. Ballard was elated. She picked up her phone, ended the recording, and put it in her pocket. She wished it were Monday and Selma Robinson was at the Hall of Justice. She wanted to go there right now and file a murder charge against Elvin Kidd.

The suede couch in the waiting area at Michaelson & Mitchell was so comfortable that Bosch nearly nodded off. It was Monday morning but he still had not recovered enough sleep from his all-night surveillance of his daughter’s house the Saturday before. Nothing had happened and there had been no sign of the midnight stalker, but Bosch had kept a caffeine-stoked vigil throughout the night. He tried to make up the sleep on Sunday but thoughts about the Montgomery case kept him from even taking a nap. Now here he was, about to meet with Clayton Manley, and he felt like sinking into the waiting-room couch.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, he was collected by the young man from the reception desk. He led Bosch around a grand circular staircase, then down a long hallway past frosted-glass doors that had the lead partners’ names on them, and finally to the last office on the hall. He entered a large room with a desk, a sitting area, and a glass wall that looked down on Angels Flight from sixteen floors up.

Clayton Manley stood up from behind the desk. He was nearing forty, with dark hair but gray showing in his sideburns. He wore a light gray suit, a white shirt, and a blue tie.

“Mr. Bosch, come in,” he said. “Please sit down.”

He extended his hand across the desk and Bosch shook it before taking one of the club chairs in front of the desk.

“Now, my associate said you are looking for an attorney for a possible wrongful-death suit, is that correct?” Manley asked.

“Yes,” Bosch said. “I need a lawyer. I talked to one and he didn’t think he was up to it. So now I’m here, talking to you.”

“Was it a loved one?”

“Excuse me?”

“The decedent who was the victim of the wrongful death.”

“Oh, no, that would be me. I’m the victim.”

Manley laughed, then saw there was no smile on Bosch’s face. He stopped laughing and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Bosch, I don’t understand,” he said.

“Well, clearly I’m not dead,” Bosch said. “But I’ve got a diagnosis of leukemia and I got it on the job. I want to sue them and get money for my daughter.”

“How did this happen? Where did you work?”

“I was an LAPD homicide detective for over thirty years. I retired four years ago. I was forced out, actually, and I sued the department back then for trying to take away my pension. Part of the settlement put a cap on my health insurance, so this thing I’ve got could bankrupt me and leave nothing for my daughter.”

Manley had shown no visible reaction to Bosch’s mention that he had been an LAPD detective.

“So how did you get leukemia on the job?” Manley said. “And I guess the better question is, how do you prove it?”

“Easy,” Bosch said. “There was a murder case and a large quantity of cesium was stolen from a hospital. The stuff they use in minute quantities to treat cancer. Only here, the amount missing was not minute. It was everything the hospital had and I ended up being the one who recovered it. I found it in a truck but didn’t know it was there until I was exposed to it. I was checked out at the hospital and had X-rays and checkups for it for five years. Now I have leukemia, and there’s no way it’s not related to that exposure.”

“And this is all documented? In case files and so forth?”

“Everything. There are the records from the murder investigation, the hospital, and the arbitration on my exit. We can get all of that. Plus, the hospital made sweeping security changes after that—which to me is an admission of responsibility.”

“Of course it is. Now, I hate to ask this, but you said this was a wrongful-death case. What exactly is your diagnosis and prognosis?”

“I just got the diagnosis. I was tired all the time and just not feeling right, so I went in and they did some tests and I was told I have it. I’m about to start chemo, but you never know. It’s going to get me in the end.”

“But they didn’t give you a time estimate or anything like that?”

“No, not yet. But I want to get this going because, like I said, you never know.”

“I understand.”

“Mr. Manley, these are tough people—the lawyers the city’s got. I’ve fought them before. I went back to that attorney for this and he didn’t seem real motivated because of the fight it would involve. So I need to know if this is something you can do. If you want to do it.”

“I’m not afraid of a fight, Mr. Bosch. Or should I call you Detective Bosch?”

“
Mister
is good.”

“Well, Mr. Bosch, as I said, I’m not afraid of a fight and this firm isn’t either. We also have very powerful connections at our disposal. We like to say we can get anything done. Anything.”

“Well, if this works out, there are a few other people I wouldn’t mind doing something about.”

“Who was your previous attorney?”

“A guy named Michael Haller. A one-man operation. People call him Mickey.”

“I think he’s the one they made a movie about—he works out of his car.”

“Yeah, well, ever since he got famous, he doesn’t take on the hard cases anymore. He didn’t want this one.”

“And he told you to come to me?”

“Yeah, he said you.”

“I don’t know him. Did he tell you why he recommended me?”

“Not really. He just said you’d stand up to the department.”

“Well, that was kind of him. I will stand up to the department. I’ll want to get whatever records you and Mr. Haller have on the pension arbitration. Anything related to the medical issue.”

“Not a—”

Suddenly a bird slammed into the glass to Manley’s right. He jumped in his seat. Bosch saw the stunned bird—it looked like a crow—fall from sight. He had read a story in the
Times
about the mirrored towers on Bunker Hill being bird magnets. He got up and walked to the glass. He looked down into the plaza fronting the upper station of Angels Flight. There was no sign of the bird.

Manley joined him at the window.

“That’s the third time this year,” he said.

“Really?” Bosch said. “Why don’t they do something about it?”

“Can’t. The mirroring is on the outside of the glass.”

Manley returned to his seat behind his desk and Bosch went back to the club seat.

“What is the name of the doctor you’re seeing for this?” Manley asked.

“Dr. Gandle,” Bosch said. “He’s an oncologist at Cedars.”

“You’ll have to call his office and tell them to release documents regarding your case to me.”

“Not a problem. One thing we haven’t talked about is your fee. I’m on the pension and that’s it.”

“Well, there are two ways we can go about doing this. You can pay me by the hour. My rate is four-fifty per billable hour. Or we can work out a prorated commission fee. You pay nothing and the firm takes a percentage of any money awarded or negotiated. The percentage would start at thirty and the more money recovered, the lower it goes.”

“I’d probably do the percentage.”

“Okay, in that case, I would take the case to the management board and they would discuss the merits and then decide if we accept the case.”

“And how long does that take?”

“A day or two. The board meets Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Okay.”

“With what you’ve told me, I don’t think it will be a problem. And I can assure you we are the right firm to represent you. We will bend over backward to serve you and to successfully handle your case. I guarantee it.”

“Good to know.”

Bosch stood up and so did Manley.

“The sooner you get me your files, the sooner the board will make a decision,” Manley said. “Then we’ll get this started.”

“Thanks,” Bosch said. “I’ll get it all together and be in touch.”

He found his own way out, passing by the closed doors of both Mitchell and Michaelson, and wondering if he had accomplished anything by bracing Manley. One thing he had noticed was that there was nothing of a personal nature in his office: no photos of family or even of himself shaking hands with people of note. Bosch would have thought it was a borrowed office if Manley hadn’t mentioned that the bird collision was the third this year.

Outside the building, Bosch stood in the plaza, where office workers were sitting at tables eating late breakfasts or early lunches from a variety of shops and restaurants on the bottom level. He checked the perimeter of the building and didn’t see the fallen bird. He wondered whether it had somehow survived and flown off before impact, or whether the building had a fast-moving maintenance team that cleaned up debris every time a bird hit the building and dropped into the plaza.

Bosch crossed the plaza to the Angels Flight funicular, bought a ticket, and rode one of the ancient train cars down to Hill Street. The ride was bumpy and jarring, and he remembered working a case long ago in which two people had been murdered on the mini-railroad. He crossed Hill and went into the Grand Central Market, where he ordered a turkey sandwich from Wexler’s Deli.

He took the sandwich and a bottle of water to the communal seating area and found a table. As he ate, he sent a text to his daughter, knowing that it had a better chance of being answered than a phone call. His riffing about her and the lawsuit with Manley had reminded him that he wanted to see her. Spending Saturday nights secretly watching her house was not enough. He needed to see her and hear her voice.

Mads, need to go down to Norwalk to pull a record for a case.

That’s halfway to you. Want to get coffee or dinner?