He decided to move in a new direction again.
“Deborah, what exactly did your husband do for a living?”
She responded with a more detailed version of what Irvin Irving had already told him. George had followed in his father’s footsteps, joining the LAPD at twenty-one. But after five years in patrol he left the department for law school. After earning his JD, he went to work for the City Attorney’s Office in the contracts department. That was where he stayed until his father ran for city council and won. George quit working for the city and opened up shop as a consultant for hire, using his experience and connections to his father and others in local government and bureaucracy to give his clients access to the halls of power.
George Irving had a wide range of clients, including towing firms, taxi licensees, concrete suppliers, building contractors, city office cleaners and code-enforcement litigators. He was a man who could plant the request in the right ear at the right time. If you wanted to do business with the city of Los Angeles, a man like George Irving was the one to see. He had an office in the shadow of City Hall, but the office was not where the work was done. Irving roamed the administrative wings and council offices of City Hall. That was where his work was done.
The widow Irving reported that her husband’s work brought them a very nice living. The house in which they sat was valued at more than $1 million, even factoring in the downturn in the economy. The work also had the propensity to bring him enemies. Unhappy clients, or those competing for the same contracts as his clients—George Irving didn’t operate in a world above contention.
“Did he ever speak about any business or person in particular being upset with him or holding a grudge?”
“No one that he spoke to me about. He has an office manager, though. I guess I should say he did have an office manager. She would probably know more about this area than I would. George didn’t share a lot of that with me. He didn’t want me to worry about it.”
“What is her name?”
“Dana Rosen. She’s been with him a long time—going back to the City Attorney’s Office.”
“Have you spoken with her today?”
“Yes, but not since I learned . . .”
“You spoke with her before learning your husband was deceased?”
“Yes, when I got up I realized he had not come home last night. He wasn’t answering his cell, so at eight o’clock I called the office and talked to Dana to see if she had seen him yet. She said no.”
“Did you call her back after you learned of your husband’s death?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Bosch wondered if there was a problem or jealousy between the two women. Could Dana Rosen be the woman Deborah thought her husband took drives at night to meet?
He wrote the name down and then closed his notebook. He thought he had plenty to start with. He hadn’t covered all the details but this was not the time for a long Q&A session. He was confident that he would be coming back to Deborah Irving. He stood up and Chu followed suit.
“I think this is enough for now, Deborah. We know it is a difficult time and you want to be with family. Have you told your son?”
“No, Dad did. He called him. Chad’s flying down tonight.”
“Where’s he going to school?”
“USF—the University of San Francisco.”
Bosch nodded. He had been hearing about the school because his daughter was already thinking about the next level of education and had mentioned it as a possibility. He also remembered that it was where Bill Russell had played college ball.
Harry knew he would want to talk to the son but didn’t mention it to Deborah. There was no need to have her thinking about it.
“What about friends?” he asked.
“Was he close to anyone?”
“Not really. He really only had one close friend and they hadn’t seen much of each other lately.”
“Who was that?”
“His name is Bobby Mason. They knew each other since the police academy.”
“Is Bobby Mason still a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Why hadn’t they seen each other lately?”
“I don’t know. They just hadn’t, I guess. I’m sure it was just a temporary lull in the relationship. I assume that’s the way men are.”
Bosch wasn’t sure what her last words were meant to convey about men. He didn’t have anyone in his life he would consider a best friend but he always thought he was different. That most men had male friends, even best friends. He wrote Mason’s name down, then gave Deborah Irving a business card with his cell phone number on it and invited her to call anytime. He said he would be in touch as the investigation progressed.
Bosch wished her good luck and then he and Chu left. Before they reached the car, Irvin Irving came out the front door and called to them.
“You were just going to leave without checking with me?”
Bosch handed the keys to Chu and told him to back the car out of the driveway. He waited until he and Irving were alone before speaking.
“Councilman, we need to get something straight here. I’m going to keep you informed but I don’t report to you. There’s a difference. This is a police investigation, not a city hall investigation. You were a cop but you’re not anymore. You’ll hear from me when I have something to report to you.”
He turned and started walking toward the street.
“Remember, I want an update by the end of the day,” Irving called after him.
Bosch didn’t respond. He kept on walking like he didn’t hear.
B
osch told Chu to drive north toward Panorama City.
“We’re up here,” he said. “We might as well go get a look at Clayton Pell. If he’s where he’s supposed to be.”
“I thought the Irving case was the priority,” Chu said.
“It is.”
Bosch offered no further explanation. Chu nodded but had something else on his mind.
“What about something to eat?” he asked. “We worked right through lunch and I’m starving, Harry.”
Bosch realized he was hungry, too. He checked his watch and saw it was almost three.
“The halfway house is way up Woodman,” he said. “There used to be a pretty good taco truck that parked on Woodman at Nordhoff. I had a trial a few years ago at the San Fernando Courthouse and my partner and I used to hit that truck every day at lunch. It’s kind of late but if we’re lucky he’ll still be there.”
Chu was a semi-vegetarian but usually liked the idea of Mexican food.
“Think they’ll have a bean burrito on that truck?”
“Most likely. If not, they’ve got shrimp tacos. I’ve had them.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He goosed the car’s accelerator.
“Was that Ignacio?” Chu eventually asked. “The partner, I mean.”
“Yeah, Ignacio,” Bosch said.
Bosch contemplated the fate of his last partner, who was murdered in the back room of a food market two years earlier while working the case that introduced Harry to Chu. The two current partners maintained silence the rest of the way.
The halfway house that Clayton Pell was assigned to was in Panorama City, which was the expansive neighborhood at the geographic center of the San Fernando Valley. Spawned by post–World War II prosperity and enthusiasm, it was the first planned community of Los Angeles, replacing miles of orange groves and dairy lands with the seemingly unending sprawl of inexpensive and prefabricated tract housing and low-rise apartments that soon defined the look of the Valley. Anchored by the nearby industries of the General Motors plant and the Schlitz brewery, the development represented the epoch of Los Angeles autotopia. Every man with a job and a commute. Every home with a garage. Every view a panorama of the surrounding mountains. Only American-born white people need apply.
At least that was the way they were spinning it in 1947 when the grid work was set and the lots went up for sale. However, over the decades since the glorious ribbon cutting on the community of tomorrow, both GM and Schlitz pulled out and the views of the mountains grew hazy with smog. The streets got crowded with people and traffic, the crime rate went up at a steady pace and people started living in a lot of those garages. Iron bars went over bedroom windows and the courtyard apartment buildings put security gates across the once wide and welcoming entrances. Graffiti marked gang turf and, finally, whereas once the name Panorama City represented a future as wide and unlimited as its 360-degree views, it was now more of a cruel irony. A place with a name that reflected very little of what was actually there. Residents in parts of the once proud suburban nirvana routinely organized to try to break away to the adjoining neighborhoods of Mission Hills, North Hills and even Van Nuys so as not to be associated with Panorama City.
Bosch and Chu were in luck. The Tacos La Familia truck was still parked at the curb on Woodman and Nordhoff. Chu found a space at the curb just two cars behind it and they got out. The
taquero
was cleaning up inside and putting stuff away but he still waited on them. There were no burritos, so Chu took shrimp tacos while Bosch went with carne asada. The man handed a squeeze bottle filled with salsa through the window. They each took a bottle of Jarritos Pineapple to wash it down, and lunch for both of them was eight bucks total. Bosch gave the man a ten and told him to keep the change.
There were no other customers about, so Bosch took the bottle of salsa with him back to the car. He knew that when it came to truck tacos it was all about the salsa. They ate on either side of the front hood, leaning over it so as not to drip salsa or juice on their clothes.
“Not bad, Harry,” Chu said, nodding as he ate.
Bosch nodded back. His mouth was full. Finally he swallowed and squeezed more salsa onto his second taco and then handed the bottle across the hood to his partner.
“Good salsa,” Harry said. “You ever been to the El Matador truck in East Hollywood?”
“No, where’s it at?”
“Western and Lex. This is good but El Matador, I think they’re the best. He’s only there at night, though, and everything tastes better at night, anyway.”
“Isn’t it weird how Western Avenue is in
East
Hollywood?”
“I never thought about it. The point is, next time you’re over there after work, try El Matador and tell me what you think.”
Bosch realized he had not been down to the El Matador truck since his daughter had come to live with him. At the time, he didn’t think eating in or on cars and getting food from trucks had been right for her. Now maybe things were different. He thought she might enjoy it.
“What are we going to do with Pell?” Chu asked.
Brought back to the reality of the present, Bosch told his partner that he did not want to reveal their true interest in Clayton Pell yet. There were too many unknowns in the case. He wanted to first establish that Pell was where he was supposed to be, get a look at him and maybe engage him in conversation if possible without raising the sex offender’s suspicions.
“Hard to do,” Chu said, his mouth full with his last bite.
“I have an idea.”
Bosch outlined the plan, then balled up all the foil and napkins and took them to the trash can by the back of the taco truck. He put the squeeze bottle of salsa on the window counter and waved to the
taquero
.
“
Muy sabroso
.”
“
Gracias
.”
Chu was behind the wheel when he got back to the car. They made a U-turn and started down Woodman. Bosch’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen. It was a number out of the PAB but he didn’t recognize it. He took the call. It was Marshall Collins, the commander of the media relations unit.
“Detective Bosch, I’m holding them at bay, but we’re going to need to put something out on Irving today.”
“There’s nothing yet to put out.”
“Can you give me anything? I’ve gotten twenty-six calls here. What can I tell them?”
Bosch thought for a moment, wondering if there was a way to use the media to help the investigation.
“Tell them that cause of death is under investigation. Mr. Irving dropped from the seventh-floor balcony of his room at the Chateau Marmont. It is unknown at this time whether it was accident, suicide or homicide. Anyone with information about Mr. Irving’s last hours at the hotel or before should contact the Robbery-Homicide Division. Et cetera, et cetera, you know how to put it.”
“So, no suspect at this time.”
“Don’t put that out. That implies I am looking for suspects. We aren’t even to that point yet. We don’t know what happened and we’re going to have to wait on autopsy results as well as the ongoing gathering of information.”
“Okay, got it. We’ll get it out there.”
Bosch closed the phone and relayed details of the conversation to Chu. In five minutes they came to the Buena Vista apartments. It was a two-story courtyard complex with major-league security gating and signage warning those without business to stay away. Not only were solicitors not welcome but children were on the no-go list as well. There was a public notice locked in a case mounted on the gate that gave warning that the facility was used to house sexual offenders on probation and parole and undergoing continuing treatment. The case’s thick plastic window was scratched and marred from many efforts to shatter it and paint it with graffiti.
To push the door buzzer Bosch had to reach his arm up to his elbow through a small opening in the gate. He then waited and a female voice eventually responded.
“What is it?”
“LAPD. We need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“She’s not here.”
“Then I guess we need to speak to you. Open up.” There was a camera on the other side of the gate, located far enough back to make it difficult to be vandalized. Bosch reached his hand through the opening again with his badge and held it up. A few more moments went by and the door lock buzzed. He and Chu pushed through.
The gate led to a tunnel-like entrance which took them to the center courtyard. As Bosch reached daylight again he saw several men sitting on chairs in a circle. A counseling and rehab session. He had never put much stock in the idea of rehabilitating sexual predators. He didn’t think there was a cure beyond castration—surgical preferred over chemical. But he was smart enough to keep such thoughts to himself, depending on the company he was with.