Angels Flight

everything. About how he and some of the guys lost it, did things to Michael Harris. He told me all the Black Warrior stuff was true. And then I made a mistake. I told him that I had cleared Harris. That I could prove he didn’t take that girl. And that put the hex on Frankie and later on he did what he did. So when they came up with the ballistics today and said that Frankie did it all, including Angels Flight, I went along to get along. Now I’m not so sure. Now I want all the loose ends tied up and Chastain is one of them. He was subpoenaed for the trial. Nothing unusual about that – he handled the internal investigation of Harris’s complaint. But he was subpoenaed by Elias and he didn’t tell us. He also tried to duck the service. And that makes it all the more unusual. That tells me he didn’t want to be in that courtroom. He didn’t want to be on the stand and have Elias asking him questions. I want to know why. There’s nothing in Elias’s files – at least the files I have access to – that says why. I can’t ask Elias and I don’t want to ask Chastain yet. So I’m asking you.”
    Garwood reached into his pocket and took out a package of cigarettes. He got one out and lit it, then offered the pack to Bosch.
    “No thanks, I’m still off.”
    “I decided that I’m a smoker and that’s that. Somebody a long time ago told me that it was like destiny or fate. You were a smoker or you weren’t, there was nothing you could do about it. You know who that was?”
    “Yeah, me.”
    Garwood snorted a little and smiled. He took a couple of deep drags and the car filled with smoke. It kicked off the familiar craving in Bosch. He remembered giving Garwood the smoking sermon years before when someone in the squad complained about the cloud of smoke that always hung over the bullpen. He lowered his window a couple of inches.
    “Sorry,” Garwood said. “I know how you feel. Everybody smoking and you can’t.”
    “It’s no problem. You want to talk about Chastain or not?”
    One more drag.
    “Chastain investigated the complaint. You know that. Before Harris could sue us he had to file a complaint. That went to Chastain. And from what I understood at the time, he made the guy’s case. He confirmed it. Fucking Rooker had a pencil in his desk – the tip was broken off and there was blood on it. Kept it like a souvenir or something. Chastain got it with a search warrant and was going to match the blood to Harris.”
    Bosch shook his head, at both the stupidity and the arrogance of Rooker. Of the whole department.
    “Yeah,” Garwood said, seeming to know what he was thinking. “So the last thing I heard was that Chastain was going to file departmentals against Sheehan, Rooker, couple of the others, then go to the D.A. for criminal charges. He was going all the way with this one because that pencil and the blood were hard evidence. He had Rooker at least in the bag.”
    “Okay, so what happened.”
    “What happened was that the next thing is we get the word that everybody’s clear. Chastain filed the case as unfounded.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “Somebody reached down.”
    “You got it.”
    “Who?”
    “Irving’s my guess. But maybe higher. The case was too volatile. If the charges were sustained and there were suspensions, firings, D.A. charges, whatever, then we start a whole new round of ‘kick the LAPD’ in the press and in the south end with Tuggins and Sparks and everywhere else. Remember, this was a year ago. The new chief had just come on board. It wouldn’t be a good way to start out. So somebody reached down. Irving’s always been the department fixer. It was probably him. But for something like this, he might have enlisted the chief’s okay. That’s how Irving survives. He hooks the chief in, then he can’t be touched because he has the secrets. Like J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI – but without the dress. I think.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “What do you think happened to that pencil with the blood on it?” he asked.
    “Who knows? Irving’s probably using it to write personnel evaluations. Though I’m sure he’s washed the blood off it.”
    They were silent for a moment as they watched a group of a dozen young men walking north on Vine toward the boulevard. They were mostly white. In the streetlight Bosch could see the tattoos covering their arms. Head-bangers, probably going up to the stores on the boulevard to replay 1992. A quick memory of Frederick’s of Hollywood being looted