The Black Box

gone and replaced by burned-off stumps with jagged black branches reaching out to him like hands. In the distance, there was the sound of an angry dog barking. And no matter how quickly Bosch moved, the dog was getting closer.

28
    B osch was dragged from a deep sleep by his phone buzzing on his chest. His first thought was that it was his daughter, either in trouble or upset about Hannah for some reason. The bedside clock said 4:22 A.M.
    He grabbed the phone but didn’t see the photo of Maddie, tongue sticking out at him, which came up on screen when she called. He checked the number on the screen and saw the 404 area code. Atlanta.
    “This is Detective Bosch.”
    He pulled himself up and looked around for his notebook, remembering again that it was in the car. He realized he was naked except for the towel wrapped around his waist.
    “Yes, my name is Charlotte Jackson and you left a message for me yesterday. I didn’t get it until late last night. Is it too early there?”
    Bosch’s head cleared. He remembered the call he got at the restaurant from Charlotte Jackson number four. This had to be Charlotte Jackson number three. It was the only outstanding callback. He remembered she lived on Ora Avenue in East Atlanta.
    “That’s okay, Ms. Jackson,” he said. “I’m glad you called me back. As my message said, I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. I work in the Open-Unsolved Unit, which is a cold-case squad, if that makes any sense to you.”
    “I used to watch Cold Case on TV. It was a good show.”
    “Okay, well, I’m working on an old homicide case and I’m trying to reach a Charlotte Jackson who served in the military during Desert Storm in nineteen ninety-one.”
    There was a silence but Bosch waited for a response.
    “Well . . . I did. I was there but I don’t know anybody in Los Angeles or anybody that got murdered. This is very strange.”
    “Yes, I understand and I know this whole thing may seem confusing. If you would bear with me for a few questions, I think I’ll be able to make things a little clearer.”
    He waited again for a response. None came.
    “Ms. Jackson? Are you there?”
    “Yes, I’m here. Go ahead with your questions. I don’t have a lot of time. I need to get going to work soon.”
    “Okay, then, I’ll try to move quickly. First of all, is this your home number or a cell?”
    “It’s a cell. It’s my only number.”
    “Okay, and you said you were in the armed services and served during Desert Storm. What branch of the military was that?”
    “U.S. Army.”
    “Are you still in the army?”
    “No.”
    She said it like he had asked a stupid question.
    “Where were you based stateside, Ms. Jackson?”
    “Benning.”
    Bosch had spent time at Fort Benning himself when he was in the military. It had been his last stop before Vietnam. He knew it was a two-hour drive from Atlanta, Anneke Jespersen’s first stop after flying to the United States. Bosch started feeling like he was getting close to something. Some hidden truth was about to come into the open. He tried to keep his voice at a constant measured tone.
    “How long were you in the Persian Gulf?”
    “About seven months total. First in Saudi for Desert Shield and then we moved into Kuwait for the ground war. Desert Storm. I was never actually in Iraq.”
    “During that time did you ever go on leave and spend any time on the cruise ship called the Saudi Princess ?”
    “Of course,” Jackson said. “Practically everybody did at some point. What’s this have to do with a murder in L.A.? I really don’t understand why you called me, and like I said, I got work today, so—”
    “Ms. Jackson, I assure you that this is a very legitimate call and you may be able to help us solve a murder. Can I ask, what do you do for a living now?”
    “I work at the Justice Center of Atlanta. It’s in Inman Park.”
    “Okay. Are you a lawyer?”
    “No. God, no.”
    That same tone, as if Bosch had asked a stupid or obvious question about her when he had never even spoken to her before.
    “What do you do then at the Justice Center?”
    “I work in mediation, and my boss doesn’t like it when I come in late. I should go now.”
    Somehow Bosch had gone far afield from the central purpose of the interview. It rankled him whenever a step-by-step interview went off the pathway. He chalked it up to being yanked from sleep and thrown into the conversation.
    “Just a few more questions. It’s very