The Drop

had been.
    “Is he alive?”
    “Yes. Watch him. Make sure he doesn’t do the kangaroo.”
    Bosch walked down the hallway to the kitchen and found a set of keys on the counter where Hardy had said they would be. When he came back to the living room, he looked around, trying to figure out a way of securing Hardy while he and Chu conferred privately outside about how to proceed. An embarrassing story had gone around the PAB a few months earlier about a robbery suspect dubbed the Kangaroo. He had been bound at the ankles and wrists and left on the floor of a bank while the arresting officers looked for another suspect they believed was hiding in the building. Fifteen minutes later officers in another responding car saw a man hopping down the street, three blocks from the bank.
    Finally, Bosch got an idea.
    “Get the end of the couch,” he said.
    “What are we doing?” Chu asked.
    Bosch pointed him to the end.
    “Tip it.”
    They tipped the couch forward on its front legs and then down over Hardy. It tented him and made it almost impossible for him to try to stand up with his arms and legs bound.
    “What is this?” Hardy protested. “What are you doing?”
    “Just sit tight, Hardy,” Bosch replied. “We won’t leave you too long.”
    Bosch signaled Chu toward the front door. As they were going out, Hardy called out.
    “Be careful, Bosch!”
    Bosch looked back at him.
    “Of what?”
    “Of what you’ll see. You won’t be the same after today.”
    Bosch stood with his hand on the knob for a long moment. Only Hardy’s feet were visible, extending from under the overturned couch.
    “We’ll see,” he said
    He stepped out and closed the door.

36

    I t was like being at the end of a maze and having to work their way back to the starting point. They had the location they wanted to search—the town house next door, where Hardy claimed he kept his stash of keepsakes from his kills. They just had to figure out the chain of events and legal steps taking them to it that could be put in a search warrant and that would be accepted and approved by a superior court judge.
    Bosch did not reveal to Chu what had occurred in Hardy’s living room while Chu was back at the car. Not only was there the trust issue that had exploded on the Irving case, but Bosch had no doubt coerced a confession from Hardy, and he would not share that transgression with anyone. If and, more likely, when Hardy claimed coercion as part of his defense, Bosch would simply deny it and dismiss it as an outrageous defense tactic. There would be no possibility of anyone other than Hardy—the accused—being able to attack Bosch’s story.
    So Bosch told Chu what they needed to do and they worked out how to get there.
    “Chilton Hardy Senior, who is most likely dead, is supposed to be the owner of these two town houses. We need to search them both and we need to do it now. How do we get there?”
    They were standing on the grass in front of the town house complex. Chu looked at the facades of units 6A and 6B as if the answer to the question might be painted on them like graffiti.
    “Well, probable cause on six B is not going to be a problem,” he said. “We found him there living as his father. We’re entitled to search for any indication of what happened to the old man. Exigent circumstances, Harry. We’re in.”
    “And what about six A? That’s the place we really want.”
    “So we . . . we just . . . Okay, I think I got it. We came down to interview Chilton Hardy Senior but halfway through we realize that the guy in front of us is actually Chilton Hardy Junior. There is no sign of Hardy Senior and we’re thinking he might be tied up somewhere, being held captive, who knows what. Maybe he’s alive and maybe he’s dead. So we run a history search on the property appraiser’s database, and lo and behold, he used to own the place right next door and the transfer of title looks phony. We have an obligation to go in there to see if he is alive or in some kind of peril. Exigent circumstances again.”
    Bosch nodded but frowned at the same time. He didn’t like it. It sounded to him like exactly what it was. A story made up to get them in the door. A judge might sign the search warrant but they’d have to find a friendly one. He wanted something bulletproof. Something that any judge would approve and that would hold up upon subsequent legal challenges.
    Suddenly he realized he had their access right in his hand. In more ways than one.