Cespedes had purposely not given him the exact location of the surveillance set up on Tranquillo Cortez’s hideout in Panorama City but Bosch knew enough from sitting in SFPD briefings to be able to find the neighborhoods considered to be SanFer strongholds in the area. And with his plan, a general knowledge was all that was needed. He dropped down out of the hills and headed north into the Valley, traveling through Van Nuys and up into Panorama City.
The light was leaving the sky and the streetlights were coming on. He passed tent communities and drab industrial buildings colored with graffiti. When he got to Roscoe Boulevard he turned east, and it wasn’t long before the SIS phone was buzzing in his pocket. He didn’t take the first or second call. He turned into a large apartment complex where there were no rules about storing furniture and refrigerators on the balconies. He drove the length of the parking lot before turning around and driving back through. He saw young Latino men watching from a few of the balconies.
The third time the phone buzzed he took the call.
“Bosch, what the fuck are you doing?” Cespedes demanded.
“Hey, Speedy,” Bosch said, using the nickname he had heard SIS officers use for their boss. “Just taking a drive. What’s up?”
“Are you trying to fuck this up?”
“I don’t know. Am I?”
“You need to get out of here and go home.”
“No, I need to get in the car with you. If tonight’s the night, I want to be there.”
“What are you talking about, tonight being the night?”
“You slipped. You said you were going to goose Cortez tonight. I want in.”
“Are you nuts? I told you we don’t do things that way. Christ, you’re not even LAPD anymore, Bosch.”
“You could make up a reason to have me. I could be the spotter. I know what Cortez looks like.”
“That would never wash. You’re not part of this operation and you’re compromising it.”
“Then I guess I’ll just continue my one-man search for Cortez. Good luck with yours.”
Bosch disconnected and pulled back out onto Roscoe. He hit the turn signal as soon as he came up on another apartment complex. His phone buzzed again before he got to it. He took the call.
“Don’t turn in there,” Cespedes said.
“You sure?” Bosch asked. “Looks like the kind of place where Cortez might hide out.”
“Bosch, keep going. There’s a gas station on the right down at Woodman. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay, but don’t keep me hanging.”
This time it was Cespedes who disconnected.
Bosch did as instructed and kept driving. At Woodman Avenue he pulled into a gas station and parked by a broken air pump at the edge of the property. He kept the car running and waited.
After three minutes a black Mustang hardtop with smoked windows streaked into the station and pulled in next to Bosch’s car. The passenger-side window lowered and Bosch saw Cespedes behind the wheel. He had dark skin and a gray crew cut. The angular cut to his jaw seemed perfect for a man who led a team of hard chargers and sharpshooters.
“Hey, Speedy,” Bosch said.
“Hey, asshole,” Cespedes said. “You know you are fucking up a solid operation here.”
“Doesn’t have to be that way. Am I riding with you or not?”
“Get in.”
Bosch exited the Jeep and locked it. He then got into the Mustang. It was a tight squeeze because of an open laptop sitting on a swivel mount attached to the dash. The screen was angled toward Cespedes, but once Bosch was in his seat, he turned the mount so he could see the screen. It was quartered into four camera views of Roscoe Boulevard and an apartment building. Bosch recognized the complex he had been about to turn into when Cespedes agreed to allow Harry to ride with him.
“You got cameras on your cars?” Bosch asked. “I guess I was getting close.”
He pointed at the apartment building on one of the camera views. Cespedes abruptly turned the screen back toward himself.
“Don’t touch,” he ordered.
Bosch raised his hands in acknowledgment.
“Put on your seatbelt,” Cespedes added. “You don’t leave this car unless I tell you to. Got that?”
“Got it,” Bosch said.
Cespedes dropped the Mustang into reverse and pulled out of the slot next to the Jeep. The car then shot forward and back toward Roscoe.
Two blocks down, he pulled to the curb in a spot where there was a view of the apartment complex that the cameras on the other cars were focused on. Cespedes canted his head back and spoke toward the ceiling of the car.
“Sierra two, show me back at OP one.”
Bosch knew there was a microphone behind the visor, probably activated with a foot switch on the floor. Standard surveillance gear. A series of clicks from other cars followed. Cespedes had observation-point one. The others had views from other angles on the apartment complex.
Cespedes turned to Bosch.
“Now we wait,” he said.
Bosch understood why they were waiting for darkness. The night always favored the followers. Cars became headlights, unrecognizable in the rearview mirror. Drivers became silhouettes.
“How are you going to goose him into moving?” Bosch asked.
Cespedes was quiet a moment and Bosch knew he was deciding how much to tell Bosch. The SIS was a very insular group within the department. Once officers transferred in, they never transferred out. They cut off relationships and contact with old partners and friends in the department. In the fifty-year history of the unit, there had only been one woman ever assigned to the team.
“Foothill gangs has a deep-cover snitch,” Cespedes said. “He got us the cell number of a shot caller on the same level as Cortez. We hijacked the cell and sent Cortez a message about a must-attend meet regarding you, Bosch, at Hansen Dam. We’re hoping that does the trick.”
Cespedes had just described at least two things that were compromising, if not outright against department protocol, not to mention illegal—if hijacking the phone had been done without a warrant. He was attempting to draw Bosch in and make him complicit in what might go down later. If Bosch didn’t object now, he couldn’t claim innocence afterward.
And that was all right with him.
“Why Hansen Dam?” he asked.
“The truth?” Cespedes said. “No cameras up there.”
He turned to look at Bosch. It was another moment where Bosch could either raise a flag or go along.
“Good plan,” he said, putting himself all in.
The SIS held a unique position in the LAPD. Often investigated by outside agencies ranging from the FBI to the media to civil rights groups, often sued by the families of the suspects shot, routinely labeled a “death squad” by outraged attorneys, the unit enjoyed a completely opposite reputation within the rank and file of the department. Infrequent openings in the unit brought hundreds of applications, including from those willing to drop pay grades just to get in. The reason was that, more so than any other unit, this was seen as true police work. The SIS took violent offenders off the board. Whether they were taken alive didn’t matter. They took out shooters, rapists, serial killers. The ripple effect of crimes not committed because of SIS captures and kills was unquantifiable but huge. And there wasn’t a cop on the force who wouldn’t want to be part of that. Never mind the outside critics, the investigations, and the lawsuits. This was to serve and protect in its rawest form.
Bosch felt no choice but to go all in. Tranquillo Cortez had not played by the rules. He’d had his men take Bosch from his home, from the place his daughter often slept. There can be no greater crime against a police officer than to threaten his family. You do that, and all bets are off. So when Bosch called it a good plan, he meant it, and he hoped that one way or another the threat from Tranquillo Cortez would be over before midnight.