Van Nuys Division was less than a mile away. Bosch drove there. This was not because he had any intention of speaking to the police in person, but because it was the only place he knew of in the area that still had operating pay phones. There was a bank of them at the bottom of the stairs below the station’s main exit—placed there as a convenience for inmates who were released from the station’s jail and needed to call loved ones or lawyers for pickup.
Bosch no longer had the SIS phone. Cespedes had asked for it back when Bosch announced that he was leaving the Cortez shooting scene and catching a ride with a patrol officer back to his car.
Next to the phone bank, there was also a change machine but it took only five-dollar bills. Bosch had two calls to make but reluctantly cashed a five into twenty quarters. He first called Ballard’s number from memory and she answered right away.
“He admitted to Daisy and to others,” he said. “Too many for him to even remember.”
“Jesus,” Ballard said. “He just told you all of this? Who were the others?”
“He only remembered one name, and that was because it made news and there was some heat at the time. Sarah Bender, you remember her? Her dad was some kind of a big shot, according to Dillon. I remember the name but can’t place the case. I want to use it as the control case. I brought up Daisy but he brought up Sarah Bender. If we can confirm it, we—”
“We can. Confirm it, I mean. Sarah Bender’s dad has that club on Sunset—Bender’s on the Strip. There’s usually a line out the door.”
“Right. I know it. Down near the Roxy.”
“Sarah disappeared about three years ago. George Bender went very public, hired private eyes to find her. Supposedly he even went to the dark side for help when he didn’t think the LAPD was seriously looking for her.”
“What’s that mean, the ‘dark side’?” Bosch asked.
“You know, he had connections outside the law working on it. Mercenary types. There was a rumor that his backers in the club were organized crime. When his daughter went missing, that became part of the investigation, but it didn’t pan out. I think the official line was that she was a runaway.”
“It may have looked that way but she wasn’t a runaway. Dillon grabbed her outside a coffee shop.”
“I remember the father also put up a reward. They started getting sightings all over the country. People who wanted to cash in. Eventually it all went away and now it’s just another L.A. mystery.”
“Well, mystery solved. He said he killed her, put her in the incinerator.”
“Motherfucker. How’d you get him to tell you about her?”
“Doesn’t matter. He did and I didn’t feed him the name. He came out with it. He said her and Daisy. The rest he couldn’t remember by name. Not even the woman with the pink fingernails.”
There was a pause before Ballard spoke.
“What did he say about her?”
“Nothing. He said he never knew her name in the first place, let alone forgot it.”
“Did you ask when he grabbed her?”
“No. I guess I should have.”
“I think it was recent. When I was in the back of that truck…I could smell her fear. I knew that’s where he kept her.”
Bosch didn’t know how to respond to that. But it fed into the frustration and anger growing in him. The more he thought about it, the more he regretted dumping out the sulfuric acid on the ground and not Dillon’s head.
Ballard spoke again before he could.
“Is he still…”
“Alive? I’ll probably regret it the rest of my life but, yeah, he’s alive.”
“No, it’s just…never mind. What will you do with him now?”
“I’ll call it in, let Van Nuys sort it out.”
“Do you have him on tape?”
“Yes, but it won’t matter. Inadmissible. They’ll have to start over, build a case. I’ll tell them to start with the inside of that truck. Fingerprints, DNA.”
There was a long pause as they both contemplated how their illegal actions had imperiled any sort of traditional way of bringing Dillon to justice.
Ballard finally spoke.
“Let’s hope something’s there,” she said. “I don’t want him walking free again.”
“He won’t,” Bosch said. “I promise you that.”
More silence followed as they considered what Bosch had just said.
It was time to hang up, but Bosch didn’t want to. He realized it might be the last time they would speak. Their relationship had been held together by the case. Now the case was over.
“I need to make the call,” Bosch finally said.
“Okay,” Ballard said.
“I guess maybe I’ll see you around, okay?”
“Sure. Stay in touch.”
Bosch hung up. It was a weird ending. He jangled the change in his hand as he thought about how to handle the call that would send investigators to Dillon’s warehouse. He needed to protect himself but wanted to make sure that the call created an urgent response.
He dropped quarters into the phone’s slot but then his intentions were hijacked. Thoughts of Elizabeth Clayton hit him, and a deep grief washed over him as he imagined her sad ending, alone in a seedy motel room, empty pill bottle on the bed table, haunted by the ghost of her lost daughter. Then he remembered Dillon’s dismissal of his victims as women and girls who didn’t count or matter and suddenly he was filled with anger. He wanted revenge.
When the dial tone pulled him out of his dark reverie he punched in 411 and asked the operator for the number of Bender’s on the Strip.
He was about to drop in more quarters to make the call when caution pushed through the red glare of vengeance. He turned and looked up into the overhang of the police building. He counted at least two cameras.
He hung up the phone and walked away.
Bosch moved through the government plaza toward Van Nuys Boulevard, where he had parked the Jeep. He popped the back hatch and reached in for his bad-weather attire, a Dodgers cap and an army jacket with a high collar that offered protection from wind and rain. He put them on, closed the hatch, and crossed the street to a row of twenty-four- hour bail bonds offices. At the end of the row was a payphone attached to the side wall of the building.
He pulled his hat down and his collar up as he approached. He dropped in quarters and made the call, checking his watch while he waited for it to ring. It was 1:45 a.m. and he knew the clubs on the Sunset Strip would close at two.
The call was answered by a woman whose voice was engulfed by a background of loud electronic music.
“Is there an office?” Bosch yelled. “Give me the office.”
He was put on hold for nearly a minute before a male voice answered.
“Mr. Bender?”
“He’s not here. Who’s this, please?”
Bosch didn’t hesitate.
“This is the Los Angeles police. I need to speak to Mr. Bender right now. It’s an emergency. It’s about his daughter.”
“Is this bullshit? The guy’s been through enough with you people.”
“This is very serious, sir. I have news about his daughter and need to speak with him right now. Where can I reach him?”
“Hold on.”
He was put on hold for another minute. And then another male voice came on the line.
“Who is this?”
“Mr. Bender?”
“I said, who is this?”
“It doesn’t matter who this is. I’m sorry to be so blunt with news that is so bad. But your daughter was murdered three years ago. And the man who killed her is sitting in a—”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“I’m not going to tell you that, sir. What I’m going to do is give you an address where you will find the man who killed your daughter waiting for you. The door will be unlocked.”
“How can I believe you? You call up here out of the blue, won’t give your name. How do I—”
“Mr. Bender, I’m sorry. I can’t give you any more than what I have. And I need to do it now before I change my mind.”
Bosch let that hang in the darkness between them for a bit.
“Do you want the address?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” Bender said. “Give it to me.”