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“I need to see a photo to confirm I’m even asking about the right guy.”
“I’m texting you his most recent DMV mug now. And it does look like a mug shot.”
Bosch put his phone on speaker so he could look at the screen. He waited and the text finally came in. He opened the photo of Nikolai Novak’s driver’s license and expanded it on his screen. It showed an old man staring directly at the camera. He was white with a bald head and a gray goatee. He wore black-rimmed glasses. His face was creased with age lines and defiance. It did look like a booking photo. Bosch took a moment as he tried to strip away sixty-plus years from the face. And then he saw it. The white line of a scar coming up behind the frame of the eyeglasses and cutting through the left eyebrow.
“Well?” Ballard prompted.
Bosch nodded to himself.
“It’s him,” he said.
17
1981
BOSCH WAS CAREFULLY rolling the triplicate detainment form into the typewriter when the phone at the homicide table began ringing. He ignored it and focused on the tedious task of keeping the sheets of paper and carbon aligned. But shortly after the phone at the homicide table quieted, the general detective bureau number started ringing. Bosch stopped his work, looked around, and confirmed that the squad room was empty except for him. He reached for the phone, punched the proper plastic button, and took the call.
“Hollywood Detectives. How can I help you?”
“Who’s this?”
“Bosch. Detective Bosch. How can — ”
“It’s Kuster, Bosch. Where is everybody?”
Russ Kuster, the D-3 in charge of the homicide table. The homicide legend Bosch wanted to work for someday. Bosch could hear traffic noise and knew Kuster was at a pay phone.
“Uh, everybody’s gone,” Bosch said. “You know, an early start on the holiday.”
It was Wednesday, July 1. Since the Fourth fell on a Saturday, the official day off was Friday. Many took Thursday as a vacation day and ended up with a solid four-day weekend. The entire squad room was clear by four p.m., and Kuster had been part of the exodus.
“You’re the only one there?” Kuster asked. “Where’s your partner?”
“She was off today,” Bosch said. “It’s just me here right now.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m typing up a juvie detainment. I’ve got a kid in holding I have to take up to Sylmar.”
“What did he do?”
“They caught him shoplifting at the Mayfair on Franklin. It’s his third time and they want to prosecute.”
“Cut him loose. I need you to go up to Laurel Canyon. Have you heard about the four-bagger up there?”
“Four-bagger? No.”
Bosch wasn’t sure what a four-bagger was.
“We’ve got four on the floor in a drug house up on Wonderland,” Kuster said. “A fifth was transported. Robbery-Homicide is going to take it, but they’re at least an hour out. I need somebody up there now to control the scene. Reporters have picked it up off the radio, and the uniforms will fuck up the scene if we let ’em. I’d go but I’m already halfway to Big Bear. Can you handle it, Bosch?”
“I can handle it.”
He said it without hesitation. This was the kind of call he’d been waiting for.
“Good,” Kuster said. “Now, listen. Don’t go into the house. The whole place is a crime scene. Just post up and keep people out. That means everybody. There’s going to be a lot of lookie-loos on this, including the brass. Don’t let anybody in that house until RHD takes over. You got it?”
“Got it,” Bosch said.
