Resurrection Walk

He hesitated but then nodded. I took the mute off.

“Cindi?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Harry has something he wants to ask,” I said. “Go ahead, Harry.”

Bosch leaned toward the center of the dashboard as if he thought he could be heard more clearly that way.

“Cindi,” he said. “Do you remember being told by the detectives that your arms and hands tested positive for gunshot residue?”

“They said that but it was a lie,” Lucinda said. “I didn’t shoot the gun.”

“I know, and that’s what you told them. My question is about the test. In the interview with the detectives, they said a man tested you but you told them it was a woman. Do you remember that?”

“The deputy just came up to me and said she had to test me for a gun. And she wiped my hands and my arms and the front of my jacket.”

“So it was definitely a female?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her or get her name?”

Before she could answer, an electronic voice interrupted the call and announced the connection would be terminated in one minute. Bosch prompted Lucinda once the interruption was over.

“Cindi, who was the deputy who tested you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she told me her name. She said she worked with Robbie. I remember that.”

“Was she a detective?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, was she in a sheriff’s uniform or plain clothes?”

“No, she was in regular clothes. She had her badge on a chain.”

“Around her neck?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know her if you saw her again?”

“Uh, I’m not so sure... I think yes, I—”

The call ended.

“Shit, she’s gone,” Bosch said.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“I’m reading the interview transcript right here. The detectives confront her with the GSR and explain that a deputy, who they don’t name but refer to as he, swiped her for GSR. Then she says it was a she.”

“Okay. So what’s the issue?”

“Well, the whole thing reads as off to me. I don’t know what the sheriff’s department crime scene protocols are but they can’t be that different from the LAPD’s. And I can tell you, at the LAPD, gunshot-residue testing is done by the detectives. Or at the very least, a criminalist. Definitely not somebody who works with the victim.”

I now remembered reading the exchange in the transcript. It hadn’t raised a flag for me in the way it did for Bosch. But that was Bosch. I had seen it before. He had this facility for seeing the details and evidence of a case and how it all matched up, or didn’t. He was playing chess while most people were playing checkers.

“Interesting,” I finally said. “So it was a female detective?”

“Not necessarily,” Bosch said. “It could have been somebody called in from home, no time to put on a uniform. But it sounds like somebody from Roberto’s unit. Detectives usually carry the badge on the belt. A badge on a chain indicates a plainclothes unit, like gangs or drugs. They use the chain so they can hide it and pull it out when shit goes down, like a raid or at a crime scene.”

“Got it.”

Bosch began looking through the pockets in the file on his lap. I glanced over and saw him pull out a document.

“This is the first crime report. It has the names of the two deputies who first responded: Gutierrez and Spain.”

“Well, we need to talk to them.”

“Maybe not right away. Remember, you said no footprints till we’re ready?”

I nodded. “Right.”

Bosch pulled out another document.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The evidence log,” Bosch said. “Tracks chain of custody.”

He scanned it for a few moments before continuing.

“It says the GSR-swab disks were collected by a deputy named Keith Mitchell.”

“We need to follow up on that.”

“It might mean nothing. But I will.”

“So how do you want to play talking to the boy?”

“I don’t know yet. Let me finish the file first, then we can talk about it. Why don’t you call Cindi’s mother and tell her we’re on the way?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

12

The house where Lucinda Sanz grew up was on Mott Street in Boyle Heights. It was a neighborhood ravaged by gang graffiti and neglect. Many of the homes had white picket fences around the front lawns, a sign of allegiance and protection from the generationally entrenched street gang that ruled the neighborhood. Sanz’s mother was named Muriel Lopez. Her home had the fence and a couple of gangbangers to go with it. Two men in chinos and wifebeaters that showed off their tattoo sleeves were hanging on the front porch as we pulled up to the curb.

“Oh, boy,” I said. “Looks like we have a welcome committee.”

Bosch glanced up from the report he was reading and looked at the two men, who were staring back at us.

“We have the right address?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. “This is the place.”

“Just so you know, I’m not armed.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

We got out and I pushed through the gate in the picket fence ahead of Bosch.

“Fellas, we’re here to see Ms. Lopez,” I said. “She around?”

Both men were in their early thirties. One was tall, the other squat.

“You the lawyer?” the tall one asked.

“That’s right,” I said.

“And what about him?” he said. “Looks like po-po to me. Old-ass po-po.”

“He’s my investigator,” I said. “That’s why he’s with me.”