Resurrection Walk

“The FBI changes things,” Haller said. “I’m thinking I may need to find a way to get this into federal court without first showing our hand in state court.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Well, like I said, we’ll never get MacIsaac into superior court. But we have a good shot at getting him into federal court. The thing is, you’re supposed to exhaust all state appeals before you file in a U.S. district court. But if we go that route, they’ll see us coming a mile away. They’ll be locked and loaded, prepared for us. We don’t want MacIsaac knowing what’s coming when I say, ‘Agent MacIsaac, tell us about this conversation you had with Roberto Sanz a couple hours before his murder.’”

Now Bosch was silent as he considered the path they were on with Lucinda Sanz.

“I think we need to hold up on reaching out to MacIsaac,” Haller said.

“But we need to know why he was with Sanz the day he was killed,” Bosch countered.

“We do. But let’s circle around him a little bit and see what else we can find before we knock on the FBI’s door.”

“Not sure where else to circle.”

“That’s because you’re thinking like a cop and not a defense investigator.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that it’s a stacked deck. When you’re a cop or a prosecutor, you have the almighty power of the state behind you every step of the way. All the state’s resources and reach. On the defense side, it’s just you. It’s David and Goliath, and you’re David, baby. It’s why getting a win is so special. And so very rare.”

“I think that’s a little simplistic — especially with all the red tape and rules slanted in favor of the defendant — but I get the point. So if I’m laying low on the FBI, what do you want me doing instead?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Just give me a few days to figure how we deal with the feds. I need to talk to some people to see if we can make this jump to federal court.”

Still parked in the carport, Bosch stared straight ahead, thinking of possible next moves. He assumed that the FBI had something on Sanz and that was the reason for the clandestine meeting on a Sunday afternoon. Sanz was jammed up and MacIsaac was applying pressure for him to turn informant. Based on recent and very public history, the Bureau had been heavily focused at the time on corruption in the sheriff’s department, with a particular interest in the flourishing of deputy cliques there. Bosch didn’t need to talk to MacIsaac to know this.

The question was, what did the FBI have on Sanz that was more serious and actionable than him being in a clique, and had it led to his murder? Bosch knew that Haller didn’t need to have all the facts to carry out his duties. Most defense attorneys operated by the “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire” creed. They needed to sow the seeds of doubt but didn’t necessarily have to believe in the doubts sown. But Bosch could not operate that way, even if he was working for a defense lawyer. He needed to get through the smoke to the fire. If there was a fire.

As his mind pushed through the smoke he came to realize what his next move would be. If he could not go directly to MacIsaac, he knew who he could take a run at.

As he pulled back his thousand-yard stare he realized he had been looking through the windshield at the door to the kitchen and hadn’t even noticed something.

It was three inches ajar.

“Are you there, Bosch?” Haller said. “Or did I lose you in the hills?”

“I’m here,” Bosch said. “But hold on a second.”

Bosch removed the key from the ignition and used it to unlock the glove compartment. He grabbed his gun and got out of the car, weapon in one hand, phone in the other. In a low voice he spoke to Haller.

“I just got home and my door’s open. Pretty sure I didn’t leave it that way.”

“Then hang up and call the cops.”

“I’m going to check it out first.”

“Harry, you’re not a cop. Let the cops check it out.”

“Just hold on.”

Bosch dropped the phone into his pocket without disconnecting. He approached the door with the gun in a two-handed grip and used the muzzle to push it all the way open. Standing still, he listened for a moment before entering but heard nothing. From his vantage point, he saw nothing amiss in the galley kitchen. He tried to recall how he had left that morning after getting the call from Cisco. He had been in a hurry, but he could conceive of no circumstance where he would have left the door open. He had lived in the house more than thirty years. Pulling the door closed until the lock clicked was automatic, pure muscle memory.

He took a step back into the carport to check whether he had missed seeing his daughter’s car parked on the street when he had pulled up to the house.