The Drop - Michael Connelly [62]
“I want to, but I have to see if somebody will switch with me. I take tomorrow night if they take tonight. Can I call you back?”
“Sure.”
Bosch gave her his number and they disconnected. He got up, patted Charlie Chaplin on the shoulder and headed out the door.
When Bosch got back to the unit, Chu was working on his laptop and didn’t look up as Harry entered the cubicle.
“You find my guy yet?”
“Not yet.”
“How’s it looking?”
“Not very good. There are nine hundred eleven variations of Chill in the moniker files. And that’s just in California. So don’t hold your breath.”
“Is that total or is that just in the time frame I asked for?”
“The time frame doesn’t matter. Your guy from ’eighty-eight could easily have been put into the database in any year before or since. It would depend on whether he was arrested, was the subject of a field interview, or was a victim. There are a lot of possibilities. I have to look at all of them.”
Chu was speaking in a clipped tone. Bosch knew he was still angry about being shut out of the Irving investigation.
“All of that might be true but let’s prioritize by narrowing the focus to . . . let’s say pre-’ninety-two. My hunch is that if he’s in the box, he went in before then.”
“Fine.”
Chu started typing. He still had not looked up or acknowledged Bosch with his eyes.
“When I came in, I saw that the lieutenant’s alone in her office. You could go talk to her about the transfer.”
“I want to get this done.”
Bosch was calling Chu’s bluff and they both knew it.
“Good.”
Bosch’s cell buzzed and he saw it was an 818 call—the Valley. As he answered, he left the cubicle and headed out to the hallway so he could talk privately. It was Hannah Stone calling from one of her work lines.
“I won’t be able to meet you till about eight because of some things here at work. Will that be all right?”
“Sure, that works.”
It would only give him about ninety minutes with her, unless he changed his daughter’s curfew.
“Are you sure? You sound—”
“No, it will work. I could work late, too. I’ve got stuff here. Where do you want to meet?”
“How about somewhere in the middle this time? Do you like sushi?”
“Uh, not really. But I guess I could try it.”
“You mean you’ve never even tried sushi?”
“Uh . . . I sort of have a problem with raw fish.”
He didn’t want to mention that it related to his experience in Vietnam. The rancid fish they would come across in the tunnels. The overpowering smell.
“Okay, then scratch sushi. How about Italian?”
“Italian’s good. Let’s do Italian.”
“You know where Ca’ Del Sole is in North Hollywood?”
“I can find it.”
“Eight o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
“See you soon, Harry.”
“See you soon.”
Bosch ended the call and then made another he wanted to keep private as well. Heath Witcomb had been a smoking pal from Harry’s days in Hollywood Division. They had shared the ash can behind the station countless times until Bosch gave up the habit. Witcomb was a patrol sergeant and as such he was in a position to know Robert Mason, the patrol cop credited with all three of the B&W drunk driving arrests. He also still smoked.
“Busy, Harry,” Witcomb said as he answered. “What do you need?”
“Just call me next time you go out back.”
Bosch disconnected. As he pushed through the door back into the unit, Chu was pushing out.
“Harry, where have you been?”
“I went for a smoke.”
“Harry, you don’t smoke.”
“Yeah, so what’s up?”
“Chilton Hardy.”
“You found him?”
“I think so. It fits.”
They entered the cubicle and Chu slid into his seat in front of his computer. Bosch leaned over his shoulder to see the screen. Chu hit the space bar to rouse the computer from sleep. The screen lit, and on display was a mug shot of a white man of about thirty with spiky dark hair and acne scars. He cast a sullen look at the camera, staring with cold blue eyes.
“Chilton Aaron Hardy,” Chu said. “Known as Chill.”
“How old is this?” Bosch asked. “And where was it?”
“Nineteen eighty-five. North Hollywood Division. Battery on a police officer. He was twenty-eight at the time and lived in an apartment on