Page 69
“I don’t have time for your stories. I want you in here and at your desk, or you are out, my friend. Do you understand that?”
“When I had a badge and a desk at Hollywood Division, I had this sign that I printed out and put on the divider between my desk and the next one down. It said ‘Get off your ass and go knock on doors.’ And that’s what I’ve always done, Agent Cavanaugh. And that’s what I’m doing now. I’m going to knock on a door.”
“Bosch, you — ”
Bosch hung up.
When Cavanaugh called back, he sent it to voicemail and continued to watch the house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
By nine a.m. there had been no activity and Bosch had finished the two cups of coffee he had picked up on the way up from the city. He started the car and drove into the driveway of the Sjovald house. He heard a dog barking as he got out. Alerted by the dog, a woman opened the front door before he reached it. She was petite with graying hair down to her shoulders and held a black Lab by the collar. Neither looked friendly.
“Mrs. Sjovald?” he asked.
“Yes,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”
Bosch opened the badge wallet he’d carried as a detective. It now contained a badge and ID card that were both clearly marked with RETIRED, but he had a practiced way of folding the ID side back and placing a finger over the word on the badge as he held it up.
“My name is Bosch,” he said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, my,” Sjovald exclaimed. “About what?”
“It’s a homicide investigation. Could we go somewhere where we can sit down? Maybe away from the dog.”
The front door was at the center of a covered porch. There was an old wooden bench that ran along the railing. Sjovald pointed to it.
“We can sit right here,” she said. “I’m not comfortable inviting strangers into my house. Neither is my dog.”
“Is your husband home?”
“He’s in Sweden.”
“Well, this is fine. Let’s sit down.”
Bosch gestured to the bench and moved toward it. Sjovald backed out of the house, keeping the dog inside, and closed the door. They sat at opposite ends of the bench with three feet of space between them.
“This is about that thing, isn’t it?” Sjovald said. “It never goes away.”
“What thing are you talking about?” Bosch asked.
“Wonderland.”
“Yes, it’s about that.”
“Well, my story hasn’t changed. Nick was with me that night — room nine-oh-two. If that’s all you came to ask, then you can go now.”
She made a move to get up.
“That’s not quite it, Mrs. Sjovald,” Bosch said.
“Then what?” Sjovald asked. “How many times do I have to be questioned about this? My story has never changed.”
“That’s the thing, Mrs. Sjovald. It’s Nicky Novak’s story that’s changed.”
“I don’t believe that. Not for a second.”
“Well, he didn’t say it to us. He said it to others, but we have it on tape, him talking about that night. Bragging about it, actually. Talking about killing people with a brass pipe he called his eighty. You worked at the plumbing shop. You remember what a schedule eighty brass pipe is, right? Heavy. Thick-walled and durable. He talked about swinging it so high that he hit the ceiling. And we matched up what he said with the evidence — thread marks from the pipe on the ceiling. You understand what I’m saying, Mrs. Sjovald?”
Bosch watched as she took in this information. He had weaved together truth and supposition.
