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“Still, if we get the chance, we should check the phone. Get the call log. I want to be sure.”

I realized that my tone indicated that I was disappointed Bambadjan Bishop didn’t appear to be snitching for the prosecution or the police. And I guess I was. If he was snitching, I could use that to my advantage, plus get the ultimate payoff when it came time to expose the wrongdoing in court.

“I think after the jail surveillance thing and now the missing wallet, they’d be crazy to try to submarine us,” Cisco said.

“You’re probably right,” I acknowledged. “But stay on him one more night. You never know.”

“Done.”

“Okay, Cisco, thanks. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

As soon as I disconnected, I thought about Bosch. I had not sent him the video of the confrontation with the two FBI agents.

I called him directly and he picked up after two rings.

“Hold on,” he said. “Let me get clear.”

I heard the distinctive sounds of a casino in the background: slot-machine bells, people shouting. Then it got quiet and Bosch said hello.

“It’s Mick. Where the hell are you?”

“Vegas. You couldn’t tell? I just checked in at the Mandalay.”

“What are you doing there? I thought you were working for me.”

I immediately regretted my choice of words.

“With me, I mean.”

“I am. That’s why I’m here. Following something.”

“Well, we struck a big nerve today with the bureau. Two agents just showed up here to tell me we’re barking up the wrong tree with BioGreen while confirming that we’re barking up the right tree.”

“They like to do that.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’ve got there, but I want to put everything we have into finding out about how Sam was mixed up with Opparizio and BioGreen. I still think it’s the magic bullet. It’ll win the case.”

“Got it. I should be back by tomorrow night.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?”

“Tracking Sam Scales. The last time he got caught was for a phony online fundraiser for the victims of the music festival shooting out here. Remember that? The shooter was actually here at the Mandalay.”

“Of course. Another senseless act of hyperviolence perpetuated by the easy access to high-powered weapons.”

“You’re not an NRA guy, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Anyway, the state of Nevada was all over these scams related to the shooting and grabbed Scales in L.A. They extradited him back here for trial and he cut a deal and did fifteen months for fraud up at High Desert.”

“I remember he called me from the can out there. Wanted me to rep him but I said no. But couldn’t you have gotten all of this by phone? I need you back here.”

“Not what I’m doing tomorrow. High Desert State Prison is about an hour from here. Scales’s cellmate is still there and I’m going to go up and talk to him. Got it set up for eight a.m. I’ll head back to L.A. after that.”

“You think he has something?”

“He’s serving a five-year sentence for major fraud. He was selling phony casino chips, took in a couple million before they caught him. Anyway, these two spent fifteen months together in a cell. I’m thinking they may have traded a few stories about things they did and were planning to do.”

“Perfect, they put a fraud and a con artist together in the same cell. That’s some match,” I said.

“They usually try to keep white-collar guys together so they don’t get picked off by the heavies.”

“Thanks for schooling me.”

“Sorry, I guess you know more about jails than I do,” Bosch said.

“I don’t know if that’s a dig or a compliment. You fly over there or drive?”

“Drove.”

“Okay, call me when you’re heading back. And then I want to get everybody together Wednesday after court to figure out the next steps.”

“I’ll be there.”

After disconnecting the call, I thought about things for a few minutes. I felt that the team was getting close to the big secrets of the case. We had a momentum that could lead us to truth and triumph. It was just a question of whether we would get there in time.

Kendall called down the hall from the bedroom.

“Are you coming to bed or not?”

I stacked all the files I had spread around and got up from the couch. I dumped the files into my briefcase and clicked it closed.

“Coming.”

I headed into the hallway and she was standing there in her bathrobe. I stopped short.

“Scared me,” I said.

“You know, this is what happened before,” she said.

“What did?”

“You know. You let your work take over your life. Our lives. Night and day. And then what we had disappeared. And here we are, back together, and already you’re doing it again.”

I reached out and gently grabbed the robe’s terry-cloth belt, which she had loosely cinched around her waist. I tugged it playfully.

“Come here. This isn’t the same thing, babe. This is me. My case. I have to put everything into it or there might not be any future for us. We’ve got a month until trial. I just need you to put up with this for a month. Okay? Can you give me that?”

I moved my hands up her arms to her shoulders and waited. She said nothing. She just looked down at the floor between us.

“You can’t give me the month?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“It’s not that,” she said. “I can give you the month. But sometimes it’s like you’re talking to me like a juror, like you’re trying to convince me you’re not guilty.”

I let go of her shoulders.

“And what, you think I am?”

“No. I’m talking about the way you talk to me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said. “But if you think I’m trying to play you, then maybe you should go to bed and I should go back to work. I have to figure out how to convince a real jury I’m not a killer.”

I left her there in the hallway.

Tuesday, January 14

I worked late and fell asleep on the couch. I had forgotten to attach the charger to my ankle monitor and it woke me at 8:15 a.m. with a sharp intermittent beeping that told me the device’s battery would be dead in an hour. And I would be in violation of the terms of my bail.

I timed the beeps. At the moment, the alarm was on a five-second interval but I knew that would get shorter and the device would get ear-piercingly louder as the hour counted down. I couldn’t casually go into the bedroom to get the charger without the alarm waking Kendall, who liked to sleep in most mornings. But with no choice in the matter, I timed my move, went swiftly into the room, and managed to plug the charging cord into the ankle device before the next beep. It appeared that Kendall had slept through. She was on her side, turned away from me, and I could see her arm moving with each rhythmic breath of sleep. I now had an hour to pass while the device charged, but I had left my phone, laptop, and briefcase in the living room. I could unplug the charger and race with it out of the room but I felt I was pressing my luck already. And if the alarm sounded again, it would definitely wake up Kendall.

The bedroom TV remote was on the bed within reach, having been left there by Kendall the night before. I turned on the flat-screen and immediately muted the sound. I switched on the closed captions and started reading the news. The House was planning to send articles of impeachment to the Senate for what everybody in the country new was a nonstarter. But it was monopolizing the news feed. I watched and read captions for twenty minutes before another story broke in for a few seconds of airtime. It was a report on rising concerns in Asia after the mystery virus originating in Wuhan, China, was confirmed as having jumped borders to other countries.

I heard my phone ringing out in the living room. I checked my watch. It was now 8:45 and I believed the ankle monitor had sufficiently charged to the point where there would be no alarm beep if I disconnected it. I quickly yanked out the charging line and moved quickly to get the phone. I missed the call but saw it had come from Bosch. I called him right back.

“Mick, there’s an issue with the cellmate,” he said.

“You’re at the prison?” I asked.

“I’m here and I saw the guy. His name is Austin Neiderland, but he won’t talk to me. Says he’s got a name that will tell us all we need to know about what Sam Scales was into. But he wouldn’t give me the name.”

“What’s he want? He’s got to be through his appeals by now.”

“He wants you, Mick.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He said he would give only you the name. He knows about you. Scales must’ve told him that you were a good lawyer. Neiderland says he’ll give you the name if you just come up, sign in as his lawyer, and talk to him. See if there’s anything to be done on his case, I guess. He’s still got two years on his sentence. That means he still has to do eighteen months.”

“You mean today? Come there today?”

“Can you? I’ll set it up and wait here for you.”

“Harry, I can’t. I’ve got an ankle monitor and bail restrictions. I can’t leave the county.”

“Shit, I forgot.”

“What about a video connection? Can we set up something like that?”

“I checked and the prison only does it for court hearings. No teleconferencing interviews or attorney-client meetings.”

There was silence on the phone while I thought about this.

“So, what else did he say about this name?” I finally asked. “I mean, what if we jump through all these hoops and he says, yeah, it’s Louis Opparizio. Then we’re nowhere. We already have that name.”

“It’s not Opparizio,” Bosch said. “I tried that name on him and got a read. He didn’t know it.”

“Okay, so can this even be done today? I have court tomorrow. Even if I can convince the judge to let me go up there, I have to be back tonight—tomorrow morning at the latest. You think I can get in and out? It’s a prison, and they don’t like cooperating with defense lawyers.”

“Your call, Mick, but if you have to talk to the judge to get permission, maybe she can write you an order that gets you in.”

“Different states, Harry. She doesn’t have jurisdiction.”

“Well … what do you want to do?”

“Okay, hold tight. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back as soon as I know something.”

I disconnected and thought about the best way to approach this. Then I called Lorna and asked if there was anything on my schedule.

“Your first witness list is due today,” she said. “But that’s it. And then you have the continuation of yesterday’s hearing tomorrow at one.”

“Okay, I already have a wit list ready,” I said. “I’ll send it in. I might be going to Las Vegas—if the judge lets me.”

“What’s in Vegas?”

“A prison where Sam Scales last served time. I want to talk to the guy he shared a cell with.”

“Good luck with that. Let me know.”

I next called Judge Warfield’s courtroom and got her clerk, Andrew. I said I wanted to set up a teleconference with the judge requesting that I be allowed to leave the county for the day to pursue a witness. The clerk said he would check with the judge and call me back. I reminded him that Dana Berg would need to be alerted.

While I waited, I decided to act as if I would gain the judge’s permission and I booked flights on JetSuite out of Burbank to Las Vegas. The outbound left in two hours.

Thirty minutes went by with no return call from the judge or her clerk. I called the courtroom back and pushed for an answer. Andrew said the judge was okay with a teleconference but Dana Berg had not responded to a message left for her.

“Can the judge just talk to me, then?” I asked. “This is time-sensitive. I can see this potential witness today only and need to know whether I can go. If you leave a message for Berg saying when the conference is taking place, my guess is she’ll respond and be on the call. If you just wait for her to call back, we’re going to be waiting all day.”

The clerk took what I said under advisement and said he would get back to me. Another twenty minutes went by and Andrew called, saying he was connecting me to a conference call with the judge and Deputy D.A. Dana Berg. My plane was leaving in seventy minutes.

Soon I heard the judge’s voice on the phone.

“I think we have everybody here,” she said. “Mr. Haller, you are asking for a deviation in bail restrictions?”

“Yes, Your Honor, just for one day,” I said. “I need to go to Las Vegas to see a witness.”

“Las Vegas. Really, Mr. Haller?”

“It’s not what you think, Judge. I won’t be anywhere near the Strip. Sam Scales was last incarcerated at High Desert State Prison about an hour north of Las Vegas. His cellmate is still there and I want to talk to him. The prosecution has given us nothing through discovery regarding Scales’s activities leading up to the murder. The cellmate could be an important witness for the defense. One of my investigators is at the prison as we speak. He said the inmate will only talk to me. I’ve booked an eleven forty flight to Vegas and a seven o’clock flight back.”

“That was a bit presumptuous, was it not, Mr. Haller?”

“No, Your Honor. I did not anticipate how the court would rule. I just wanted to make sure I could get there should the court allow it.”

“Ms. Berg, are you still with us? Does the prosecution object to the defense request?”

“Here, Your Honor,” Berg said. “I would first like to ask the name of the inmate he is going to see.”

“Austin Neiderland,” I said. “He’s at High Desert State Prison.”

“Your Honor,” Berg said. “The state objects to this travel outside of bail restrictions and maintains its original argument from the bail hearing. We believe Mr. Haller is a flight risk. More now than before because the closer we get to trial, the clearer it becomes to Mr. Haller that his conviction and permanent incarceration are certain.”

“Judge, the prosecution’s statement is ridiculous,” I said quickly. “I’ve now been out of custody for five weeks and I have done nothing but prepare for my defense, even with the handicap of being pitted against a prosecution that does not like to play by the rules.”

“Your Honor, there is no handicap and there is no evidence that the prosecution doesn’t play by the rules,” Berg said forcefully. “Defense counsel has been engaged since the beginning of—”

“Stop it, stop it,” Warfield shouted. “I do not intend to start my day playing referee to you two. I’m growing very weary of that. Now, as to the request, has counsel explored the possibility of teleconferencing this interview?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Believe me, that would be the way to go, but my investigator told me the prison does not make that available for meetings besides court hearings.”

“Very well,” Warfield said. “The court is going to allow Mr. Haller to interview this witness. I will make the appropriate notification to the bail and detention folks, and, Mr. Haller, you need to be back in this county by midnight tonight or Ms. Berg’s prophecy will become true. You will be considered a fugitive. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Thank you. And if I could make one other quick request?”

“Here we go,” Berg said.

“What is it, Mr. Haller?” Warfield asked.

“Your Honor, I have the ankle monitor and I’m sure that’s going to be a problem at the prison in Nevada,” I said.

“No way,” Berg jumped in forcefully. “You can’t be serious. We are not going to accept him taking off the monitor. The state—”

“I’m not asking for that,” I cut in. “I’m asking for a letter from the court that maybe Your Honor’s clerk could write up quickly and email me, explaining my standing—if it comes into question.”

There was a pause during which the judge was most likely waiting for Berg to object. But I thought the prosecutor probably believed she had overstepped with her loud objection to removal of the monitor. She had overplayed and now was silent.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “I will craft a note and have Andrew email it to you.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

After the call, I contacted Bosch and told him I was coming. I told him to set up the appointment with Neiderland for 2 p.m. This would give me time to fly over and be driven up to the prison. I also told Bosch to keep an eye out.

“I had to give Neiderland’s name to the prosecution,” I said. “I doubt they’ll be able to get anybody out there before me. But they may try to fuck with us somehow.”

“I’ll stay right here,” Bosch said. “Look out for anything strange. Call when you’re getting close.”

A quick shower and shave later, I was in fresh travel clothes and ready to go. I downloaded and printed the letter from Judge Warfield and put it in my briefcase.

Kendall was awake and in the kitchen. There was a loud silence that she broke first.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “I know you need to put everything you’ve got into your defense. I was being selfish.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I countered. “I was ignoring you and that should never be. I’ll do better. I promise.”

“The best thing you can do for me is win your case.”

“That’s the plan.”

We hugged it out, then I kissed her goodbye.

Bambadjan Bishop was sitting at the bottom of the stairs when I exited my house and locked the door behind me.

“Right on time,” I said. “I like that.”

“Where’re we going?” he asked.

“Burbank Airport. I’m flying to Vegas. Then you’re free until eight tonight, when I come back. I’ll need you to pick me up.”

“Got it.”

The JetSuite terminal was not on the commercial airfield at Burbank. It was hidden in a long line of private jet operators and hangars. The beauty of the little-known airline was that it operated like a private jet but provided commercial service. I got there fifteen minutes before my flight and it was no problem.

The sold-out flight carried thirty passengers into the air above the San Gabriel Mountains and then out over the Mojave Desert. I finally started to relax after the rush-rush morning.

I had a window seat and the woman next to me was wearing a surgical mask. I wondered if she was sick or trying to prevent becoming sick.

I turned and looked down on the vast nothingness below. The brown, sun-burned desert went in all directions as far as the eye could see. It made everything seem inconsequential. Including me.

Harry Bosch was waiting for me in front of the prison’s main entrance. He met me at the door of my ride as I got out. The sun was blistering and I had forgotten to bring sunglasses. I squinted at him.

“Can I let this guy go and you drive me back to the airport?” I asked. “Flight’s at seven.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said.

I made sure I had my briefcase, then tipped the driver and sent him off.

Bosch and I started toward the prison entrance.

“You go through the doors and then there’s another door just for visiting attorneys. Head in through there and it should all be set. Neiderland is supposed to be in a room by two.”

“You can go through the attorney chute with me,” I said. “You’re—”

“No, I’m not going in with you. It’ll just be you and him—attorney-client.”

“That’s what I’m saying, you work for me as an investigator and that puts you under the privilege umbrella.”

“Yeah, but you’re about to go to work for him and I’m not working for that guy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I pick my cases, Mick. I don’t work for criminals—that would undo everything I ever did in my career.”

I stopped and looked at him for a moment.

“I guess I should take that as a compliment,” I finally said.

“I told you at Dan Tana’s that I believe you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

I turned and looked up at the prison.

“Well, okay, then,” I said.

“I’ll be out here,” Bosch said. “You get a name from him, I’ll be ready to go to work on it.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Good luck.”

I didn’t get into a room with Neiderland until forty minutes later. The ankle monitor set off alarms with the jail staff as I had thought it might. The letter from Judge Warfield was deemed not good enough because it could have been forged. Somebody called the judge’s office to confirm that she had granted permission for me to travel to Nevada but was told the judge was currently on the bench. It wasn’t until Warfield took the midafternoon break and returned the call from chambers that I was led to the attorney-client interview room. I was running a half hour late and Neiderland looked angry when I arrived.

He sat in a chair across a bolted-down table from another chair. His hands were cuffed and a lead chain ran from his wrists to a ring bolted to the front of his chair, which in turn was bolted to the floor. Still, he tried to stand and yanked hard against the chain as I slid into my seat.

“Mr. Neiderland, I’m Michael Haller,” I began. “I’m sorry—”

“I know who the fuck you are,” he said.

“You told my—”

“Fuck you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“I just flew here from L.A. because you told my—”

“Don’t you fucking get it?”

He yanked his cuffed hands up until the lead chain snapped taut again. His hands were gripped as if around an imaginary neck. My neck.

“They didn’t used to do this,” he said. “Chain you down like this. Not with your lawyer. I didn’t know. I didn’t fucking know. You should be dead by now, motherfucker.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Why would I be dead?”

“Because I would’ve broken your fucking neck.”

He pushed his words through gritted teeth. He wasn’t a big man or heavily muscled. He had thin blond hair and a sallow complexion—no surprise considering his current address. But the look of sheer hatred on his face was downright scary. My first thought was that somehow there had been a setup and he was working for Louis Opparizio—a hit man in an elaborate scheme to take me out. But then I dismissed it. The circumstances of my visit defied such a plan. And there was clearly emotion behind the hate on Neiderland’s face.

“You were going to kill me,” I said. “Why?”

“Because you killed my friend,” he said, again through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t kill Sam Scales. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find the person who did, and you just wasted a whole fucking day of my time and my investigator’s time. You may not believe me and I may even go down for it, but know this: there’s someone else out there who did it and walked away. And by not helping me, you help him.”

I got up and turned to the steel door, raising my arm to pound on it. I was frustrated and angry and wondering whether there would be an earlier flight back so that my entire day would not be wasted.

“Wait a minute,” Neiderland said.

I turned back to him.

“Prove it,” he said.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I said. “And it doesn’t help when I go off on a wild—”

“No, I mean prove it right here.”

“How do I do that?”

“Sit down.”

He nodded to the empty seat. I reluctantly sat down.

“I can’t prove it to you,” I said. “Not yet, at least.”

“He told me you betrayed him,” Neiderland said. “Yeah, the famous Lincoln Lawyer. You went Hollywood when they made a movie about your ass and left all the people who counted on you in the gutter.”

“That’s not what happened. I didn’t go Hollywood. Sam stopped paying me. That was one thing. But the truth is, I just couldn’t do it anymore. He was hurting a lot of people, taking their money, making them feel like fools. He got off on it, but I’d had enough. I couldn’t take another case.”

Neiderland didn’t respond. I tried again. I wanted to win him over because I still thought he could be helpful.

“You were really going to kill me?” I asked. “With less than two years to go in here?”

“I don’t know,” Neiderland said. “But I was going to do something. I was mad. I still am.”

I nodded. I could feel the temperature in the room subsiding.

“For what it’s worth, I liked Sam,” I said. “He ripped off a lot of people, and that was hard to take, but somehow I always liked him. I just had to draw the line because what he was doing was reflecting on me in the media and at home. Added to that, he stopped paying me and that was the same as treating me like one of the fools he ripped off.”

“He outstayed his welcome with a lot of people,” Neiderland said.

I could see a door of communication opening.

“But not you?” I asked.

“No, I never abandoned him,” Neiderland said. “And he never abandoned me. We had plans for when I got out of here.”

“What were they?”

“Find one big score and then disappear.”

“What was the score? Did he already find it?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like he could put it in one of his letters. Everything here is monitored—visitors, phone calls, letters. You’re not even supposed to have contact with any ex-cons on the outside.”

“So, how did you communicate?”

Neiderland shook his head. He wasn’t going to go there.

“Hey, I’m your lawyer,” I said. “You can tell me anything, and they can’t listen and I can’t repeat it. It’s privileged.”

Neiderland nodded and relented.

“He sent me letters,” he said. “Posing as my uncle.”

I paused for a moment. I knew the next question and answer could change everything about the case. I also knew that when people make up stories, plays, and even cons, they usually salt their stories with truth. Neiderland had promised Harry Bosch a name if I came to the prison. Maybe that was the truth in his con.

“What’s your uncle’s name?” I asked.

“Was,” Neiderland said. “He’s dead now. His name was Walter Lennon. My mother’s brother.”

“Did you ever send Sam letters—as your uncle?”

“Sure. What else is there to do in here?”

“And do you remember where you sent the letters?”

“He had a garage apartment in San Pedro. But that was three months ago, when he was alive. They probably put his shit out on the street.”

“Do you remember the address?”

“Yeah, I looked at a few of his letters this morning. The return was 2720 Cabrillo. He said it was small. He was saving and we were going to get something bigger when I got out. He said we’d buy a place.”

The vibe I was getting was that Neiderland was talking about a romantic relationship without actually saying it. I realized that I had never known Sam Scales’s sexual orientation because it didn’t play a part in his crimes or our attorney-client relationship.

“Did he tell you how he was getting the money he was saving?”

“He said he was working at the port.”

“Doing what?”

“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

To Sam, working a job meant working a grift. I wrote the name and address down on my legal pad. It would be considered work product and not discoverable.

“Anything else you think I should know?” I asked.

“That’s it,” he said.

I thought about protecting the information I had just received—at least until we checked it out.

“An investigator from the LAPD might come to see you,” I said. “They think I killed Sam and that’s all they’re worried about. Just remember that you don’t have to talk to them. I’m your lawyer now, you can refer them to me.”

“I won’t tell them dick.”

I nodded. That was what I wanted.

“Okay, then,” I said. “I’m going to head back.”

“What about your trial?” Neiderland asked. “Do you want me to testify?”

I wasn’t sure how I could use him in my defense, or whether I could get the judge to approve it. Teleconferencing from prison to courtroom would probably put the jury to sleep. There was also the question of conflict of interest. Neiderland was now technically my client—at least on paper at the prison.

“I’ll let you know,” I said.

I stood up again, ready to bang on the door.

“Are you really going to find out who killed him?” Neiderland asked. “Or are you just worried about proving you didn’t?”

“The only way to prove I didn’t do it is to prove who did,” I said. “That’s the law of innocence.”

PART THREE

ECHOES AND IRON

Wednesday, January 15

We got down to San Pedro by 9:30 the next morning. We drove separately. I was driven by Bishop because I needed to get to downtown before 1 p.m. for the hearing on the missing wallet. Bosch came in his old Cherokee and Cisco on his Harley. We convened at the house on Cabrillo that Austin Neiderland had put me onto. There was an apartment for rent sign on the front lawn. Bishop had been cleared by Cisco but you can never be 100 percent sure about anything. I didn’t want him sitting in the Lincoln in front of the house. I told him to go get coffee nearby and wait for me to summon him when I was ready to go to court. I then approached the house with my investigators and knocked on the door. A woman in a bathrobe answered. I held up a business card and went with a script I had written in my head based on what I knew from Neiderland.

“Hello, ma’am, I’m Michael Haller, an attorney involved in the situation regarding the estate of Walter Lennon, and we are here to ascertain and review any property he left behind.”

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