Free The Crossing by Michael Connelly

brand name or logo but Bosch thought it might be a box that a watch would come in. He studied the photo with the magnifying glass. He knew there was no telling whether the box was empty, or whether it was for a woman’s or man’s watch. Brown leather favored it being a man’s watch box.
    Bosch heard the front door of the house open. His daughter was home. He had started stacking the second set of photos when he heard her call to him.
    “In my room,” he called back. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
    He then stacked all the files and photos together on his bureau. He got out his phone and called Mickey Haller. The defense attorney answered right away and Bosch could tell by the background noise that he again was in his car.
    “Okay,” Bosch said. “I’m ready to talk.”

8
     
    T hey met at the bar at Musso’s and both ordered a vodka martini. It was early enough that getting one of the precious stools was not a problem. Bosch didn’t want to bring the thick stack of discovery documents in with him and draw attention, so he simply brought the empty file folder on which he had jotted his notes.
    Haller was still in a crisp court suit but his tie was long gone. He noticed the empty file that Bosch put down on the old polished wood bar top.
    “Well, you’re not giving it all back to me,” he said. “That’s a good sign.”
    “Not yet, at least,” Bosch said.
    “So, what do you want to talk about, then?”
    “I’m ready to talk to your client. Can you get me in?”
    “The easiest and quickest way is for us both to go in tomorrow. Attorney-client visit with an investigator in tow. It cuts through the bullshit. You have a problem with that?”
    Bosch thought a moment before answering.
    “Do I need to show a PI license? I don’t have that. I got one about twelve years ago but it’s long expired.”
    “No need. I’ll print out a letter of engagement. It’ll say you’re working under the aegis of me and Dennis Wojciechowski, a state-licensed private investigator. That’ll do it.”
    “Who the hell is Dennis Woja-whatever-you-just-said?”
    “That’s Cisco, my investigator.”
    “Now I know why they call him Cisco.”
    “And a lot of other things. So I’m clear in the morning and have two things in the CCB after lunch. What’s your morning look like?”
    “Open.”
    “Then let’s meet at the attorneys’ window at nine tomorrow.”
    Bosch nodded and didn’t say anything.
    “So, what’ve you got?” Haller asked.
    Bosch pulled the folder over front and center and looked at the few things he had written down during his review of the files.
    “Well, these really don’t make sense out of context,” he said. “There are some things that should have been followed up on. Or maybe they were followed up on and we don’t know.”
    “You mean they’ve hidden it from us,” Haller said, the tone of his voice building to outrage.
    “Just hold your horses. We’re not in court and you don’t have to turn on the outrage. I’m not saying anything’s been hidden. I’m saying I saw a few things that bothered me about the investigation. I’m not talking about your client. I’m talking about things I would have followed up on. Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t. And maybe …”
    “Maybe what?”
    “They got lazy. They have a DNA match and maybe they don’t think they need to flip all the cards over before going all in. They also have a witness who blows up your client’s alibi. Those two things, for most cases that would be enough. Easy.”
    Haller leaned in close to Bosch.
    “Tell me about their alibi wit—is it a woman?”
    “No, I think it’s a white male because of the name in the report, M. White. I think they’re hiding his identity as well as hiding him so they can sandbag you. It’s a guy who said he went to Foster’s studio that night to see him and he wasn’t there. That’s why I want to talk to Foster. See if he’s lying.”
    “If he’s lying, I’m flying. I tell all