Chapter 18
ALTON QUIGLEY WAS buried on the Sunday after his death at Oakwood Memorial Park in Chatsworth.
More than a thousand people attended, most of them in uniforms from various law enforcement agencies throughout Southern California.
Even Stilwell was in uniform, as dictated by department regs.
He also saw officers from Las Vegas and Phoenix.
The bagpipes were played, seven rifles were fired three times, and a flag was precisely folded and presented to his widow.
And the media was there to record it all.
Stilwell had been to more cop funerals than he could remember and knew the protocol. The only thing different this time was that he knew and had worked with the fallen deputy and carried the lingering regret and guilt over not preventing the death.
Quigley’s former boss in the narcotics unit, Lieutenant Gavin Lambert, gave the eulogy.
Lambert was a tall man with a jutting Dudley Do-Right jaw, a thick black mustache, and an even thicker mane of dark hair.
He gave a somber and heartfelt speech about the loss of a close colleague, whom he referred to by his nickname.
“Quigs” was only thirty-six years old and had so much more life ahead of him.
It was a familiar theme at cop funerals.
The widow, dressed in black and hiding her eyes behind dark sunglasses, stoically lasted through the ceremony without a tear streaking her face.
When it was over, Stilwell watched as Lambert stood with the other members of his unit to commiserate about the loss of Quigs and tell stories about their fallen comrade. Pretty soon there was laughter to go with their memories and tears.
Ernie Simon joined Stilwell and they watched the narco group for a few moments before Simon said what was on his mind.
“I need to give you fair warning,” he said. “I’m pretty sure ICE didn’t take our suspect.”
“Why is that?” Stilwell asked.
“Because I can’t find the guy anywhere, and the magistrate’s clerk tells me he didn’t issue a pickup order for him.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, and I’m not going to be able to contain it once I tell the captain that ICE can’t cough the guy up because they say they don’t have him. It isn’t going to look good for you or your deputy who let him escape.”
“Thanks for the warning. When do you plan to tell Corum?”
“I can’t sit on it for much longer. We’ve got to put out the BOLO.”
Stilwell nodded. “You got anything else working to brief him on?” he asked.
“Not much,” Simon said.
“What about Ramirez? I heard she’s off the vent and is going to make it.”
“I talked to her. Tried to. She doesn’t remember a fucking thing. Plus she’s got to write everything. Her vocal cords were damaged by the fucking round that hit her.”
“Shit. Permanent?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“That’s bad.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It could come back to her. Her memory, I mean.”
“Yeah, that’s what the medical staff say. I’ll stop by again in a few days. We’ll see.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, watching the mourners crossing the lush grass of the cemetery to their cars.
“Have you identified the CI who set the whole thing up at the airstrip?” Stilwell asked.
“Not yet,” Simon said. “But I have a second sit-down with Lambert tomorrow morning. He said the other night he’d look into it.”
“The way he just talked about Quigley, he was a hero. But why did he get shipped out to Catalina?”
“In our first interview, Lambert said Quigley came to him and asked for the transfer.”
“To Catalina?”
“To anywhere. He wanted out of narco.”
Stilwell thought about the cold way the widow had reacted when he called with condolences. And now at the funeral, no tears.
“Have you interviewed the wife?” he asked.
“No, the captain said to give her a few days,” Simon said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“What about Kalas?” Stilwell asked. “Any connection to Quigley? Or to narco?”
“None that we know about. So far.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Yeah, I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Anything I can do for you out on the island?”
“Did Quigley have a locker at the sub?”
“Yeah. Everybody does.”
“I didn’t think about it when I was out there. You check it?”
“Yeah, just some clothes and boots. I can get it to you if you want to take a look.”
“I’ll take your word for it. And I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”
Simon walked off and that was when Stilwell noticed that Renée Ballard was also at the funeral.
He saw her talking to an old man he didn’t recognize.
He wasn’t in uniform but had the bearing of a cop.
He kicked around in the grass as Stilwell watched, then bent down to retrieve something.
The old man touched Ballard’s arm, apparently said goodbye, and headed off.
The touch on the arm told Stilwell that they were close.
Stilwell walked over to her.
“Was that one of your volunteers?” he asked. “A little long in the tooth.”
“I wish,” Ballard said. “He worked a case for me but I couldn’t get him to stay on. But he’s a damn good homicide guy. One of my mentors.”
“What was he looking for in the grass?”
“A rifle shell. He takes one from every cop funeral he goes to. He’s got a jar that’s almost full.”
Stilwell looked in the direction her mentor had walked off in. He was gone. He turned back to Ballard.
“So how’s it going on the case?” he asked.
“We got confirmation on the ID,” Ballard said. “Dental records. DNA will come later but it was Angela. What a day. I told her mother this morning, and then I come to a cop funeral.”
“You didn’t know Quigley, did you?”
“No. But I lost one of my volunteers a couple years ago. It was tough. So I like to honor the fallen.”
“I understand.”
“You, of course, did know him. Sorry for your loss.”
“I didn’t know him that well. He had just transferred out there a couple months ago.” Stilwell wanted to change the subject. “Anything else from the ME on the bones?” he asked.
“Cause of death matches Candace Neary’s,” Ballard said. “Hyoid bone fracture. She was most likely strangled.”
Stilwell nodded. It wasn’t a surprise.
“The lab find anything in the backpack that helps?” he asked.
“Nothing of value to the investigation,” Ballard said.
She said it like she was reading the summary from the lab report. Stilwell nodded again. He had something to tell her but wasn’t sure how to get to it.
“Well, I guess I’ll head back to the office,” Ballard said.
“I’m obsessed,” Stilwell said.
It came out fast, almost desperate. Ballard looked at him, a hesitant smile on her face. She had taken it the wrong way. He guessed that a woman who looked like her dealt with many unwanted advances. The same happened to Tash.
“Obsessed with what?” she asked.
“The case,” Stilwell said. “This case.”
“Well, I wish I had you working it. But I’m not sure what else you can do from Catalina.”
“I’ve been back up to the ironwood grove. And I keep looking at the files you sent me. I keep hoping I’ll see something that’s been missed.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“You mean you’re obsessed too?”
“I want to find the guy.”
“Right.”
“You know that man who was just here—my mentor? He always says the answer is right in front of us. It’s in the book. The murder book. Talk about being obsessed. With every case, he studied the book for hours and hours, and you know what? He was usually right. The missing thing was there.”
“What’s his name, the old guy?”
“Harry Bosch.”
Stilwell didn’t recognize the name.
“Homicide wisdom, huh?” he said.
“Yeah, in spades,” Ballard said. “He never came at the book the same way twice. He would always change it up. Sometimes reverse chronology; sometimes he’d just open the book randomly and start there. He said a fresh angle meant fresh thinking.”
Stilwell thought about how he had been reviewing the records himself.
“That’s a good idea.”