“I’ll see you, Harry.”
Bosch pulled out of the lot and followed a roundabout route west toward South Pasadena. He drove by Ida Townes Forsythe’s home on Arroyo Drive four times over a spread of thirty minutes, each time noting the cars parked on the street and anything else that might indicate that Whitney Vance’s longtime secretary and assistant was being watched. He saw no indicators of surveillance and after a couple passes in the alley behind the house he decided it was safe to knock on the door.
He parked on a side street and walked around to Arroyo and up to the house. Forsythe’s home was much nicer in person than on his viewing on Google street view. It was a classic California Craftsman that had been meticulously cared for. He stepped up onto a wide, long front porch and knocked on a coffered wood door. He had no idea whether Forsythe was home or still had duties to perform inside the Vance home. If that was the case, he was prepared to wait until she returned.
But he didn’t have to knock a second time. The woman he had come to see swung the door open and looked at him with eyes that did not register any familiarity.
“Mrs. Forsythe?”
“It’s Ms.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Forsythe. Do you remember me? Harry Bosch? I came to see Mr. Vance last week?”
The recognition was there now.
“Of course. Why are you here?”
“Uh, well, first I wanted to express my sympathies. I know you and Mr. Vance worked together a long time.”
“Yes, we did. It’s been quite a shock. I know he was old and ill, but you don’t expect a man of such power and presence to suddenly be gone. What can I do for you, Mr. Bosch? I guess whatever it is Mr. Vance had you investigating doesn’t really matter anymore.”
Bosch decided that the best move would be the head-on approach.
“I’m here because I want to talk to you about the package Mr. Vance had you mail to me last week.”
The woman in the doorway stood frozen for almost ten seconds before answering. She looked fearful.
“You know that I am being watched, right?” she said.
“No, I don’t know that,” Bosch said. “Before knocking I looked and didn’t see anyone. But if that’s the case you should invite me in. I parked around the corner. Right now, standing out front is the only giveaway that I’m here.”
Forsythe frowned but then stepped back and opened the door wider.
“Come in,” she said.
“Thank you,” Bosch said.
The entry room was broad and deep. She led Bosch down the length of it and then into a rear sitting room off the kitchen where there were no windows facing the street. She pointed to a chair.
“What is it you want, Mr. Bosch?”
Bosch sat down, hoping it would persuade her to do the same but she remained standing. He did not want this to be an adversarial conversation.
“Well, first, I need to confirm what I said at the door,” he said. “You did send that package to me, didn’t you?”
Her arms were folded now.
“I did,” she said. “Because Mr. Vance asked me to.”
“Did you know what was in it?” Bosch asked.
“I didn’t at the time. I do now.”
This immediately concerned Bosch. Had the corporate minders asked her about it?
“How do you know now?” he asked.
“Because after Mr. Vance passed and his body was taken I was told to secure his office,” she said. “In doing so I noticed that his gold pen was missing. That was when I remembered the heavy object in that package he asked to be sent to you.”
Bosch nodded with relief. She knew about the pen. But if she didn’t know about the will, then perhaps no one else did yet. That would give Haller an edge when he made his move with it.
“What did Mr. Vance tell you when he gave you the package for me?”
“He told me to put it in my purse and to take it home with me. He said he wanted me to take it to the post office and mail it the next morning before coming to work. I did as I was told.”
“Did he ask you about it?”
“Yes, first thing when I came in that morning. I told him I had just been to the post office and he was pleased.”
“If I showed you the envelope that was addressed and sent to me, do you think you could identify it?”
“Probably. It had his handwriting on it. I would recognize that.”
“And if I write all of this as you have recounted it into an affidavit, would you be willing to sign it in front of a notary?”
“Why would I do that? To prove that was his pen? If you’re going to sell it, I would like the opportunity to buy it from you. I would pay above market price.”
“It’s not that. I’m not selling the pen. There was a document in the package that may become contested and I may need to prove, as well as I can, how it came into my possession. The pen, which was a family heirloom, will be helpful in that process but a signed affidavit from you would also be.”
“I don’t want to get mixed up with the board of directors, if that’s what you’re talking about. Those people are animals. They’ll sell their own mothers for a piece of all that money.”
“You wouldn’t be pulled in any deeper than you are already going to be, Ms. Forsythe.”
She finally moved to one of the other chairs in the room and sat down.
“What do you mean by that?” she said. “I have nothing to do with all of that.”
“The document in the package was a handwritten will,” Bosch said. “It names you as a beneficiary.”
He studied her reaction. She seemed puzzled.
“Are you saying I get money or something?” she asked.
“Ten million dollars,” Bosch said.
Bosch saw her eyes flare for a moment at the realization that she was in line for some of the riches. She brought her right arm up and held a fist against her chest. Her chin came down but Bosch could still see her lips tremble as tears came. Bosch wasn’t sure how to read it.
It was a long moment before she looked up at him and spoke.
“I didn’t expect anything,” she said. “I was an employee. I wasn’t family.”
“Have you been going to the house this week?” he asked.
“No, not since Monday. The day after. That was when I was informed that my services were no longer needed.”
“And you were there Sunday when Mr. Vance died?”
“He called me and asked me to come in. He said he had some letters he wanted to write. He told me to come in after lunch and I did. I was the one who found him in his office when I got there.”
“You were allowed to go back there unescorted?”
“Yes, I’ve always had that privilege.”
“Did you call for an ambulance?”
“No, because he was clearly dead.”
“Was he at his desk?”
“Yes, he died at his desk. He was slumped forward and to the side a little bit. It looked like he went fast.”
“So you called security.”
“I called Mr. Sloan and he came in and called someone on staff who had medical training. They tried CPR but it didn’t work. He was dead. Mr. Sloan then called the police.”
“Do you know how long Mr. Sloan worked for Vance?”
“A long time. At least twenty-five years, I would say. He and I were there the longest.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue that seemed to Bosch to have materialized out of nowhere.
“When I met with Mr. Vance he gave me a phone number and told me it was a cell phone,” Bosch said. “He said to call him if I made any headway with my investigation. Do you know what happened to that phone?”
She shook her head immediately.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said.
“I called a few times and left messages,” Bosch said. “And Mr. Sloan called me on it as well. Did you see him take anything from the desk or the office after Mr. Vance was dead?”
“No, he told me to secure the office after they removed the body. And I didn’t see a cell phone.”
Bosch nodded.
“Do you know what Mr. Vance hired me to do?” he asked. “Did he discuss it with you?”
“No, he didn’t,” she said. “Nobody knew. Everybody in the house was curious but he didn’t tell anybody what you were doing.”
“He hired me to find out if he had an heir. Do you know if he had anyone watching me?”