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“When you spoke to Novak in the garage, why didn’t he recognize you? You know, from MacLaren?”
“I don’t know, maybe because that was sixty years ago and we weren’t tight back then. He was a guy to stay away from.”
“So why did he let you go?”
“I guess he believed my story.”
“Which was what?”
“That I was bird-watching. I saw a great horned owl flying over the mountain and stopped to check it out.”
Bosch waited for Cutler or Cavanaugh to respond.
“You’re wasting your time on Lamb,” Cavanaugh said. “Even if you got a confession from this guy, you still have no case. Stokely, or Novak, or whatever you want to call him, was a juvenile at the time and would have to be prosecuted now under the state’s juvenile law. And that caps incarceration when the person reaches twenty-five years of age. Based on that, Novak skates and you’ve wasted your time.”
Bosch didn’t turn around to look at Cavanaugh when he replied. He kept his eyes on Cutler for a reaction.
“I thought about that,” he said. “But Charles Lamb was a Black kid. And race could have been a motivating factor in his murder.”
Cutler nodded as he understood.
“No statute of limitations on civil rights cases involving murder,” he said. “He could be prosecuted.”
Cutler leaned forward across the desk, energized by this information.
“Lamb,” he said. “Did people call him Chop or Chops? Like lamb chops?”
“They did,” Bosch said. “Why?”
“We have Novak talking about his first kill. A Black kid he called Chops. It was definitely racially motivated.”
“You’re up on a wire?”
“I’m not going to answer that. I’ll just say that the name Chops came up but we were unable to connect it to a case.”
“That’s probably because it was buried by Anton Cerny, who protected Stokely so he could offer him to the Spolu.”
Bosch now knew the feds had a wire or an informant inside the Spolu and close to Novak. Because a guy in Novak’s position would be hypersensitive to law enforcement attention and take all precautions against electronic surveillance, Bosch guessed it was an inside man.
“What else did your source give you on Chops?” he asked.
“We’re not going to talk about our intel,” Cutler said. “I already said too much.”
“I thought we were trading information,” Bosch said. “I guess not.”
“We’re not talking about our sources of intel here, Bosch,” Cavanaugh said. “At all.”
Bosch raised his hands, surrendering the point. It reminded him of how he had lulled Topknot into complacency before he boxed his ears and then smashed his face into the grille of his car.
“I have a proposition for you,” Cutler said.
“Let me guess,” Bosch said. “You want me to stand down, and you and Agent Cavanaugh will take it from here. I appreciate the offer, but no, thanks.”
“Quite the contrary,” Cutler said. “I want to bring you in and add you to the task force working this as a non-sworn consultant. You know Novak going back sixty years. Agent Cavanaugh might not agree, but I think that your intel would be helpful to us down the line.”
“This is the first I’m hearing about a task force. Who’s on it and what’s the focus?”
“I can’t discuss that if you’re not on the task force. Suffice it to say, it’s an investigation with public stakes that far outweigh those of your private investigation. So let’s not waste any more time. Are you in or out, Mr. Bosch?”
