Jumping from case to case and from file to file, I found the Wyms arrest report and quickly scanned the narrative, not stopping until my eyes came to the first reference to the 4-alpha-1 designation.

Deputy Todd Stallworth had the designation written after his name. He was the deputy originally called to investigate the report of gunfire at Malibu Creek State Park. He was the deputy driving the car Wyms fired upon, and at the end of the standoff he was the deputy who formally placed Wyms under arrest and took him to jail.

I realized that 4-alpha-1 did not refer to a specific deputy but to a specific patrol zone or responsibility. The Malibu district covered the huge unincorporated areas of the west county, from the beaches of Malibu up over the mountains and into the communities of Thousand Oaks and Calabasas. I assumed that this was the fourth district and alpha was the specific designation for a patrol unit – a specific car. It seemed to be the only way to explain why deputies who worked different shifts would share the same designation on different arrest reports.

Adrenaline crashed into my veins and my blood took off running as everything came together. All in a moment I realized what Vincent had been up to and what he had been planning. I didn’t need his laptop or his legal pads anymore. I didn’t need his investigator. I knew exactly what the defense strategy was.

At least I thought I did.

I pulled my cell phone and called Cisco. I skipped the pleasantries.

“Cisco, it’s me. Do you know any sheriff’s deputies?”

“Uh, a few. Why?”

“Any of them work out of the Malibu station?”

“I know one guy who used to. He’s in Lynwood now. Malibu was too boring.”

“Can you call him tonight?”

“Tonight? Sure, I guess. What’s up?”

“I need to know what the patrol designation four-alpha-one means. Can you get that?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call you back. But hold on a sec for Lorna. She wants to talk to you.”

I waited while she was given the phone. I could hear TV noise in the background. I had interrupted a scene of domestic bliss.

“Mickey, are you still there at the office?”

“I’m here.”

“It’s eight-thirty. I think you should go home.”

“I think I should, too. I’m going to wait to hear back from Cisco – he’s checking something out for me – and then I think I’m going over to Dan Tana’s to have steak and spaghetti.”

She knew I went to Dan Tana’s when I had something to celebrate. Usually a good verdict.

“You had steak for breakfast.”

“Then I guess this will make it a perfect day.”

“Things went well tonight?”

“I think so. Real well.”

“You’re going alone?”

She said it with sympathy in her voice, like now that she had hooked up with Cisco, she was starting to feel sorry for me, alone out there in the big bad world.

“Craig or Christian will keep me company.”

Craig and Christian worked the door at Dan Tana’s. They took care of me whether I came in alone or not.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lorna.”

“Okay, Mickey. Have fun.”

“I already am.”

I hung up and waited, pacing in the room and thinking it all through again. The dominoes went down one after the other. It felt good and it all fit. Vincent had not taken on the Wyms case out of any obligation to the law or the poor or the disenfranchised. He was using Wyms as camouflage. Rather than move the case toward the obvious plea agreement, he had stashed Wyms out at Camarillo for three months, thereby keeping the case alive and active. Meantime, he gathered information under the flag of the Wyms defense that he would use in the Elliot case, thereby hiding his moves and strategy from the prosecution.

Technically, he was probably acting within bounds, but ethically it was underhanded. Eli Wyms had spent ninety days in a state facility so Vincent could build a defense for Elliot. Elliot got the magic bullet while Wyms got the zombie cocktail.

The good thing was, I didn’t have to worry about the sins of my predecessor. Wyms was out of Camarillo, and besides, they weren’t my sins. I could just take the benefit of Vincent’s discoveries and go to trial.

It didn’t take too long before Cisco called back.

“I talked to my guy in Lynwood. Four-alpha is Malibu’s lead car. The four is for the Malibu station and the alpha is for… alpha. Like the alpha dog. The leader of the pack. Hot shots – the priority calls – usually go to the alpha car. Four-alpha-one would be the driver, and if he’s riding with a partner, then the partner would be four-alpha-two.”

“So the alpha car covers the whole fourth district?”

“That’s what he told me. Four-alpha is free to roam the district and scoop the cream off the top.”

“What do you mean?”

“The best calls. The hot shots.”

“Got it.”

My theory was confirmed. A double murder and shots fired near a residential neighborhood would certainly be alpha-car calls. One designation but different deputies responding. Different deputies responding but one car. The dominoes clicked and fell.

“Does that help, Mick?”

“It does, Cisco. But it also means more work for you.”

“On the Elliot case?”

“No, not Elliot. I want you to work on the Eli Wyms case. Find out everything you can about the night he was arrested. Get me details.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Thirty-one

The night’s discovery pushed the case off the paper and into my imagination. I was starting to get courtroom images in my head. Scenes of examinations and cross-examinations. I was laying out the suits I would wear to court and the postures I would take in front of the jury. The case was coming alive inside and this was always a good thing. It was a momentum thing. You time it right and you go into trial with the inescapable conviction that you will not lose. I didn’t know what had happened to Jerry Vincent, how his actions might have brought about his demise, or whether his death was linked at all to the Elliot case, but I felt as though I had a bead on things. I had velocity and I was getting battle ready.

My plan was to sit in a corner booth at Dan Tana’s and sketch out some of the key witness examinations, listing the baseline questions and probable answers for each. I was excited about getting to it, and Lorna need not have worried about me. I wouldn’t be alone. I would have my case with me. Not Jerry Vincent’s case. Mine.

After quickly repacking the files and adding fresh pencils and legal pads, I killed the lights and locked the office door. I headed down the hallway and then across the bridge to the parking garage. Just as I was entering the garage, I saw a man walking up the ramp from the first floor. He was fifty yards away and it was only a few moments and a few strides before I recognized him as the man in the photograph Bosch had shown me that morning.

My blood froze in my heart. The fight-or-flight instinct stabbed into my brain. The rest of the world didn’t matter. There was just this moment and I had to make a choice. My brain assessed the situation faster than any computer IBM ever made. And the result of the computation was that I knew the man coming toward me was the killer and that he had a gun.

I swung around and started to run.

“Hey!” a voice called from behind me.

I kept running. I moved back across the bridge to the glass doors leading back into the building. One clear, single thought fired through every synapse in my brain. I had to get inside and get to Cisco’s gun. I had to kill or be killed.

But it was after hours and the doors had locked behind me as I had left the building. I shot my hand into my pocket in search of the key, then jerked it out, bills, coins and wallet flying out with it.

As I jammed the key into the lock, I could hear running steps coming up quickly behind me. The gun! Get the gun!