The Black Echo

Tran was being escorted by a man in a dark-blue banker’s suit into the vault room. A bodyguard trailed behind with the steel briefcase. Bosch saw the heavy man’s eyes sweep the sidewalk outside until Tran and Banker’s Suit disappeared through the vault’s open door. The man with the briefcase waited. Bosch and Wish also waited, and watched. It was about three minutes before Tran came out, followed by the suit, who carried a metal safe-deposit box about the size of a woman’s shoe box. The bodyguard took up the rear, and the three men walked out of the glass room, out of sight.

“Nice, personal service,” Wish said. “Beverly Hills all the way. He’s probably taking it into a private sitting room to make the transfer.”

“Think you can get ahold of Rourke and get a crew over here to follow Tran when he leaves?” Bosch asked. “Use a landline. We have to stay off the air in case the people underground have someone up top listening to our frequencies.”

“I take it we’re staying here with the vault?” she asked, and Bosch nodded. She thought a moment and said, “I’ll make the call. He’ll be glad to know we found the place. We’ll be able to put the tunnel crew down.”

She looked about, saw a pay phone next to a bus stop on the next corner and made a move to walk that way. Bosch held her arm.

“I’m going to go inside, see what’s up. Remember, they know you, so stay out of sight until they’re gone.”

“What if they split before reinforcements come?”

“I’m staying with that vault. I don’t care about Tran. You want the keys? You can take the car and tail him.”

“No, I’ll stay with the vault. With you.”

She turned and headed toward the phone. Bosch crossed Wilshire and went in the safe and lock, passing an armed security guard who had been walking toward the door with a key ring in his hand.

“Closing up, sir,” said the guard, who had the swagger and gruffness of an ex-cop.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Bosch said without stopping.

Banker’s Suit, who had led Tran into the vault, was one of three young, fair-haired men sitting at antique desks on the plush gray carpet in the reception area. He glanced up from some papers on his desk, sized up Bosch’s appearance and said to the younger of the other two, “Mr. Grant, would you like to help this gentleman.”

Though his unspoken answer was no, the one called Grant stood up, came around his desk and with the best phony smile in his arsenal approached Bosch.

“Yes, sir?” the man said. “Thinking of opening a vault account with us?”

Bosch was about to ask a question when the man stuck out his hand and said, “James Grant, ask me anything. Though we are running a little short of time. We are closing for the weekend in a few minutes.”

Grant drew up his coat sleeve to check his watch to confirm closing time.

“Harvey Pounds,” Bosch said, taking his hand. “How did you know I don’t already have a vault account?”

“Security, Mr. Pounds. We sell security. I know every vault client on sight. So do Mr. Avery and Mr. Bernard.” He turned slightly and nodded at Banker’s Suit and the other salesman, who solemnly nodded back.

“Not open weekends?” Bosch asked, trying to sound disappointed.

Grant smiled. “No, sir. We find our clients are the type of people who have well-planned schedules, well-planned lives. They reserve the weekend for pleasures, not errands like these others you see. Scurrying to the banks, the ATMs. Our clients are a measure above that, Mr. Pounds. And so are we. You can appreciate that.”

There was a sneer in his voice when he said this. But Grant was right. The place was as slick as a corporate law office, with the same hours and the same self-important front men.

Bosch took an expansive look around. In an alcove to the right where there was a row of eight doors he saw Tran’s two bodyguards standing on each side of the third door. Bosch nodded at Grant and smiled.

“Well, I see you have guards all over the place. That’s the kind of security I’m looking for, Mr. Grant.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pounds, those men are merely waiting for a client who is in one of the private offices. But I assure you our security provision can’t be compromised. Are you looking for a vault with us, sir?”

The man had more creepy charm than an evangelist. Bosch disliked him and his attitude.

“Security, Mr. Grant, I am looking for security. I want to lease a vault but I need to be assured of the security, from both outside and inside problems, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course, Mr. Pounds, but do you have any idea of the cost of our service, the security we provide?”

“Don’t know and don’t care, Mr. Grant. See, the money is not the object. The peace of mind is. Agreed? Last week my next-door neighbor, I’m talking about just three doors down from the former president, had a burglary. The alarm was no obstacle to them. They took very valuable things. I don’t want to wait for that to happen to me. No place is safe these days.”