It was a classic silver-spoon story. Cosgrove ran a company his father Carl Cosgrove Sr. had built from a sixty-acre strawberry farm and accompanying fruit stand in 1955. At seventy-six, the father remained in place as chairman of the board, but he had passed the reins to his son ten years before. The article focused on Carl Sr.’s grooming his son for the business, making sure that he worked in all facets—from cattle breeding to farm irrigation to wine making. It was also the old man who insisted that the son give back to the community in multiple ways, including his twelve years in the California National Guard.

The article did credit Carl Jr. with taking the fifty-year-old family business to new heights and in bold new directions, most notably with the wind farms that produced green energy and the expansion of the family-owned chain of steakhouses called the Steers, now with six locations throughout the Central Valley. The last line of the article said, “Cosgrove is most proud of the fact that it is virtually impossible to have a meal at any one of the Steers restaurants without eating or drinking something his vast company has produced.”

Bosch read the last four lines twice. They were confirmation of another connection between the men in the Saudi Princess photo. Christopher Henderson had been closing manager at one of Carl Cosgrove’s restaurants—until he was murdered there.

Chu had added a note at the bottom of the California Grower story. It said, “Ran a check on Dad. He died 2010—natural causes. Junior runs the whole show now.”

Bosch translated that to mean that Carl Cosgrove had inherited complete control over Cosgrove Ag and its many holdings and interests. That made him the king of the San Joaquin Valley.

“Hi. Sorry.”

Bosch looked up as Hannah Stone slipped into the booth next to him. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and said she was starving.

Chapter 23

23

They both drank a glass of red wine before getting into talk about Mendenhall and the events of their day. Hannah said she needed to decompress for a few minutes before turning the discussion serious.

“This is good,” she said about the wine Bosch had ordered.

She reached across the table and turned the bottle to read the label. She smiled.

“‘Modus Operandi’—of course that would be what you’d order.”

“You’ve got me pegged.”

She took one more sip and then took her napkin and needlessly rearranged it on her lap. Bosch noticed she often did this as a nervous tell when they were in restaurants and the discussion turned toward her son.

“Detective Mendenhall told me she was going up to talk to Shawn on Monday,” she finally said.