Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2

  “I don’t know, Jazz. I’ve got to think about—”

  “Look, what was I supposed to do? Wear a sign or something to warn you away from the start? You tell me, when was a good time for me to tell you? Was it right after that first lemonade? Should I have said, ‘Oh, by the way, six years ago I killed the man I was living with when he tried to rape me for the second time in the same night?’ Would that have been proper?”

  “Jazz, don’t . . .”

  “Don’t what? Look, the cops didn’t believe my story here, what should I expect from you?”

  He could tell she was crying now, not so that he was supposed to hear. But he could tell it in her voice, full of loneliness and pain.

  “You said things to me,” she said. “I thought . . .”

  “Jazz, we spent a weekend together. You’re putting too much—”

  “Don’t you dare! Don’t you tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry . . . Look, this isn’t the right time. I’ve got too much going on. I gotta call you back . . .”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay, Harry, you call me.”

  “Okay, good-bye, Jazz.”

  He hung up and kept his eyes closed for a while. He felt the numbness of disappointment that comes from broken hopes and wondered if he would ever talk to her again. In analyzing his thoughts he realized how much they seemed to be the same. And so his fear was not of what she had done, whatever the details were. His fear was that he would indeed call her and that he would become entwined with someone with more baggage than himself.

  He opened his eyes and tried to put the thoughts aside. But he came back to her. He found himself marveling at the randomness of their meeting. A newspaper want ad. It might as well have said Single White Killer Seeks Same. He laughed out loud but it wasn’t funny.

  He turned the television on as a distraction. There was a talk show on and the host was interviewing women who stole their best friend’s men. The best friends were also on and every question devolved into a verbal catfight. Bosch turned the sound down and watched for ten minutes in silence, studying the contortions of the women’s angry faces.

  After a while he turned it off and rang the nurses’ station on the intercom to inquire about his cereal. The nurse he spoke to knew nothing about his request for breakfast at lunch time. He tried Meredith Roman’s number again but hung up when he got the tape.

  Just as Bosch was getting hungry enough to be tempted to call for the return of the Salisbury steak, a nurse finally came back in with another food tray. This one contained a banana, a small glass of orange juice, a plastic bowl with a little box of Frosted Flakes in it and a pint-size carton of milk. He thanked her and began eating the cereal out of the box. The other stuff he didn’t want.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the main number at Parker Center and asked for Assistant Chief Irving’s office. The secretary who eventually answered said Irving was in conference with the police chief and could not be disturbed. Bosch left his number.

  Next he dialed Keisha Russell’s number at the paper.

  “It’s Bosch.”

  “Bosch, where have you been? You turn your phone off?”

  Bosch reached into his briefcase and took the phone out. He checked the battery.

  “Sorry, it’s dead.”

  “Great. That doesn’t help me any, does it? The two biggest names in that clip I gave you end up dead last night and you don’t even call. Some deal we made.”

  “Hey, this is me on the phone, right?”

  “So what’ve you got for me?”

  “What’ve you got already? What are they saying about it?”

  “They’re not saying jack. I’ve been waiting on you, man.”

  “But what are they really saying?”

  “I mean it, nothing. They’re saying both deaths are being investigated and that there is no clear connection. They’re trying to pass it off as a big coincidence.”

  “What about the other man? Did they find Vaughn?”

  “Who’s Vaughn?”

  Bosch couldn’t figure out what was happening, why there was a cover-up. He knew he should wait to hear from Irving but the anger was growing in his throat.

  “Bosch? You there? What other man?”

  “What are they saying about me?”

  “You? They’re not saying anything.”

  “The other man’s name is Jonathan Vaughn. He was there, too. Up at Mittel’s last night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was there, too.”

  “Bosch, you were there?”

  Bosch closed his eyes but his mind couldn’t penetrate the shroud being thrown over the case by the department. He didn’t get it.

  “Harry, we had a deal. Tell me the story.”

  He noted that it was the only time she had ever used his first name. He continued to say nothing while he tried to figure out what was happening and weighed the consequences of talking to her.

  “Bosch?”

  Back to normal.

  “All right. You got your pencil? I’m going to give you enough to get started. You’ll have to go to Irving to get the rest.”

  “I’ve been calling him. He won’t even take my calls.”

  “He will when he knows you have the story. He’ll have to.”

  By the time he was done telling her the story he was fatigued and his head was hurting again. He was ready to go to sleep, if it would have him. He wanted to forget everything and just sleep.

  “That’s an incredible story, Bosch,” she said when he was done. “I’m sorry, you know, about your mother.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What about Pounds?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is it connected? Irving was honchoing that investigation. Now he’s doing this one.”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “If I can get him on the line.”

  “When you call over there, tell the adjutant to tell Irving you’re calling on behalf of Marjorie Lowe. He’ll call you back when he gets the message. I guarantee it.”

  “Okay, Bosch, last thing. We didn’t talk about this at the start like we should have. Can I use your name as a source?”

  Bosch thought about it but only for a few moments.

  “Yeah, you can use it. I don’t know what my name’s worth anymore but you can use it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you. You’re a pal.”

  “Yeah, I’m a pal.”

  He hung up and closed his eyes. He dozed off but wasn’t sure for how long. He was interrupted by the phone. It was Irving and he was angry.

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just got a message from a reporter. She says she’s calling because of Marjorie Lowe. Have you talked to reporters about this?”

  “I talked to one.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her enough so that you won’t be able to let this one blow away.”

  “Bosch . . .”

  He didn’t finish. There was a long silence and then Bosch spoke first.

  “You were going to cover it all up, weren’t you? Shove it in the trash with her. You see, after everything that’s happened, she still doesn’t count, does she?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Bosch sat up. Now he was angry. Immediately, he was hit with vertigo. He closed his eyes until it passed.

  “Well, then why don’t you tell me what I don’t know? Okay, Chief? You’re the one who doesn’t know what you’re talking about. I heard what you people put out. That there may be no connection between Conklin and Mittel. What kind of— you think I’m going to sit here for that? And Vaughn. Not even a mention of him. A fucking mechanic in a splatter suit, he throws Conklin out the window and is ready to put me in the dirt. He’s the one who did Pounds and he doesn’t even rate a mention by you people. So, Chief,
why don’t you tell me what the fuck I don’t know, okay?”

  “Bosch, listen to me. Listen to me. Who did Mittel work for?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “He was employed by very powerful people. Some of the most powerful in this state, some of the most powerful in the country. And—”

  “I don’t give a shit!”

  “— a majority of the city council.”

  “So? What are you telling me? The council and the governor and the senators and all of those people, what, are they all involved now, too? You covering their asses, too?”

  “Bosch, would you calm down and make sense? Listen to yourself. Of course I’m not saying that. What I am trying to explain to you is that if you taint Mittel with this, then you taint many very powerful people who associated with him or who used his services. That could come back to haunt this department as well as you and me in immeasurable ways.”

  That was it, Bosch saw. Irving the pragmatist had made a choice, probably along with the police chief, to put the department and themselves ahead of the truth. The whole deal stank like rotting garbage. Bosch felt exhaustion roll over him like a wave. He was drowning in it. He’d had enough of this.

  “And by covering it up, you are helping them in immeasurable ways, right? And I’m sure you and the chief have been on the phone all morning letting each of those powerful people know just that. They’ll all owe you, they’ll all owe the department a big one. That’s great, Chief. That’s a great deal. I guess it doesn’t matter that the truth is nowhere to be found in it.”

  “Bosch, I want you to call her back. Call that reporter and tell her that you took this knock on the head and you—”

  “No! I’m not calling anybody back. It’s too late. I told the story.”

  “But not the whole story. The whole story is just as damaging to you, isn’t it?”

  There it was. Irving knew. He either outright knew or had made a pretty good guess that Bosch had used Pounds’s name and was ultimately responsible for his death. That knowledge was now his weapon against Bosch.

  “If I can’t contain this,” Irving added, “I may have to take action against you.”

  “I don’t care,” Bosch said quietly. “You can do whatever you want to me, but the story is coming out, Chief. The truth.”

  “But is it the truth? The whole truth? I doubt it and deep down inside I know you doubt it, too. We’ll never know the whole truth.”

  A silence followed. Bosch waited for him to say more and when there was only more silence, he hung up. He then disconnected the phone and finally went to sleep.

  Chapter 45

  Bosch awoke at six the next morning with dim memories of his sleep having been interrupted by a horrible dinner and the visits of nurses through the night. His head felt thick. He gently touched the wound and found it not as tender as the day before. He got up and walked around the room a bit. His balance seemed back to normal. In the bathroom mirror his eyes were still a colorful mess but the dilation of the pupils had evened out. It was time to go, he knew. He got dressed and left the room, briefcase in hand and carrying his ruined jacket over his arm.

  At the nurses’ station he pushed the elevator button and waited. He noticed one of the nurses behind the counter eyeing him. She apparently didn’t readily recognize him, especially with his street clothes on.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Are you a patient?”

  “I was. I’m leaving. Room four-nineteen. Bosch.”

  “Wait a moment, sir. What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving. Going home.”

  “What?”

  “Just send me the bill.”

  The elevator doors opened and he stepped in.

  “You can’t do that,” the nurse called. “Let me get the doctor.”

  Bosch raised his hand and waved good-bye.

  “Wait!”

  The doors closed.

  He bought a newspaper in the lobby and caught a cab outside. He told the driver to take him to Park La Brea. Along the way, he read Keisha Russell’s story. It was on the front page and it was pretty much an abbreviated account of what he had told her the day before. Everything was qualified with the caveat that it was still under investigation, but it was a good read.

  Bosch was mentioned throughout by name as a source and main player in the story. Irving was also a named source. Bosch figured the assistant chief must have decided in the end to throw in with the truth, or a close approximation of it, once Bosch had already let it out. It was the pragmatic thing to do. This way it seemed like he had a handle on things. He was the voice of conservative reason in the story. Bosch’s statements were usually followed by those from Irving cautioning that the investigation was still in its infancy and no final conclusions had been made.

  The part Bosch liked best about the story were the statements from several statesmen, including most of the city council, expressing shock both at the deaths of Mittel and Conklin and at their involvement in and/ or cover-up of murders. The story also mentioned that Mittel’s employee, Jonathan Vaughn, was being sought by police as a murder suspect.

  The story was most tenuous in regard to Pounds. It contained no mention that Bosch was suspected or known to have used the lieutenant’s name or that his using it had led to Pounds’s death. The story simply quoted Irving as saying the connection between Pounds and the case was still under investigation but that it appeared that Pounds might have stumbled onto the same trail Bosch had been following.

  Irving had held back when he talked to Russell even after threatening Bosch. Harry could only believe it was the assistant chief’s desire not to see the department’s dirty laundry in print. The truth would hurt Bosch but could damage the department as well. If Irving was going to make a move against him, Bosch knew it would be inside the department. It would remain private.

  Bosch’s rented Mustang was still in the La Brea Lifecare parking lot. He had been lucky; the keys were in the door lock where he had left them a moment before being attacked by Vaughn. He paid the driver and went to the Mustang.

  Bosch decided to take a cruise up Mount Olympus before going to the Mark Twain. He plugged his phone into the cigarette lighter so it would recharge and headed up Laurel Canyon Boulevard.

  On Hercules Drive, he slowed outside the gate in front of Mittel’s grounded spaceship. The gate was closed and there was yellow police-line tape still hanging from it. Bosch saw no cars in the driveway. It was quiet and peaceful. And he knew that soon a FOR SALE sign would be erected and the next genius would move in and think he was master of all he surveyed.

  Bosch drove on. Mittel’s place wasn’t what he really wanted to see, anyway.

  Fifteen minutes later Bosch came around the familiar turn on Woodrow Wilson but immediately found things unfamiliar. His house was gone, its disappearance as glaring in the landscape as a tooth missing from a smile.

  At the curb in front of his address were two huge construction waste bins filled with splintered wood, mangled metal and shattered glass, the debris of his home. A mobile storage container had also been placed at the curb and Bosch assumed— hoped— it contained the salvageable property removed before the house was razed.

  He parked and walked over to the flagstone path that formerly had led to his front door. He looked down and all that was left were the six pylons that poked out of the hillside like tombstones. He could rebuild upon these. If he wanted.

  Movement in the acacia trees near the footings of the pylons caught his eye. He saw a flash of brown and then the head of a coyote moving slowly through the brush. It never heard Bosch or looked up. Soon it was gone. Harry lost sight of it in the brush.

  He spent another ten minutes there, smoking a cigarette and waiting, but he saw nothing else. He then said a silent good-bye to the place. He had the feeling he wouldn’t be back.

  Chapter 46

  When Bosch got to the Mark Twain, the cit
y’s morning was just starting. From his room he heard a garbage truck making its way down the alley, taking away another week’s debris. It made him think of his house again, fitted nicely into two dumpsters.

  Thankfully, the sound of a siren distracted him. He could identify it as a squad car as opposed to a fire engine. He knew he’d get a lot of that with the police station just down the street. He moved about his two rooms and felt restless and out of it, as if life was passing by while he was stuck here. He made coffee with the machine he had brought from home and it only served to make him more jittery.

  He tried the paper again but there was nothing of real interest to him except the story he had already read on the front page. He paged through the thin Metro section anyway and saw a report that the county commission chambers were being outfitted with bulletproof desk blotters that the commissioners could hold up in front of them in the event a maniac came in spraying bullets. He threw the section aside and picked up the front section again.

  Bosch reread the story about his investigation and couldn’t escape a growing feeling that something was wrong, that something was left out or incomplete. Keisha Russell’s reporting had been fine. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was in seeing the story in words, in print. It didn’t seem as convincing to him as it had been when he recounted it for her or for Irving or even for himself.

  He put the newspaper aside, leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes. He went over the sequence of events once more and in doing so finally realized the problem that gnawed at him was not in the paper but in what Mittel had said to him. Bosch tried to recall the words exchanged between them on the manicured lawn behind the rich man’s house. What had really been said there? What had Mittel admitted to?

  Bosch knew that at that moment on the lawn, Mittel was in a position of seeming invulnerability. He had Bosch captured, wounded and doomed before him. His attack dog, Vaughn, stood ready with a gun to Bosch’s back. In that situation, Bosch believed there would be no reason for a man of Mittel’s ego to hold back. And, in fact, he had not held back. He had boasted of his scheme to control Conklin and others. He had freely, though indirectly, admitted that he had caused the deaths of Conklin and Pounds. But despite those admissions, he had not done the same when it came to the killing of Marjorie Lowe.