Michael Connelly (8 page)

Chapter 10

Bosch pulled the knot of his tie tight against his throat before pulling open the back door of the station. He took the hallway to the rear of the detective bureau and then the aisle between the tables toward the front, where Pounds sat in his office behind the glass windows that separated him from the detectives he commanded. Heads at the burglary table bobbed up as he was noticed, then at the robbery and homicide tables. Bosch did not acknowledge anyone, though he almost lost a step when he saw someone sitting in his seat at the homicide table. Burns. Edgar was there at his own spot, but his back was to Bosch’s path and he didn’t see Harry coming through the room.

But Pounds did. Through the glass wall he saw Bosch’s approach to his office and he stood up behind his desk.

The first thing Bosch noticed as he got closer was that the glass panel that he had broken just a week before in the office had already been replaced. He thought it was strange that this could happen so quickly in a department where more vital repairs— such as replacing the bullet-riddled windshield of a patrol car— normally took a month of red tape and paper pushing. But those were the priorities of this department.

“Henry!” Pounds barked. “Come in here.”

An old man who sat at the front counter and took calls on the public line and gave general directions jumped up and doddered into the glass office. He was a civilian volunteer, one of several who worked in the station, mainly retirees that most cops referred to collectively as members of the Nod Squad.

Bosch followed the old man in and put his briefcase down on the floor.

“Bosch!” Pounds yelped. “There’s a witness here.”

He pointed to old Henry, then out through the glass.

“Witnesses out there as well.”

Bosch could see that Pounds still had deep purple remnants of broken capillaries under each eye. The swelling was gone, though. Bosch walked up to the desk and reached into the pocket of his coat.

“Witnesses to what?”

“To whatever you’re doing here.”

Bosch turned to look at Henry.

“Henry, you can leave now. I’m just going to talk to the lieutenant.”

“Henry, you stay,” Pounds commanded. “I want you to hear this.”

“How do you know he’ll remember it, Pounds? He can’t even transfer a call to the right table.”

Bosch looked back at Henry again and fixed him with a stare that left no doubt who was in charge in the glass room.

“Close the door on your way out.”

Henry made a timid glance back at Pounds but then quickly headed out the door, closing it as instructed. Bosch turned back to Pounds.

The lieutenant slowly, like a cat sneaking past a dog, lowered himself into his seat, perhaps thinking or knowing from experience that there might be more safety in not being at a face-to-face level with Bosch. Harry looked down and saw that there was a book open on the desk. He reached down and turned the cover to see what it was.

“Studying for the captain’s exam, Lieutenant?”

Pounds shrank back from Bosch’s reach. Bosch saw it was not the captain’s exam manual but a book on creating and honing motivational skills in employees. It had been written by a professional basketball coach. Bosch had to laugh and shake his head.

“Pounds, you know, you’re really something. I mean, at least you’re entertaining. I gotta give you that.”

Pounds grabbed the book back and shoved it in a drawer.

“What do you want, Bosch? You know you’re not supposed to be in here. You’re on leave.”

“But you called me in, remember?”

“I did not.”

“The car. You said you wanted the car.”

“I said turn it in at the garage. I didn’t say come in here. Now get out!”

Bosch could see the rosy spread of anger on the other man’s face. Bosch remained cool and took that as a sign of a declining level of stress. He brought his hand out of his pocket with the car keys in them. He dropped them on the desk in front of Pounds.

“It’s parked out by the drunk tank door. You want it back, you can have it. But you take it through the checkout at the garage. That’s not a cop’s job. That’s a job for a bureaucrat.”

Bosch turned to leave and picked up his briefcase. He then opened the door to the office with such force that it swung around and banged against one of the glass panels of the office. The whole office shook but nothing broke. He walked around the counter, saying, “Sorry about that, Henry,” without looking at the old man, and then headed down the front hall.

A few minutes later he was standing on the curb on Wilcox, in front of the station, waiting for the cab he had called with his portable. A gray Caprice, almost a duplicate of the car he had just turned in, pulled up in front of him and he bent down to look in. It was Edgar. He was smiling. The window glided down.

“You need a ride, tough guy?”

Bosch got in.

“There’s a Hertz on La Brea near the Boulevard.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Edgar laughed and shook his head.

“What?”

“Nothing . . . Burns, man. I think he was about to shit his pants when you were in there with Pounds. He thought you were gonna come outta there and throw his ass outta your chair at the table. He was pitiful.”

“Shit. I should’ve. I didn’t think of it.”

Silence came back again. They were on Sunset coming up to La Brea.

“Harry, you just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I guess not.”

“What happened to your hand?”

Bosch held it up and studied the bandage.

“Ah, I hit it last week when I was working on the deck. Hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, you better be careful or Pounds is going to be on you like a son of a bitch.”

“He already is.”

“Man, he’s nothing but a bean counter, a punk. Why can’t you just leave it alone? You know you’re just—”

“You know, you’re beginning to sound like the shrink they’re sending me to. Maybe I should just sit with you for an hour today, what you say?”

“Maybe she’s talking some sense to you.”

“Maybe I should’ve taken the cab.”

“I think you should figure out who your friends are and listen to them for once.”

“Here it is.”

Edgar slowed in front of the rental car agency. Bosch got out before the car was even stopped.

“Harry, wait a minute.”

Bosch looked back in at him.

“What’s going on with this Fox thing? Who is the guy?”

“I can’t tell you now, Jerry. It’s just better this way.”

“You sure?”

Bosch heard the phone in his briefcase start to ring. He looked down at it and then back at Edgar.

“Thanks for the ride.”

He closed the car door.

Chapter 11

The call was from Keisha Russell at the
Times.
She said she’d found one small story in the morgue under Fox’s name but she wanted to meet with Bosch to give it to him. He knew it was part of the game, part of making the pact. He looked at his watch. He could wait to see what the story said. He told her he’d buy her lunch at the Pantry in downtown.

Forty minutes later she was already in a booth near the cashier’s cage when he got there. He slipped into the opposite side of the booth.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Sorry, I was renting a car.”

“They took your car, huh? Must be serious.”

“We’re not going to talk about that.”

“I know. You know who owns this place?”

“Yeah, the mayor. Doesn’t make the food bad.”

She curled her lip and looked around as if the place were crawling with ants. The mayor was a Republican. The
Times
had gone with the Democrat. What was worse, for her, at least, was that the mayor was a supporter of the Police Department. Reporters didn’t like that. That was boring. They wanted City Hall infighting, controversy, scandal. It made things more interesting.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I could’ve suggested Gorky’s or some more liberal establishment.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bosch. I’m just funnin’ with ya.”

She wasn’t more than twenty-five, he guessed. She was a dark-complected black woman who had a beautiful grace about her. Bosch had no idea where she was from but he didn’t think it was L.A. She had the touch of an accent, a Caribbean lilt, that maybe she had worked on smoothing out. It was still there, though. He liked the way she said his name. In her mouth, it sounded exotic, like a wave breaking. He didn’t mind that she was little more than half his age and addressed him only by his last name.

“Where you from, Keisha?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I’m interested is all. You’re on the beat. I wanna know who I’m dealing with.”

“I’m from right here, Bosch. I came from Jamaica when I was five years old. I went to USC. Where are you from?”

“Right here. Been here all my life.”

He decided not to mention the fifteen months he spent fighting in the tunnels in Vietnam and the nine in North Carolina training for it.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Cut it working on my house. Been doing odd jobs while I’m off. So, what’s it been like taking Bremmer’s place on the cop beat? He’d been there a long time.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s been difficult. But I’m making my way. Slowly. I’m making friends. I hope you’ll be one of my friends, Bosch.”

“I’ll be your friend. When I can. Let’s see what you got.”

She brought a manila file up onto the table but the waiter, an old bald man with a waxed mustache, arrived before she could open it. She ordered an egg salad sandwich. He ordered a well-done hamburger and fries. She frowned and he guessed why.

“You’re vegetarian, right?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. Next time you pick the place.”

“I will.”

She opened the file and he noticed she had several bracelets on her left wrist. They were made of braided thread in many bright colors. He looked in the file and saw a photocopy of a small newspaper clipping. Bosch could tell by the size of the clip that it was one of the stories that gets buried in the back of the paper. She passed it over to him.

“I think this is your Johnny Fox. The age is right but it does not describe him like you did. White trash, you said.”

Bosch read the story. It was dated September 30, 1962.

Bosch studied the clip for a long moment after reading it.

“This Monte Kim, is he still at the paper?”

“Are you kidding? That’s like a millennium ago. Back then the newsroom was a bunch of white guys sitting around in white shirts and ties.”

Bosch looked down at his own shirt, then at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Anyway, he’s not around. And I don’t know about Conklin. A little before my time. Did he win?”

“Yeah. I think he had two terms, then I think he ran for attorney general or something and got his ass handed to him. Something like that. I wasn’t here then.”

“I thought you said you’ve been here all your life.”

“I went away for a while.”

“Vietnam, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, a lot of cops your age were there. Must’ve been a trip. Is that why you all became cops? So you could keep carrying guns?”

“Something like that.”

“Anyway, if Conklin’s still alive, he’s probably an old man. But Mittel’s still around. Obviously, you know that. He’s probably in one of these booths eating with the mayor.”

She smiled and he ignored it.

“Yeah, he’s a big shot. What’s the story on him?”

“Mittel? I don’t know. First name on a big downtown law firm, friend of governors and senators and other powerful people. Last I heard, he’s running the financing behind Robert Shepherd.”

“Robert Shepherd? You mean that computer guy?”

“More like computer magnate. Yeah, don’t you read the paper? Shepherd wants to run but doesn’t want to use up his own money. Mittel is doing the fund-raising for an exploratory campaign.”

“Run for what?”

“Jesus, Bosch, you don’t read the paper or watch TV.”

“I’ve been busy. Run for what?”

“Well, like any egomaniac I guess he wants to run for president. But for now he’s looking at the Senate. Shepherd wants to be a third-party candidate. Says the Republicans are too far right and the Democrats too left. He’s right down the middle. And from what I hear, if anybody can get the money together for him to do the third-candidate dance, it’s Mittel.”

“So Mittel wants to make himself a president.”

“I guess. But what are you asking me about him for anyway? I’m a cop reporter. You’re a cop. What’s this have to do with Gordon Mittel?”

She pointed to the photocopy. Bosch became aware that he might have asked too many questions.

“I’m just trying to catch up,” he said. “Like you said, I don’t read the papers.”

“That’s
paper,
not papers,” she said smiling. “I better not catch you reading or talking to the
Daily Snews.
”

“Hell hath no fury like a reporter scorned, right?”

“Something like that.”

He felt assured that he had deflected her suspicions. He held up the photocopy.

“There was no follow-up to this? They never caught anybody?”

“I guess not or there would be a story.”

“Can I keep this?”

“Sure.”

“You feel like taking another walk back to the morgue?”

“For what?”

“Stories about Conklin.”

“There will be hundreds, Bosch. You said he was DA for two terms.”

“I only want stories from before he was elected. And if you have the time, throw in stories on Mittel, too.”

“You know, you’re asking a lot. I could get in trouble if they knew I was doing clip searches for a cop.”

She put on a fake pout and he ignored that, too. He knew what she was driving at.

“You want to tell me what this is about, Bosch?”

He still didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think so. Well, look, I’ve got two interviews to do this afternoon. I’m going to be gone. What I can do is get an intern to get the clips together and leave it all for you with the guard in the globe lobby. It will be in an envelope so nobody will know what it is. Would that be okay?”

He nodded. He’d been to Times Square before on a handful of occasions, usually meetings with reporters. It was a block-sized building with two lobbies. The centerpiece of the lobby at the First and Spring entrance was a huge globe that never stopped rotating, just as the news never stopped happening.

“You’ll just leave it under my name? Won’t that get you in trouble? You know, like you said, being too friendly with a cop. That’s got to be against the rules over there.”

She smiled at his sarcasm.

“Don’t worry. If an editor or somebody asks, I’ll just say it’s an investment in the future. You better remember that, Bosch. Friendship is a two-way street.”

“Don’t worry. I never forget that.”

He leaned forward across the table so he was up close to her face.

“I want you to remember something, too. One of the reasons I’m not telling you why I need this stuff is because I’m not sure what it means. If anything. But don’t you get too curious. Don’t you go making any calls. You do that, and you might mess things up. I might get hurt. You might get hurt. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The man with the waxed mustache appeared at the side of the table with their plates.