The Black Box (38 page)

“Get down!”

He threw himself forward to the floor, coming up behind the dog’s body. A figure appeared in the darkness of the
kitchen doorway and Bosch saw the gunpowder flashes before he heard the shots. He felt the dog’s body jerk with the impact of shots meant for him and he returned fire, putting four shots through the doorway into the dark. He heard glass shattering and wood splintering. Then he heard a door opening and the sound of footsteps running away.

No shots followed his volley. He looked around and saw Mendenhall huddled next to a bookcase that stood against the right wall, filled with cookbooks.

“Okay?” he whispered.

“Fine,” she responded.

He turned and looked down the hallway behind them. They had left the front door open. The shooter could be circling the house to come in on them from behind. It was time to move. Time to clear the kitchen.

Bosch pulled himself up into a crouch, then sprang forward, jumping over the dog’s body and moving quickly toward the dark doorway to the kitchen.

He entered the room and immediately swept his hand up the wall to his right, flicking four switches and bathing the kitchen in harsh light from above. To his left was an open door leading to a backyard pool area.

He swept his aim back across the room and saw no one else.

“It’s clear!”

He moved toward the open doorway, stepped out and then immediately to the right so he would not be silhouetted in the door’s light. The dark water of the rectangular pool shimmered in the light from the kitchen, but beyond that there was only darkness. Bosch could see nothing.

“Is he gone?”

Bosch turned. Mendenhall was standing behind him.

“He’s out there somewhere.”

He went back through the kitchen door to check the rest of the house and immediately saw a lip of what looked like blood pooling out from beneath a door next to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. Bosch pointed it out as Mendenhall returned to the kitchen. She stood in firing position as he reached for the knob.

Bosch opened the door to a walk-in pantry, and there on the floor were the bodies of two men. One he immediately recognized as Carl Cosgrove. The other he guessed was Frank Dowler. Like the dog, both had been shot once behind the left ear. Cosgrove’s body was on top of Dowler’s, suggesting the sequence of murders.

“Drummond gets Cosgrove to call Dowler to come to the house. He pops Dowler in here—that was the first shot. He then kills the dog and then finally the master.”

Bosch knew he might have the sequence wrong but he had no doubt that it had been his gun that Drummond had used. He also couldn’t help but note the similarities to the Christopher Henderson murder fourteen years before. He had been pushed into a small walk-in space in a kitchen and executed with a bullet to the back of the head.

Mendenhall crouched down and checked the bodies for a pulse. Bosch knew it was a hopeless cause. Mendenhall shook her head and started to say something, but she was cut off by a high-pitched, metallic whirring sound that blasted down the hallway.

“What the hell is that?” Mendenhall called over the growing noise.

Bosch looked at the open kitchen door and then at the hallway that offered a direct view front to back through the house.

“Cosgrove’s helicopter,” he yelled as he headed into the hallway. “Drummond’s a pilot.”

Bosch ran down the hallway and charged through the open front door, Mendenhall just a few steps behind him. Almost immediately they were met with a volley of shots that exploded into the plaster-and-wood framing around the door. Once more Bosch dropped and rolled forward, this time finding cover behind one of the concrete planters that lined the turnaround and the front walkway.

He looked up over the edge and saw the helicopter still sitting on its concrete pad, the rotors turning and gathering speed for lift. He looked back at the front door, lit from within, and saw Mendenhall rolling on the floor, just inside the threshold, her hand clamped to her left eye.

“Mendenhall!” he yelled. “Get inside! Are you hit?”

Mendenhall didn’t respond. She rolled herself farther inside the door toward cover.

Bosch looked back over the edge of the planter at the chopper. The engine was whining loudly as the craft was almost at lift speed. Bosch could see the door was still open but he could not see into the craft. He knew it had to be Drummond. His plan destroyed by Bosch’s escape, he was simply trying to escape himself.

Bosch jumped from cover and fired repeatedly at the helicopter. After four shots his gun was dry and he ran back to the front door. He crouched next to Mendenhall as he ejected his gun’s magazine.

“Detective, are you hit?”

He slapped the second magazine into the gun and racked one bullet into the chamber.

“Mendenhall! Are you hit?”

“No! I mean, I don’t know. Something hit my eye.”

He grasped her arm to pull her hand from her eye. She resisted.

“Let me look.”

She gave way and he pulled her hand back. He looked closely into her eye but could not see anything.

“You’re not hit, Mendenhall. You must’ve caught a splinter or some of the plaster dust.”

She pulled her hand back over the eye. Outside, the revving turbine hit critical speed, and Bosch knew Drummond was taking off. He got up and started back toward the front door.

“Just let him go,” Mendenhall called. “He won’t be able to hide.”

Bosch ignored her and ran back out, moving into the middle of the turnaround just as the helicopter started to rise from the pad.

Bosch was two hundred feet away, with the helicopter moving right to left along the tree line as it rose. He extended the gun in a two-armed grip and aimed for the turbine housing. He knew he had seven shots to bring the chopper down.

“Bosch, you can’t shoot at him!”

Mendenhall had come out of the house and was behind him.

“The hell I can’t! He shot at us!”

“It’s not in policy!”

She had now come up next to him. She still held a hand over her injured eye.

“It’s in
my
policy!”

“Listen to me! There is no longer a threat to you! He’s flying away! You are
not
defending life.”

“Bullshit!”

But Bosch raised his aim high and fired three quick shots into the sky, hoping Drummond would hear them or see the muzzle flashes.

“What are you doing?”

“Making him
think
I’m shooting at him.”

Bosch raised the gun and shot three more times into the air, keeping one bullet just in case. It worked. The helicopter changed directions, banking sharply away from Bosch’s position and flying behind the house as Drummond tried to use the structure as a shield.

Bosch held still and waited, and then he heard it. A loud metallic snap followed by the whirring sound of a broken rotor spinning wildly into the almond grove, slashing through branches like a scythe.

There was a millisecond of time suspension, when it seemed as though the turbine had gone silent and that there was no sound in the world at all. And then they heard the helicopter crash into the hillside behind the château. They saw a ball of flame rotate up over the roofline and disappear into the sky.

“What?” Mendenhall yelled. “What happened? You didn’t shoot anywhere near him!”

Bosch started running toward the sound of the crash.

“The wind turbine,” he yelled.

“What wind turbine?” she yelled back.

Bosch turned the corner of the house and saw smoke and scattered fires on the hillside. There was a strong smell of fuel
in the air. Mendenhall caught up to him and with the beam of her flashlight led the way.

The helicopter had fallen no more than 150 feet but had completely broken apart on impact. There was a fire burning on the hillside to the right, where the fuel tank had apparently separated and exploded. They found Drummond beneath the shattered cockpit canopy, his limbs broken and at unnatural angles to his torso, his forehead gashed deeply by torn metal in the crash. When Mendenhall put the light on his face, he reacted, slowly opening his eyes.

“My God, he’s alive,” she said.

Drummond’s eyes followed her as she moved about, clearing debris off him, but his head did not turn. His lips moved but his breathing was too shallow for him to make a sound.

Bosch crouched down and put his hands into the left pocket of Drummond’s jacket. He retrieved his cell phone and badge wallet.

“What are you doing?” Mendenhall said. “We need to get him help and you can’t remove things from a crime scene.”

Bosch ignored her. It was his property and he was taking it back. Mendenhall pulled out her phone to call for paramedics and investigators. Meanwhile, Bosch patted the pocket on the other side of Drummond’s jacket and felt the form of a gun. His gun, he knew. He looked at Drummond’s face.

“I want you to keep that, Sheriff. Let them find it on you.”

He heard Mendenhall curse and he turned to look back at her.

“I can’t get a signal,” she said.

Bosch slid his thumb across his phone’s screen and it came to life. It appeared that it had survived the crash intact and in working order. It also had a three-bar signal.

“I’ve got nothing,” he said.

He put the phone in his pocket.

“Damn it!” Mendenhall said. “We have to do something.”

“Do we really?” Bosch said.

“Yes,” Mendenhall said pointedly. “We do.”

Bosch locked eyes with Drummond.

“Go back down to the house,” he called out. “I saw a phone in the kitchen.”

“All right. I’ll be back.”

Bosch turned and watched Mendenhall start down the hill. He then looked back at Drummond.

“Just you and me now, Sheriff,” he said softly.

Drummond had continually been trying to say something. Bosch finally dropped down to his hands and knees and leaned his ear toward Drummond’s mouth. Drummond spoke in a shallow, halting voice.

“I . . . can’t . . . feel anything.”

Bosch leaned back on his haunches and looked down as if appraising Drummond’s injuries. Drummond worked hard to crank up a smile. Bosch saw ruby-red blood on his teeth. He’d punctured a lung in the crash. He said something but Bosch didn’t hear it.

Harry leaned back over him again.

“What did you say?”

“I forgot to tell you . . . in the alley, I put her down on her knees . . . and then I made her beg . . .”

Bosch pulled back as the fury racked through his body. He stood up and turned away from Drummond and looked down toward the château. Mendenhall was nowhere in sight.

He turned back to Drummond. Bosch’s face was a mask of
anger. Vengeance clawed at him from every nerve ending. He dropped to his knees and gathered the front of Drummond’s shirt in his fist. He leaned down and spoke through clenched teeth.

“I know what you want but I’m not going to give it to you, Drummond. I hope you live a long and painful life. In a prison. In a bed. In a place that stinks of shit and piss. Breathing through a tube. Eating through a tube. And I hope that every day, you want to die but can’t do a fucking thing about it.”

Bosch released his grip and pulled back. Drummond was no longer smiling. He was staring into his own bleak future.

Bosch stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, and then turned and started down the hill. He saw Mendenhall walking back up, the flashlight in her hand.

“They’re coming,” she said. “Is he . . .?”

“Still breathing. How’s your eye?”

“I got whatever it was out. It stings.”

“Have them take a look at it when they get here.”

Bosch walked past her and on down the hill. On the way, he pulled out his phone so he could call
home.

SNOW WHITE

2012

I
t was 7
P.M.
in Copenhagen when Bosch made the call. It was picked up promptly by Henrik Jespersen at his home.

“Henrik, it’s Harry Bosch in L.A.”

“Detective Bosch, how are you? Do you have news on Anneke?”

Bosch paused. It seemed like an odd phrasing for the question. Henrik seemed breathless, as if he knew this was the call he had been waiting twenty years for. Bosch didn’t make him wait any longer.

“Henrik, there has been an arrest in your sister’s murder. We have the killer and I wanted—”

“
Endelig
!”

Bosch did not know what the Danish word meant but it sounded like an exclamation of both surprise and relief. There was then a long silence, and Bosch guessed that the man on the other end of the line half a world away had possibly started to cry. Bosch had seen the behavior before when he had delivered such news in person. In this case he had asked to go to Denmark to personally brief Henrik Jespersen, but the request was denied by Lieutenant O’Toole, who was still smarting from
the denial of his 128 complaint against Bosch by Mendenhall and the PSB.

“I am sorry, Detective,” Henrik said. “I am very emotional, you see. Who is the killer of my sister?”

“A man named John James Drummond. She didn’t know him.”

There was no immediate response, so Bosch filled the space.

“Henrik, you may start hearing from some journalists about the arrest. I made a deal with a reporter at the
BT
there in Copenhagen. He helped me with the investigation. I need to call him next.”

Again there was no response.

“Henrik, are you—”

“This man Drummond, why did he kill her?”

“Because he believed it would bring him favor with a very powerful man and family. It helped them cover up another crime against your sister.”

“Is he in jail now?”

“Not yet. He’s in a hospital, but they will be moving him soon to the jail ward.”

“In hospital? Did you shoot him?”

Bosch nodded. He understood the emotion behind the question. The hopefulness in it.

“No, Henrik. He was trying to get away. In a helicopter. And he crashed. He’ll never walk again. His spine was crushed. They think he is paralyzed from the neck down.”

“I think this is good. Do you?”

Bosch didn’t hesitate.

“Yes, Henrik, I do.”