Echo Park

by Michael Connelly

  “Come on, Kiz, hang in there. We’ve got an airship coming and we’re going to get you out of here.”

  He looked around to see what was available to them and got an idea as he saw Maury Swann come up the ladder. He quickly moved to the edge and helped the defense attorney off the last rung. O’Shea was coming up behind him and the videographer was waiting his turn.

  “Leave the camera,” Bosch ordered.

  “I can’t. I’m respons—”

  “You bring it up here and I’m going to take it and throw it as far as I can.”

  The cameraman reluctantly put his equipment on the ground, popped out the digital tape and put it in one of the big equipment pockets on his cargo pants. He then climbed up the ladder. Once everyone was on top Bosch pulled the ladder up and carried it over to Rider. He put it down next to her.

  “Okay, we’re going to use the ladder as a stretcher. Two men on each side and, Cal, I need you to walk beside us and keep that pressure on her neck.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  “Okay, let’s put her on the ladder.”

  Bosch moved by Rider’s right shoulder while the other three men took positions at her legs and other shoulder. They carefully lifted her onto the ladder. Cafarelli kept her hands in place on Rider’s neck.

  “We have to be careful,” Bosch urged. “We tip the thing and she’ll fall. Cal, keep her on the ladder.”

  “Got it. Let’s go.”

  They raised the ladder and started moving back up the trail. Rider’s weight, distributed among the four carriers, was not a problem. But the mud was. Two times Swann, in his courthouse shoes, slipped, and the makeshift stretcher almost went over. Each time Cafarelli literally hugged Rider to the ladder and kept her in place.

  It took less than ten minutes to get to the clearing. Bosch immediately saw that the coroner’s van was now missing, but Kathy Kohl and her two assistants were still there, standing unharmed by the SID van.

  Bosch scanned the sky for a helicopter but saw none. He told the others to put Rider down next to the SID van. Carrying it the last distance with one hand hooked under the ladder, he used his free hand to operate the radio.

  “Where’s my airship?” he yelled at the dispatcher.

  The response was that it was on the way with a one-minute ETA. They softly lowered the ladder to the ground and looked around to make sure there was enough open space in the lot to set a helicopter down. Behind him he heard O’Shea interrogating Kohl.

  “What happened? Where did Waits go?”

  “He came out of the woods and shot at the news helicopter. Then he took our van at gunpoint and headed down the hill.”

  “Did the chopper follow him?”

  “We don’t know. I don’t think so. It flew away when he started shooting.”

  Bosch heard the sound of an approaching helicopter and hoped it wasn’t the Channel 4 chopper coming back. He walked to the middle of the most open area of the parking lot and waited. In a few moments a silver-skinned medevac airship crested the mountaintop and he started waving it down.

  Two paramedics jumped from the aircraft the moment it landed. One carried an equipment case, while the other brought a folding stretcher. They knelt on either side of Rider and went to work. Bosch stood and watched with his arms folded tightly across his chest. He saw one put a breathing mask over her face while the other inserted an IV into her arm. They then began to examine her wounds. To himself Bosch repeated the mantra, Come on, Kiz, come on, Kiz, come on, Kiz . . .

  It was more like a prayer.

  One of the paramedics turned toward the chopper and made a hand signal to the pilot, spinning an upraised finger in the air. Bosch knew it meant that they had to get going. Time would be of the essence on this run. The helicopter’s engine started to rev higher. The pilot was ready.

  The stretcher was unfolded and Bosch helped the paramedics move Rider onto it. He then took one of the handles and helped them carry it to the waiting airship.

  “Can I go?” Bosch yelled loudly as they moved toward the open door of the helicopter.

  “What?” yelled one of the paramedics.

  “CAN I GO?”

  The paramedic shook his head.

  “No, sir. We need room to work on her. It’s going to be close.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “St. Joe’s.”

  Bosch nodded again. St. Joseph’s was in Burbank. By air it was just on the other side of the mountain, five minutes’ flying time at most. By car it would be a lengthy drive around the mountain and through the Cahuenga Pass.

  Rider was carefully loaded into the airship and Bosch stepped back. As the door was being closed he wanted to yell something to his partner but he couldn’t come up with any words. The door snapped closed and it was too late. He decided that if Kiz was conscious and even cared about such things, she would know what he had wanted to say.

  The helicopter took off as Bosch was moving backwards, wondering if he would ever again see Kiz Rider alive.

  Just as the airship banked away a patrol car came roaring up the hill to the parking lot, its blue lights flashing. Two uniforms out of Hollywood Division jumped out. One of them had his gun out and he pointed it at Bosch. Covered with mud and blood, Bosch understood why.

  “I’m a police officer! My shield’s in my back pocket.”

  “Then, let’s see it,” said the man with the gun. “Slowly!”

  Bosch pulled out his badge case and flipped it open. It passed inspection and the gun was lowered.

  “Get back in the car,” he ordered. “We have to go!”

  Bosch ran to the rear door of the car. The two officers piled in and Bosch told them to head back down Beachwood.

  “Then where?” the driver asked.

  “You have to take me around the mountain to St. Joe’s. My partner was in that airship.”

  “You got it. Code three, baby.”

  The driver hit the switch that would add the siren to the already flashing emergency lights and pinned the accelerator. The car U-turned in a screech of tires and a spray of gravel, then headed downhill. The suspension was shot, as with most of the cars the LAPD put out on the street. The car swerved dangerously around the curves on the way down but Bosch didn’t care. He had to get to Kiz. At one point they almost collided with another patrol car that was moving with the same speed up to the crime scene.

  Finally, halfway down the hill the driver slowed when they were passing through the pedestrian-crowded shopping area of the Hollywoodland village.

  “Stop!” Bosch yelled.

  The driver complied with screeching efficiency on the brakes.

  “Back it up. I just saw the van.”

  “What van?”

  “Just back it up!”

  The patrol car reversed and moved back past the neighborhood market. There in the side lot Bosch saw the pale blue coroner’s van parked in the back row.

  “Our custody got loose and got a gun. He took that van.”

  Bosch gave them a description of Waits and the warning that he was unhesitant about using the weapon. He told them about the two dead cops back up the hill in the woods.

  They decided to sweep the parking lot first and then enter the market. They called for backup but decided not to wait for it. They got out with their weapons drawn.

  They searched and cleared the parking lot quickly, coming to the coroner’s van last. It was unlocked and empty. But in the back Bosch found an orange jail-issue jumpsuit on the floor. Waits had either been wearing another set of clothes beneath the jumpsuit, or he had found clothes to change into in the back of the van.

  “Be careful,” Bosch announced to the others. “He could be wearing anything. Stay close to me. I know what he looks like.”

  In a tight formation they moved into the store through the automatic doors at the front. Once inside, Bosch quickly realized that they were too late. A man with a manager’s tag on his shirt was consoling a wo
man who was crying hysterically and holding the side of her face. The manager saw the two uniforms and signaled them over. He didn’t even seem to notice all the mud and blood on Bosch’s clothes.

  “We’re the ones who called,” the manager said. “Mrs. Shelton here just got carjacked.”

  Mrs. Shelton nodded tearfully.

  “Can you give us a description of your car and what the man who did this was wearing?” Bosch asked.

  “I think so,” she whined.

  “Okay, listen,” Bosch said to the two officers. “One of you stays here, gets the description of what he’s wearing and the car and puts it out on the air. The other leaves now and gets me to St. Joe’s. Let’s go.”

  The driver took Bosch, and the other patrolman stayed behind. In another three minutes they came screeching out of Beachwood Canyon and were moving toward the Cahuenga Pass. On the radio they heard a BOLO broadcast for a silver BMW 540 wanted in connection with a 187 LEO—murder of a law enforcement officer. The suspect was described as wearing a baggy white jumpsuit, and Bosch knew he had found the change of clothes in the back of the Forensics van.

  The siren was clearing a path for them but Bosch estimated that they were still fifteen minutes away from the hospital. He had a bad feeling about it. He had a bad feeling about everything. He didn’t think that they were going to get there in time. He tried to push that thought out of his mind. He tried to think about Kiz Rider alive and well and smiling at him, scolding him the way she always did. And when they got to the freeway, he concentrated on scanning all eight lanes of northbound traffic, looking for a carjacked silver BMW with a killer at the wheel.

  17

  BOSCH STRODE THROUGH the emergency room entrance with his badge out. An intake receptionist sat behind a counter, taking information from a man huddled over on a chair in front of her. When Bosch came close he saw that the man was cradling his left arm like a baby. The wrist was bent at an unnatural angle.

  “The police officer who was brought in on a medevac?” he said, not caring about interrupting.

  “I have no information, sir,” the desk woman said. “If you’ll take—”

  “Where can I get information? Where’s the doctor?”

  “The doctor is with the patient, sir. If I asked him to come out to speak to you, then he wouldn’t be taking care of the officer, would he?”

  “Then, she’s still alive?”

  “Sir, I can’t give out any information at this time. If you’ll—”

  Bosch walked away from the counter and over to a set of double doors. He pushed a button on the wall that automatically swung them open. Behind him he heard the desk woman yelling to him. He didn’t stop. He stepped through the doors into the emergency treatment area. There were eight curtained patient bays, four on each side of the room, and the nurses’ and physicians’ stations were in the middle. The place was abuzz. Outside a patient bay on the right Bosch saw one of the paramedics from the helicopter. He went to him.

  “How is she?”

  “She’s holding on. She lost a lot of blood and—”

  He stopped when he turned and saw that it was Bosch next to him.

  “I’m not sure you’re supposed to be in here, Officer. I think you better step out to the waiting room and—”

  “She’s my partner and I want to know what is happening.”

  “She’s got one of the best ER attendings in the city trying to keep her alive. My bet is that he will do just that. But you can’t stand here and watch.”

  “Sir?”

  Bosch turned. A man in a private security uniform was approaching with the desk woman. Bosch held his hands up.

  “I just want to be told what is happening.”

  “Sir, you will have to come with me, please,” the guard said.

  He put his hand on Bosch’s arm. Bosch shrugged it off.

  “I’m a police detective. You don’t need to touch me. I just want to know what is happening with my partner.”

  “Sir, you will be told all you need to know in good time. If you will please come—”

  The guard made the mistake of attempting to take Bosch by the arm again. This time Bosch didn’t shrug it off. He slapped the man’s hand away.

  “I said, don’t—”

  “Hold on, hold on,” said the paramedic. “Tell you what, Detective, let’s go to the machines and get a coffee or something and I’ll tell you everything that’s happening with your partner, okay?”

  Bosch didn’t answer. The paramedic sweetened the offer.

  “I’ll even get you some clean scrubs so you can get out of those muddy and bloody clothes. Sound good?”

  Bosch relented, the security man nodded his approval and the paramedic led the way, first to a supply closet where he looked at Bosch and guessed that he would need mediums. He pulled pale blue scrubs and booties off the shelves and handed them over. They then went down a hallway to the nurses’ break room, where there were coin-operated machines serving coffee, sodas and snacks. Bosch took a black coffee. He had no change but the paramedic did.

  “You want to clean up and change first? You can use the lav right over there.”

  “Just tell me what you know first.”

  “Have a seat.”

  They sat at a round table across from each other. The paramedic reached his hand across the table.

  “Dale Dillon.”

  Bosch quickly shook his hand.

  “Harry Bosch.”

  “Good to meet you, Detective Bosch. The first thing I need to do is thank you for your efforts out there in the mud. You and the others there probably saved your partner’s life. She lost a lot of blood but she’s a fighter. They’re putting her back together and hopefully she’ll be all right.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “It’s bad but it’s one of those cases where they won’t know until she stabilizes. The bullet hit one of her carotid arteries. That’s what they are working on now—getting her ready to take to the OR so they can repair the artery. Meantime, since she lost a lot of blood, the risk right now is stroke. So she’s not out of the woods yet, but if she avoids going into stroke she should come out of this okay. ‘Okay’ meaning alive and functioning with a lot of rehab ahead of her.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “That’s the unofficial version. I’m not a doctor and I shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

  Bosch felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket but he ignored it.

  “I appreciate that you did,” he said. “When will I be able to see her?”

  “I have no idea, man. I just bring ’em in here. I told you all I know and that was probably too much. If you’re going to wait around I suggest you wash your face and change out of those clothes. You’re probably scaring people with the way you look.”

  Bosch nodded and Dillon stood up. He had defused a potentially explosive ER situation and his work was done.

  “Thanks, Dale.”

  “No problemo. Take her easy and if you see the security guard, you might want to . . .”

  He left it at that.

  “I will,” Bosch said.

  After the paramedic left, Bosch went into the lavatory and stripped off his sweatshirt. Because there were no pockets in the surgical clothes and no place for him to carry his weapon, phone, badge and other things, he decided to leave his dirty jeans on. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw that he had blood and dirt smeared on his face. He spent the next five minutes washing up, running the soap and water over his hands until he finally saw the water running clear into the drain.

  When he stepped out of the lavatory he noticed that someone had come into the break room and either taken or thrown out his coffee. He checked his pockets again for change but still didn’t find any.

  Bosch walked back to the ER reception area and now found it crowded with police, both uniformed and not. His supervisor, Abel Pratt, was there among the suits. He looked as though the blood had completely drained from his face. He saw Bosch and immediate
ly came over.

  “Harry, how is she? What happened?”

  “They’re not giving me anything official. The paramedic who brought her in said it looks like she’ll be okay, unless something new happens.”

  “Thank Christ! What happened up there?”

  “I’m not sure. Waits got a gun and started shooting. Anything on whether they’ve got a bead on him?”

  “He dumped the car he jacked by the Red Line station on Hollywood Boulevard. They don’t know where the fuck he is.”

  Bosch thought about that. He knew that if Waits had gone underground on the Red Line, he could have gone anywhere from North Hollywood to downtown. The downtown line had a stop near Echo Park.

  “Are they looking in Echo Park?”

  “They’re looking everywhere, man. OIS is sending a team here to talk to you. I didn’t think you’d be willing to leave to go to Parker.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, you know how to handle it. Just tell it like it was.”

  “Right.”

  The Officer Involved Shooting squad would not be a problem. As far as Bosch could see he had not personally done anything wrong in the handling of Waits. OIS was a rubber-stamp squad, anyway.

  “They’ll be a while,” Pratt said. “They’re up at Sunset Ranch right now interviewing the others. How the fuck did he get a gun?”

  Bosch shook his head.

  “Olivas got too close to him while he was coming up a ladder. He grabbed it then and started shooting. Olivas and Kiz were up top. It happened so fast and I was down below them.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Pratt shook his head and Bosch knew he wanted to ask more questions about what had happened and how it could have happened. He was probably worried about his own situation as much as he was worried about Rider pulling through. Bosch decided he needed to tell him about the thing that could be a containment problem.

  “He wasn’t cuffed,” he said in a low voice. “We had to take off the cuffs so he could go up a ladder. The cuffs were going to be off for thirty seconds at the max, and that’s when he made his move. Olivas let him get too close. That’s how it started.”