Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2

by Michael Connelly

  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.

  CAMPAIGN WORKER VICTIM OF HIT AND RUN

  By Monte Kim, Times Staff Writer

  A 29-year-old campaign worker for a candidate for the district attorney’s office was killed Saturday when he was struck by a speeding car in Hollywood, the Los Angeles police reported. campaign literature supporting district attorney hopeful Arno Conklin at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and La Brea Avenue when he was cut down by the speeding car as he crossed the street.

  The victim was identified as Johnny Fox, who lived in an apartment on Ivar Street in Hollywood. Police said Fox had been distributing and his body was dragged for several yards by the car. Fox was crossing the southbound lanes of La Brea about 2 p.m. when the car struck him. Police said it appeared Fox was killed on impact Conklin campaign manager Gordon Mittel said Fox had joined the campaign only a week ago.

  The car that hit Fox slowed momentarily after the collision but then sped away, police said. Witnesses told investigators the car proceeded south on La Brea at a high rate of speed. Police have not located the vehicle and witnesses could not provide a clear description of the make and model year. Police said an investigation is continuing. Reached at the district attorney’s office, where he is in charge of the special investigation branch under retiring DA John Charles Stock, Conklin said he had not yet met Fox but regretted the death of the man working for his election. The candidate declined further comment.

  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 thin
k 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.

  Chapter 12

  “I noticed you arrived early today. Am I to take that as a sign that you want to be here?”

  “Not especially. I was downtown having lunch with a friend, so I just came over.”

  “Well, it’s good to hear you were out with a friend. I think that is good.”

  Carmen Hinojos was behind her desk. The notebook was out and open but she sat with her hands clasped together in front of her. It was as if she was going out of her way to make no move that could be construed as threatening to the dialogue.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  Bosch held it up and looked at the bandages on his fingers.

  “I hit it with a hammer. I was working on my house.”

  “That’s too bad. I hope it’s okay.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Why are you so dressed up? I hope you don’t feel you have to do that for these sessions.”

  “No. I . . . I just like following my routine. Even if I’m not going to work, I got dressed like I was.”

  “I understand.”

  After she made an offer of coffee or water and Bosch declined, she got the session going.

  “Tell me, what would you like to talk about today?”

  “I don’t care. You’re the boss.”

  “I’d rather that you not look at the relationship in that way. I’m not your boss, Detective Bosch. I’m just a facilitator, someone to help you talk about whatever you want, whatever you want to get off your chest.”

  Bosch was silent. He couldn’t think of anything to volunteer. Carmen Hinojos drummed her pencil on her yellow tablet for a few moments before taking up the slack.

  “Nothing at all, huh?”

  “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Then why don’t we talk about yesterday. When I called you, to remind you of our session today, you obviously seemed upset about something. Was that when you hit your hand?”

  “No, that wasn’t it.”

  He stopped but she said nothing and he decided to give in a little bit. He had to admit to himself that there was something about her that he liked. She was not threatening and he believed she was telling the truth when she said she was there only to help him.

  “What happened when you called was that I had found out earlier that my partner, you know, my partner before all of this, had been paired up with a new man. I’ve been replaced already.”

  “And how’d that make you feel?”

  “You heard how I was. I was mad about it. I think anybody would be. Then I called my partner up later and he treated me like yesterday’s news. I taught that guy a lot and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know. It hurt, I guess.”

  “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. You’d have to be me to see it the way I did.”

  “I guess that’s true. But I can sympathize. Let’s leave it at that. Let me ask you this. Shouldn’t you have expected your partner to be paired up again? After all, isn’t it a department rule that detectives work in pairs? You are on leave for a so-far-unknown period of time. Wasn’t it a given that he’d get a new partner, whether permanent
or otherwise?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Isn’t it safer to work in pairs?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What is your own experience? Did you feel safer the times you were with a partner on the job as opposed to those times when you were alone?”

  “Yes, I felt safer.”

  “So what happened was inevitable and inarguable, yet still it made you angry.”

  “It wasn’t that it happened that brought it on. I don’t know, it was the way he told me and then the way he acted when I called. I really felt left out. I asked him for a favor and he . . . I don’t know.”

  “He what?”

  “He hesitated. Partners don’t do that. Not with each other. They’re supposed be there for each other. It’s supposedly a lot like a marriage, but I’ve never been married.”

  She paused to write some notes, which made Bosch wonder what had just been said that was so important.

  “You seem,” she said while still writing, “to have a low threshold for the toleration of frustrations.”

  Her statement immediately made him angry but he knew that if he showed it then he would be confirming her statement. He thought maybe it was a trick designed to elicit such a response. He tried to calm himself.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” he said in a controlled voice.

  “I suppose, to a degree. When I reviewed your records I saw that you were in the Army during the Vietnam War. Did you see any combat?”

  “Did I see any combat? Yes, I saw combat. I was in the middle of combat, too. I was even under it. Why do people always ask, did you see combat, like it was a goddamn movie they took you to over there?”

  She was quiet for a long time, holding the pen but doing no writing. It seemed like she was simply waiting for the sails of his anger to lose the wind. He waved his hand in a gesture he hoped told her that he was sorry, that it was behind him, that they should move on.

  “Sorry,” he said, just to make sure.

  She still didn’t say anything and her stare was beginning to weigh on him. He looked away from her to the bookshelves along one wall of the office. They were filled with heavy, leather-bound psychiatry texts.