Two Kinds of Truth

by Michael Connelly

  She kept going toward the alley.

  “We are closed,” the man said. “Her work is done today.”

  Bosch looked at him.

  “You’re Chemical Ali?”

  “What?” the man exclaimed indignantly. “I am Dr. Rohat.”

  He gestured toward a wall behind a reception counter, where there were several framed diplomas with writing too small to read.

  Bosch couldn’t be one hundred percent sure that Clayton was in the clinic. Brody could have been waiting and watching for any frail-looking patient to rip off. But the intel from Edgar about Rohat’s proclivities made him feel like he was on firm ground.

  “Elizabeth Clayton, where is she?” Bosch asked.

  Rohat shook his head.

  “I do not know that name,” he said.

  “Sure you do,” Bosch said. “Is she in there?”

  “There is no one here. We are closed.”

  “Bullshit. You would’ve walked out with the nurse if you were done here. Do I have to go through this whole place? Where is she?”

  “We are closed.”

  The sound of something clattering to the floor came from behind the closed door behind the reception counter. Bosch immediately pushed by Rohat and headed toward the door, assuming it led to the rear offices and exam rooms.

  “All right!” Rohat exclaimed. “I have a patient in room three. She is resting and should not be disturbed. She is sick.”

  Bosch didn’t break stride. He went through the door, Rohat calling after him.

  “Wait! You can’t go in there.”

  There were no markings on any of the doors that lined the rear hallway. Bosch went to the third door on the left and flung it open. It was a storage room that looked like it was managed by a hoarder. There was junk piled upon junk. Bicycles, TVs, computer equipment. Bosch assumed these were the things Rohat took in trade for prescriptions and drugs. He left the door open and went across the hall to the door directly opposite.

  Elizabeth Clayton was in the room. She was sitting on an examination table, a paper drape sheet wrapped around her shoulders and covering most of her body, her bare legs dangling off the table. On the floor was the source of the sound Bosch had heard. A stainless-steel cup lying in a pool of spilled water.

  Clayton was naked beneath the drape sheet and one of her breasts was exposed, though she seemed unaware of it. The skin of her breast was a shocking white against her chest and neck, which had been burned dark brown by so many days spent in the desert sun. Her hair was bedraggled and she was in a daze. She did not even look up as Bosch entered. She was staring at the tattoo of the stars on her hand.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She slowly raised her chin as Bosch came to her. She dropped her hand into her lap, and her eyes held on his. He saw recognition in them but no understanding of where she knew him from.

  “I’m going to take care of you. How much did he give you?”

  He started to pull the sheet around her to cover her nakedness. Her body was emaciated and he wanted to look away but didn’t. She held one of her hands between her legs, not in a show of modesty but in what Bosch interpreted was a meager protective gesture.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “You remember me? I’m here to help.”

  He got no response.

  “Can you get up? Can you get dressed?”

  Rohat came into the room behind him.

  “You are not allowed in here! She is a patient and what you—”

  “What did you give her?”

  Bosch turned on him.

  “I don’t discuss patient care with—”

  Bosch lunged at him and drove him backward into the wall. Ali’s head banged against a print showing the vital organs of the human body. Bosch gripped the lapels of his white lab coat and pushed hard against him.

  “You’re not a doctor, you’re a monster. And I don’t care how old you are, I will beat you to death in this room if you don’t answer my questions. How much did you give her?”

  Bosch could see real fear in Rohat’s eyes now.

  “I prescribed two eighty-milligram oxycodone pills for pain. It is time-release and to be taken separately, but when I was not in the room, she crushed and snorted them both. This tripped her into an overdose. It is not my fault.”

  “Bullshit, not your fault. How long ago?”

  “Two hours. I am treating her with naloxone and she’ll be fine, as you can see by her sitting up.”

  “And what did you do to her while she was out? You fuck her, you piece of shit?”

  “I did not.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that when I take her to the rape center.”

  “We had sex before, yes. She agreed. It was completely consensual.”

  “Fuck you, consensual. You’re going to go to jail.”

  Bosch’s anger overcame him, and he swung Rohat away from the wall so that when he punched him he’d have the satisfaction of seeing Rohat’s head snap back before he dropped like a wet blanket. Bosch pulled his left arm back to deliver the blow. But before he brought his fist forward, there was a loud beep from the intercom box on the wall next to the door.

  Bosch hesitated. That gave Rohat time to bring his hands up to block or at least slow down the coming impact.

  “Please,” the doctor begged.

  “Hey, I know you,” Elizabeth said.

  Bosch dropped his left and used his right to shove Rohat toward the intercom.

  “Tell them to get lost.”

  Rohat pushed the intercom button.

  “We are closed, sorry.”

  He looked back at Bosch for approval. Then a voice Bosch recognized came through the intercom.

  “Jerry Edgar, Medical Board of California. Open up.”

  Bosch nodded. His old partner had come through.

  “Go let him in,” he said.

  33

  Edgar came into the examination room as Bosch was helping Elizabeth get dressed.

  “Harry, I saw your car out there. I thought maybe you needed help.”

  “I do, partner. Help me get her dressed. I have to get her out of here.”

  “We should call an ambulance or something. This is crazy.”

  “Just hold her up. She’s coming out of it.”

  Bosch was trying to pull her blue jeans up her rail-thin legs. He coaxed her into a standing position and then Edgar held her steady as Bosch brought the pants up over the bony points of her hips.

  “I wanna leave,” she said.

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing, Elizabeth,” Bosch said.

  “He’s a mean motherfucker,” she said.

  Bosch was about to agree and looked around the room.

  “Hey, where’s Rohat?”

  Edgar did the same quick survey. Rohat wasn’t in the room.

  “I don’t—”

  “I’ve got her. Go check.”

  Edgar left the room. Bosch turned Elizabeth so her back was to him. He quickly reached down to the pale yellow jacket that was in the pile of her clothes on the floor. He held it around in front of her.

  “Can you put this on? We’ll take the rest of your clothes with us.”

  She took the jacket and slowly started to put one of her arms into a sleeve. Bosch gently pulled the paper sheet off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor. He saw the full RIP tattoo on the back of her shoulder.

  DAISY

  1994–2009

  A fifteen-year-old girl, Bosch thought. That gave him a clue and an understanding that made him all the more resolved to stay on this path with Elizabeth.

  Operating mechanically, Elizabeth managed to pull the jacket on but fumbled with the zipper. Bosch turned her around and zipped it up. He then gently pushed her back onto the exam table so he could put on her socks and shoes.

  Edgar returned from his search for Rohat.

  “He’s gone. He must’ve slipped out after he let me in.”

  He looked relieved and Bosch realized it
had nothing to do with Rohat. It was because Elizabeth was now fully dressed.

  “Probably because I told him he was going to jail. Doesn’t matter. We can hook him up later. Let’s get her out of here.”

  “To where? No shelter’s going to take her in this condition. We have to go to a hospital, Harry.”

  “No, no hospital, and I’m not talking about a shelter. Hold her steady.”

  “You can’t be serious, Harry. You’re not taking her home.”

  “I’m not taking her home. Let’s get her to the door and then I’ll pull my car up.”

  It took almost ten minutes to move Elizabeth through the clinic and out the exit to the passage connecting the front and back of the plaza.

  “This way,” Bosch said.

  He led her toward the front parking area. Once there, he left her leaning against Edgar and ran across the asphalt to his Jeep. He scanned his surroundings as he went and saw no sign of Brody.

  Bosch brought the Jeep up to Edgar and Elizabeth and then hopped out to help get her into the front passenger seat and secure her with the seat belt.

  “Harry, where are you going?”

  “A treatment center.”

  “Which one?”

  “It doesn’t have a name.”

  “Harry, what the fuck?”

  “Jerry, you gotta trust me. I’m doing what’s best for her, and it doesn’t have anything to do with what the rules are. I am past all of that, okay? What you need to worry about is how to secure these premises now that Chemical Ali is on the run. There are probably enough pills in that clinic to create an army of zombies like her.”

  Bosch stepped back, closed the door to the Jeep, and moved around to the driver’s side.

  “And that army’s going to be here by sunup.”

  As Bosch slipped into the Jeep, he saw Edgar glance back at the entrance to the unlocked clinic. Once inside the car, he checked Elizabeth and saw that she was leaning her head against the window of the passenger-side door and already nodding off.

  Bosch pulled away and headed for the parking lot exit. He checked Edgar in the rearview. His former partner was just standing there, watching Bosch drive away.

  The good news was that they didn’t have far to go. He got back over to Van Nuys Boulevard and took it north to Roscoe. He turned west at that point and took Roscoe under the 405 freeway and into an industrial neighborhood dominated by the size and smell of the giant Anheuser-Busch brewery, its stacks billowing beer smoke into the night.

  Bosch made two wrong turns in the neighborhood before finally finding the place he was looking for. The entrance gate in the metal and barbed-wire fence that surrounded the property was open. There was no sign on the building, not even an address, but the row of six Harleys parked out front was the dead giveaway.

  Bosch parked as close as he could to the black door at the center of the structure’s facade. He got out and went around to help Elizabeth. He put his arm across her back and half held her up as they approached the door.

  “Come on, Elizabeth, help me here. Walk. You gotta walk.”

  The door opened before they got to it.

  Cisco stood there.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “She was able to get a heavy hit before I could find her,” Bosch said. “She OD’d and then was given Narcan and is coming out of it. Are you ready for her?”

  “We’re ready. Let me take her.”

  Cisco bent down and simply picked Elizabeth up and carried her inside. Bosch followed and, once past the threshold, saw what was not revealed on the outside—a clubhouse. There were two pool tables in a large room, as well as an unmanned bar, couches, tables, and chairs. Neon signs depicted skulls and motorcycle wheels with halos—the symbols of the Road Saints. A couple of large men with long beards watched Cisco and company parade through.

  Bosch followed Cisco down a dimly lit hallway and into a small room that was equally dim and contained only an army cot like the one Bosch had spent the past two nights on in the migrant bus in the desert.

  Cisco put Elizabeth down gently on the cot and then took a step back and looked at her skeptically.

  “You sure you shouldn’t have taken her to the hospital?” he asked. “We can’t have her croak in here. If she does, she disappears. They aren’t going to call in the coroner, you know what I mean.”

  “I know,” Bosch said. “But she’s coming out of it. I think she’ll be okay. The doctor said so.”

  “The quack doctor, you mean?”

  “He wouldn’t have wanted her dying in his place either.”

  “How much did she take?”

  “She crushed two eighties.”

  Cisco whistled.

  “Sounds like she maybe kinda wanted to end things, you know?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. So…this is where you did it? This room?”

  “Different room, same place. I was nailed in. This one’s got locks on the outside of the door.”

  “And she’s safe here?”

  “I guarantee it.”

  “Okay. I’m going to leave and come back in the morning. Early. I’ll talk to her then. And you’re all set?”

  “We’re set. I’ll wait on the Suboxone until you come back and she can decide. Remember, she’s gotta make the call or we’re done here.”

  “I know. Just keep an eye on her and I’ll be back.”

  “Will do.”

  “And thanks.”

  “Pay it forward, isn’t that what they say? This is me paying it forward.”

  “That’s good.”

  Bosch stepped close to the cot and bent over to look down at Elizabeth. She was already asleep but seemed to be breathing normally. He then straightened up and turned toward the door.

  “Need me to bring anything when I come back?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Cisco said. “Unless you want to bring me back my cane and knee brace, if you’re done with them.”

  “Uh, yeah, that might be a problem. Both were seized as evidence in the case.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “That’s a long story. But I may have to replace those for you.”

  “Forget it. In a way, they were a temptation. Good to be rid of them, I guess.”

  “I get that.”

  Bosch got back into the Jeep and considered the trek home—at least forty minutes in Sunday-night traffic—and felt so besieged and tired that he knew he could not make it. He thought about how easily Elizabeth had fallen asleep with her head against the glass. He reached down to the seat’s side lever and popped the back rest to its farthest recline angle.

  He closed his eyes and was soon dead to the world in a deep sleep.

  Eight hours later the unfiltered light of dawn snuck in under Bosch’s eyelids and woke him. He looked around and saw that there was only one motorcycle parked next to the Jeep. The others had somehow left in the night without their pipes penetrating his sleep. It was a testament to his exhaustion.

  The one remaining bike had a black fuel tank with orange flames painted on it. Bosch recognized a match to the paint job of the cane Cisco had lent him. It told him that Cisco was still on duty.

  After getting his bearings, Bosch unlocked the glove compartment and checked to make sure his gun and badge were still there.

  Nothing had been taken. He relocked the compartment, climbed out of the Jeep, and went inside. He saw no one in the front room and proceeded down the hallway toward the rear of the structure. He found Cisco sitting on a cot that had been set up across the door to the room where Bosch had left Elizabeth Clayton almost eight hours before.

  Next to the cot there was a short stool used for sitting on while working on a motorcycle engine.

  “You’re back.”

  “Technically, I never left. How is she?”

  “It was a good night—no bumps. She’s been awake now for about an hour and is starting to hit the wall. So you should go in the room and talk to her before she starts chewing her fingernails off.”


  “Right.”

  Cisco got up to move the cot out of the way.

  “Take the stool. Be on her level when you talk.”

  Bosch grabbed the stool, turned the lock on the door, and entered the room.

  Elizabeth was in a sitting position on her cot, leaning back against the wall, arms folded in front of her chest, showing the early stages of need. She leaned forward when she saw Bosch enter.

  “You,” she said. “I thought it was you last night.”

  “Yeah, me,” he said.

  He put the stool down four feet from the cot and sat down.

  “Elizabeth, my name’s Harry. My real name, that is.”

  “What the fuck is this? Am I in jail again? Are you a narc?”

  “No, you’re not in jail and I’m not a narc. But you can’t leave yet.”

  “What are you talking about? I need to go.”

  She made a move to get up but Bosch shot up off the stool and put his hands out, ready to push her back down on the cot. She stopped.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  “I’m trying to help you. You remember what you said to me when I got on the plane the first time? You said, ‘Welcome to hell.’ Well, all of that is gone now. The Russians, the camp down there, the planes, everything. All shut down, the Russians are dead. But you’re still in hell, Elizabeth.”

  “I really need to go now.”

  “Where? Chemical Ali’s gone. He was shut down last night. There’s nowhere to go. But we can help you here.”

  “What do you have? I need it.”

  “No, not like that. I mean, really help you. Get you off this addiction and out of this life.”

  She shrieked with laughter, a short staccato burst.

  “You think you can save me? You think you’re the only one who’s ever tried? Forget it. Fuck you. I can’t be saved. I told you before. I don’t want to be saved.”

  “I think you do. Deep down, everybody does.”

  “No, please. Just let me go.”

  “I know it’s going to be rough. A week in this room, it will probably feel like a year. I’m not going to lie to you about anything.”

  Elizabeth raised her hands to her face and started crying. Bosch couldn’t tell whether it was a last-ditch effort to use his sympathy to get out of the room or whether the tears were truly for herself and what she knew lay ahead. Bosch didn’t want her to leave the room but he needed to get her to acknowledge and approve of what was happening.