Bosch kept his head down and didn’t respond. After a moment he heard the door open and close.
34
IN keeping with the wishes of Julia Brasher’s family that she be buried in accordance with her faith, her funeral was late the next morning at Hollywood Memorial Park. Because she had been killed accidentally while in the line of duty, she was accorded the full police burial ceremony, complete with motorcycle procession, honor guard, twenty-one-gun salute and a generous showing of the department’s brass at graveside. The department’s aero squadron also flew over the cemetery, five helicopters flying in “missing man” formation.
But because the funeral was not even twenty-four hours after her death it was not well attended. Line-of-duty deaths routinely bring at least token representations of officers from departments all over the state and the southwest. It was not to be with Julia Brasher. The quickness of the ceremony and the circumstances of her death added up to it being a relatively small affair—by police burial standards. A death in a gun battle would have crowded the small cemetery from stone to stone with the trappings of the blue religion. A cop killing herself while holstering her weapon did not engender much of the mythology and danger of police work. The funeral simply wasn’t a draw.
Bosch watched from the outer edges of the funeral group. His head was throbbing from a night of drinking and trying to dull the guilt and pain he felt. Bones had come out of the ground and now two people were dead for reasons that made little sense to him. His eyes were badly bloodshot and swollen but he knew he could pass that off, if he had to, to being sprayed with the tire cleaner by Stokes the day before.
He saw Teresa Corazon, for once without her videographer, seated in the front row line of brass and dignitaries, what few of them there were in attendance. She wore sunglasses but Bosch could tell when she had noticed him. Her mouth seemed to settle into a hard, thin line. A perfect funeral smile.
Bosch was the first to look away.
It was a beautiful day for a funeral. Brisk overnight winds from the Pacific had temporarily cleared the smog out of the sky. Even the view of the Valley from Bosch’s home had been clear that morning. Cirrus clouds scudded across the upper reaches of the sky along with contrails left by high-flying jets. The air in the cemetery smelled sweet from all the flowers arranged near the grave. From his standpoint, Bosch could see the crooked letters of the Hollywood sign, high up on Mount Lee, presiding over the service.
The chief of police did not deliver the eulogy as was his custom in line-of-duty deaths. Instead, the academy commander spoke, using the moment to talk about how danger in police work always comes from the unexpected corner and how Officer Brasher’s death might save other cops by being a reminder never to let down the guard of caution. He never called her anything but Officer Brasher during his ten-minute speech, giving it an embarrassingly impersonal touch.
During the whole thing Bosch kept thinking about photos of sharks with open mouths and volcanoes disgorging their molten flows. He wondered if Julia had finally proven herself to the person she believed she needed to.
Amidst the blue uniforms surrounding the silver casket was a swath of gray. The lawyers. Her father and a large contingent from the firm. In the second row behind Brasher’s father Bosch could see the man from the photo on the mantel of the Venice bungalow. For a while Bosch fantasized about going up to him and slapping him or bringing a knee up into his genitals. Doing it right in the middle of the service for all to see, then pointing to the casket and telling the man that he sent her on the path to this.
But he let it go. He knew that explanation and assignment of blame was too simple and wrong. Ultimately, he knew, people chose their own path. They can be pointed and pushed, but they always get the final choice. Everybody’s got a cage that keeps out the sharks. Those who open the door and venture out do so at their own risk.
Seven members of Brasher’s rookie class were chosen for the salute. They pointed rifles toward the blue sky and fired three rounds of blanks each, the ejected brass jackets arcing through the light and falling to the grass like tears. While the shots were still echoing off the stones, the helicopters made their pass overhead and then the funeral was over.
Bosch slowly made his way toward the grave, passing people heading away. A hand tugged his elbow from behind and he turned around. It was Brasher’s partner, Edgewood.
“I, uh, just wanted to apologize about yesterday, about what I did,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
Bosch waited for him to make eye contact and then just nodded. He had nothing to say to Edgewood.
“I guess you didn’t mention it to OIS and I, uh, just want to say I appreciate it.”
Bosch just looked at him. Edgewood became uncomfortable, nodded once and walked away. When he was gone Bosch found himself looking at a woman who had been standing right behind the cop. A Latina with silver hair. It took Bosch a moment to recognize her.
“Dr. Hinojos.”
“Detective Bosch, how are you?”
It was the hair. Almost seven years earlier, when Bosch had been a regular visitor to Hinojos’s office, her hair had been a deep brown without a hint of gray. She was still an attractive woman, gray or brown. But the change was startling.
“I’m doing okay. How’re things in the psych shop?”
She smiled.
“They’re fine.”
“I hear you run the whole show now.”
She nodded. Bosch felt himself getting nervous. When he had known her before, he had been on an involuntary stress leave. In twice-a-week sessions he had told her things he had never told anyone before or since. And once he was returned to duty he had never spoken to her again.
Until now.
“Did you know Julia Brasher?” he asked.
It wasn’t unusual for a department shrink to attend a line-of-duty funeral; to offer on-the-spot counseling to those close to the deceased.
“No, not really. Not personally. As head of the department I reviewed her academy application and screening interview. I signed off on it.”
She waited a moment, studying Bosch for a reaction.
“I understand you were close to her. And that you were there. You were the witness.”
Bosch nodded. People leaving the funeral were passing on both sides of them. Hinojos took a step closer to him so that she would not be overheard.
“This is not the time or place but, Harry, I want to talk to you about her.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“I want to know what happened. And why.”
“It was an accident. Talk to Chief Irving.”
“I have and I’m not satisfied. I doubt you are, either.”
“Listen, Doctor, she’s dead, okay? I’m not going to—”
“I signed off on her. My signature put that badge on her. If we missed something—if I missed something—I want to know. If there were signs, we should have seen them.”
Bosch nodded and looked down at the grass between them.
“Don’t worry, there were signs I should’ve seen. But I didn’t put it together either.”
She took another step closer. Now Bosch could look nowhere but directly at her.
“Then I am right. There is something more to this.”
He nodded.
“Nothing overt. It’s just that she lived close to the edge. She took risks—she crossed the tube. She was trying to prove something. I don’t think she was even sure she wanted to be a cop.”
“Prove something to who?”
“I don’t know. Maybe herself, maybe somebody else.”
“Harry, I knew you as a man of great instincts. What else?”
Bosch shrugged.
“It’s just things she did or said. . . . I have a scar on my shoulder from a bullet wound. She asked me about it. The other night. She asked how I got shot and I told her how I had been lucky that it hit me where it did because it was all bone. Then . . . where she shot herself, it’s the same spot.
Only with her . . . it ricocheted. She didn’t expect that.”
Hinojos nodded and waited.
“What I’ve been thinking I can’t stand thinking, know what I mean?”
“Tell me, Harry.”
“I keep replaying it in my head. What I saw and what I know. She pointed her gun at him. And I think if I hadn’t been there and yelled that maybe she would have shot him. Once he was down she would have wrapped his hands around the gun and fired a shot into the ceiling or maybe a car. Or maybe into him. It wouldn’t matter as long as he ended up dead with paraffin on his hands and she could claim he went for her gun.”
“What are you suggesting, that she shot herself in order to kill him and make herself look like a hero?”
“I don’t know. She talked about the world needing heroes. Especially now. She said she hoped to get a chance to be a hero one day. But I think there was something else in all of this. It was like she wanted the scar, the experience of it.”
“And she was willing to kill for it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m even right about any of this. All I know is that she might have been a rookie but she had already reached the point where there was a line between us and them, where everybody without a badge is a scumbag. She saw it happening to herself. She might have been just looking for a way out . . .”
Bosch shook his head and looked off to the side. The cemetery was almost deserted now.
“I don’t know. Saying it out loud makes it sound . . . I don’t know. It’s a crazy world.”
He took a step back from Hinojos.
“I guess you never really know anybody, do you?” he asked. “You might think you do. You might be close enough to sleep with somebody but you’ll never know what’s really going on inside.”
“No, you won’t. Everybody’s got secrets.”
Bosch nodded and was about to step away.
“Wait, Harry.”
She lifted her purse and opened it. She started digging through it.
“I still want to talk about this,” she said as she came out with a business card and handed it to him. “I want you to call me. Completely unofficial, confidential. For the good of the department.”
Bosch almost laughed.
“The department doesn’t care about it. The department cares about the image, not the truth. And when the truth endangers the image, then fuck the truth.”
“Well, I care, Harry. And so do you.”
Bosch looked down at the card and nodded and put it in his pocket.
“Okay, I’ll call you.”
“My cell phone’s on there. I carry it with me all the time.”
Bosch nodded. She stepped forward and reached out. She grasped his arm and squeezed it.
“What about you, Harry? Are you okay?”
“Well, other than losing her and being told by Irving to start thinking about retiring, I’m doing okay.”
Hinojos frowned.
“Hang in there, Harry.”
Bosch nodded, thinking about how he had used the same words with Julia at the end.
Hinojos went off and Bosch continued his trek to the grave. He thought he was alone now. He grabbed a handful of dirt from the fill mound and walked over and looked down. A whole bouquet and several single flowers had been dropped on top of the casket. Bosch thought about holding Julia in his bed just two nights before. He wished he had seen what was coming. He wished he had been able to take the hints and put them into a clear picture of what she was doing and where she was going.
Slowly, he raised his hand out and let the dirt slide through his fingers.
“City of bones,” he whispered.
He watched the dirt fall into the grave like dreams disappearing.
“I assume you knew her.”
Bosch quickly turned. It was her father. Smiling sadly. They were the only two left in the cemetery. Bosch nodded.
“Just recently. I got to know her. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Frederick Brasher.”
He put out his hand. Bosch started to take it but then held up.
“My hand’s dirty.”
“Don’t worry. So is mine.”
They shook hands.
“Harry Bosch.”
Brasher’s hand stopped its shaking movement for a moment as the name registered.
“The detective,” he said. “You were there yesterday.”
“Yes. I tried . . . I did what I could to help her. I . . .”
He stopped. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sure you did. It must’ve been an awful thing to be there.”
Bosch nodded. A wave of guilt passed through him like an X-ray lighting his bones. He had left her there, thinking she would be all right. Somehow it hurt almost as bad as the fact she had died.
“What I don’t understand is how it happened,” Brasher said. “A mistake like that, how could it kill her? And then the District Attorney’s Office today saying this man Stokes would not face any charge in the shooting. I’m a lawyer but I just don’t understand. They are letting him go.”
Bosch studied the older man, saw the misery in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir. I wish I could tell you. I have the same questions as you.”
Brasher nodded and looked into the grave.
“I’m going now,” he said after a long moment. “Thank you for coming, Detective Bosch.”
Bosch nodded. They shook hands again and Brasher started to walk away.
“Sir?” Bosch asked.
Brasher turned back.
“Do you know when someone from the family will be going to her house?”
“Actually, I was given her keys today. I was going to go now. Take a look at things. Try to get a sense of her, I guess. In recent years we hadn’t . . .”
He didn’t finish. Bosch stepped closer to him.
“There’s something that she had. A picture in a frame. If it’s not . . . if it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep it.”
Brasher nodded.
“Why don’t you come now? Meet me there. Show me this picture.”
Bosch looked at his watch. Lt. Billets had scheduled a one-thirty meeting to discuss the status of the case. He probably had just enough time to make it to Venice and back to the station. There would be no time for lunch but he couldn’t see himself eating anything anyway.
“Okay, I will.”
They parted and headed toward their cars. On the way Bosch stopped on the grass where the salute had been fired. Combing the grass with his foot, he looked until he saw the glint of brass and bent down to pick up one of the ejected rifle shells. He held it on his palm and looked at it for a few moments, then closed his hand and dropped it into his coat pocket. He had picked up a shell from every cop funeral he had ever attended. He had a jar full of them.
He turned and walked out of the cemetery.
35
JERRY Edgar had a warrant knock that sounded like no other Bosch had ever heard. Like a gifted athlete who can focus the forces of his whole body into the swinging of a bat or the dunking of a basketball, Edgar could put his whole weight and six-foot-four frame into his knock. It was as though he could call down and concentrate all the power and fury of the righteous into the fist of his large left hand. He’d plant his feet firmly and stand sideways to the door. He’d raise his left arm, bend the elbow to less than thirty degrees and hit the door with the fleshy side of his fist. It was a backhand knock, but he was able to fire the pistons of this muscle assembly so quickly that it sounded like the staccato bark of a machine gun. What it sounded like was Judgment Day.
Samuel Delacroix’s aluminum-skinned trailer seemed to shudder from end to end when Edgar hit its door with his fist at 3:30 on Thursday afternoon. Edgar waited a few seconds and then hit it again, this time announcing “POLICE!” and then stepping back off the stoop, which was a stack of unconnected concrete blocks.
They waited. Neither had a weapon out but Bosch had his hand under his jacket and
was gripping his gun in its holster. It was his standard procedure when delivering a warrant on a person not believed to be dangerous.
Bosch listened for movements from inside but the hiss from the nearby freeway was too loud. He checked the windows; none of the closed curtains were moving.
“You know,” Bosch whispered, “I’m starting to think it comes as a relief when you yell it’s just the cops after that knock. At least then they know it’s not an earthquake.”
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