The Last Coyote

by Michael Connelly

  They were both quiet for a long while, letting their anger ebb away.

  “All right,” he finally said. “So what happens now?”

  “I don’t know. Chief Irving just asked me to sit in with you, to calm you. I guess he’s figuring out what to do next. I guess I’m not doing a very good job of calming you.”

  “What did he say when he first asked you to come up here and listen?”

  “He just called me and explained what happened and said he wanted my take on the interview. You have to understand something, despite your problems with authority, he is one person who I think is in your court on this. I don’t think he honestly believes you’re involved in the death of your lieutenant—at least directly. But he realizes that you are a viable suspect who needs to be questioned. I think if you had held your temper during the interview this all might’ve been over for you soon. They would’ve checked your story in Florida and that would have been the end of it. I even told them that you told me you were going to Florida.”

  “I don’t want them checking my story. I don’t want them involved.”

  “Well, it’s too late. He knows you’re up to something.”

  “How?”

  “When he called to ask me to come over he mentioned the file on your mother’s case. The murder book. He said it was found at your house. He also said they found the stored evidence from the case there…”

  “And?”

  “And he asked if I knew what you were doing with all of it.”

  “So he did ask you to reveal what we’ve talked about in our sessions.”

  “In an indirect way.”

  “Sounds pretty direct to me. Did he say specifically that it was my mother’s case?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I was not at liberty to discuss anything that was talked about in our sessions. It didn’t satisfy him.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Another wave of silence washed between them. Her eyes wandered the room. His stayed on hers.

  “Listen, what do you know about what happened to Pounds?”

  “Very little.”

  “Irving must have told you something. You must’ve asked.”

  “He said Pounds was found in the trunk of his car Sunday evening. I guess he had been there a while. A day maybe. The chief said he…the body showed signs of torture. Particularly sadistic mutilation, he said. He didn’t go into detail. It had happened before Pounds was dead. They do know that. He said that he’d been in a lot of pain. He wanted to know if you were the type of man who could’ve done that.”

  Bosch said nothing. He was imagining the crime scene in his mind. His guilt came crushing back down on him and for a moment he thought he might even get nauseous.

  “For what it’s worth, I said no.”

  “What?”

  “I told him you weren’t the type of man who could’ve done that.”

  Bosch nodded. But his thoughts were already a great distance away again. What had happened to Pounds was becoming clear and Bosch carried the guilt of having set things in motion. Though legally innocent, he knew he was morally culpable. Pounds was a man he despised, had less respect for than some of the murderers he had known. But the weight of the guilt was bearing down on him. He ran his hands hard over his face and through his hair. He felt a shudder move through his body.

  “Are you all right?” Hinojos asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  Bosch took out his cigarettes and started to light one with his Bic.

  “Harry, you better not. This isn’t my office.”

  “I don’t care. Where was he found?”

  “What?”

  “Pounds! Where was he found?”

  “I don’t know. You mean where was the car? I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  She studied him and he noticed the hand that held his cigarette was shaking.

  “All right, Harry, that’s it. What’s the matter? What is going on?”

  Bosch looked at her for a long moment and nodded.

  “Okay, you want to know? I did it. I killed him.”

  Her face immediately reacted as if perhaps she had seen the killing firsthand, so close that she had been spattered with blood. It was a horrible face. Repulsed. And she moved back in her chair as if even a few more inches of separation from him were needed.

  “You…you mean this story about Florida was—”

  “No. I don’t mean I killed him. Not with my hands. I mean what I’ve done, what I’ve been doing. It got him killed. I got him killed.”

  “How do you know? You can’t know for sure that—”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  He looked away from her to a painting on the wall over the banquette. It was a generic depiction of a beach scene. He looked back at Hinojos.

  “It’s funny…,” he said but didn’t finish. He just shook his head.

  “What is?”

  He got up and reached to the potted palm and stubbed the cigarette out in the dark soil.

  “What is funny, Harry?”

  He sat back down and looked at her.

  “The civilized people in the world, the ones who hide behind culture and art and politics…and even the law, they’re the ones to watch out for. They’ve got that perfect disguise goin’ for them, you know? But they’re the most vicious. They’re the most dangerous people on earth.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  IT SEEMED TO BOSCH that the day would never end, that he would never get out of the conference room. After Hinojos left, it was Irving’s turn. He came in silently, took the Brockman seat and folded his hands on the table and said nothing. He looked irritated. Bosch thought maybe he smelled the smoke. Bosch didn’t care about that but he found the silence discomforting.

  “What about Brockman?”

  “He’s gone. You heard me tell him, he blew it. So did you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You could’ve talked your way out of it. Could’ve let him check your story and be done with it. But you had to make another enemy. You had to be Harry Bosch.”

  “That’s where you and I differ, Chief. You oughta get out of the office and come out on the street again sometime. I didn’t make Brockman an enemy. He was my enemy before I even met him. They all are. And, you know, I’m really getting tired of everybody analyzing me and sticking their noses up my ass. It’s getting real old.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it. You don’t.”

  “You don’t know a thing about it.”

  Irving waved Bosch’s pale defense away like cigarette smoke.

  “So what now?” Bosch continued. “Why are you here? You going to try to break my alibi now? Is that it? Brockman’s out and you’re in?”

  “I don’t need to break your alibi. It’s been checked and it looks like it holds. Brockman and his people have already been instructed to follow other avenues of investigation.”

  “What do you mean, it’s been checked?”

  “Give us some credit here, Bosch. The names were in your notebook.”

  He reached into his coat and pulled out the notebook. He tossed it across the table to Bosch.

  “This woman that you spent some time with over there, she told me enough to the point that I believed it. You might want to call her yourself, though. She certainly seemed confused by my call. I was rather circumspect in my explanation.”

  “I appreciate that. So, then, I guess I’m free to split?”

  Bosch stood up.

  “In a technical sense.”

  “And the other senses?”

  “Sit down for a minute, Detective.”

  Bosch held his hands up. He’d gone this far. He decided he might as well go all the way and hear it all. He sat back down in his chair with a meager protest.

  “My butt’s getting sore from all this sitting.”

  “I knew Jake McKittrick,” Irving said. “Knew him well. We worked Hollywood tog
ether many years ago. But you know that already. As nice as it is to touch base with an old colleague, I can’t say I enjoyed anything about the conversation I had with my old friend Jake.”

  “You called him, too.”

  “While you were in here with the doctor.”

  “So then what do you want from me? You got the story from him, what’s left?”

  Irving drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  “What do I want? What I want is for you to tell me that what you are doing, what you have been doing, is in no way connected to what has happened to Lieutenant Pounds.”

  “I can’t, Chief. I don’t know what happened to him, other than that he’s dead.”

  Irving studied Bosch for a long moment, contemplating something, deciding whether to treat him as an equal and tell him the story.

  “I guess I expected an immediate denial. Your answer already suggests that you think there might be a correlation. I can’t tell you how much that bothers me.”

  “Anything is possible, Chief. Let me ask you this. You said Brockman and his crew were out chasing other leads—I guess avenues is what you said. Are any of these avenues viable? I mean, did Pounds have a secret life or are they just out there chasing their tails?”

  “There’s nothing that stands out. I’m afraid you were the best lead. Brockman still thinks so. He wants to pursue the theory that you hired a hitman of some sort and then flew to Florida to establish an alibi.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

  “I think it stretches credibility some. I told him to drop it. For the moment. And I’m telling you to drop what you are doing. This woman in Florida sounds like the kind of person you could spend some time with. I want you to get on a plane and go back to her. Stay a couple weeks. When you come back, we’ll talk about going back on the homicide table at Hollywood.”

  Bosch was unsure whether there was a threat in all that Irving had just said. If not a threat, then maybe a bribe.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “If you don’t, then you are stupid. And you deserve whatever happens to you.”

  “What is it that you think I’m doing, Chief?”

  “I don’t think, I know what you’re doing. It’s easy. You pulled the book on your mother’s homicide. Why at this particular point in time you’ve done this, I don’t know. But you’re out running a freelance investigation and that’s a problem for us. You have to stop it, Harry, or I’ll stop you. I’ll shut you down. Permanently.”

  “Who are you protecting?”

  Bosch saw the anger move into Irving’s face as his skin turned from pink to an intense red. His eyes seemed to grow smaller and darker with fury.

  “Don’t you ever suggest such a thing. I’ve dedicated my life to this depart—”

  “It’s yourself, isn’t it? You knew her. You found her. You’re afraid of being dragged into this if I put something together on it. I bet you already knew everything McKittrick told you on the phone.”

  “That’s ridiculous, I—”

  “Is it? Is it? I don’t think so. I’ve already talked to one witness who remembers you from those days on the Boulevard beat.”

  “What witness?”

  “She said she knew you. She knows my mother knew you, too.”

  “The only person I am protecting is you, Bosch. Can’t you see that? I’m ordering you to stop this investigation.”

  “You can’t. I don’t work for you anymore. I’m on leave, remember? Involuntary leave. That makes me a citizen now, and I can do whatever I goddamn want to do as long as it’s legal.”

  “I could charge you with possession of stolen documents—the murder book.”

  “It wasn’t stolen. Besides, what if you bullshit a case, what’s that, a misdemeanor? They’ll laugh you out of the city attorney’s office on your ass with that.”

  “But you’d lose your job. That would be it.”

  “You’re a little late with that one, Chief. A week ago that would’ve been a valid threat. I’d have to consider it. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m free of all of that bullshit now and this is all that matters to me and I don’t care what I have to do, I’m doing it.”

  Irving was silent and Bosch guessed that the assistant chief was realizing that Bosch had moved beyond his reach. Irving’s hold over Bosch’s job and future had been his leverage before. But Bosch had finally broken free. Bosch began again in a low, calm voice.

  “If you were me, Chief, could you just walk away? What does doing what I do for the department matter if I can’t do this for her…and for me?”

  He stood up and put the notebook into his jacket pocket.

  “I’m going. Where’s the rest of my stuff?”

  “No.”

  Bosch hesitated. Irving looked up at him and Bosch saw the anger was gone now.

  “I did nothing wrong,” Irving said quietly.

  “Sure you did,” Bosch said just as quietly. He leaned over the table until he was only a few feet away. “We all did, Chief. We let it go. That was our crime. But not anymore. At least, not with me. If you want to help, you know how to reach me.”

  He headed toward the door.

  “What do you want?”

  Bosch looked back at him.

  “Tell me about Pounds. I need to know what happened. It’s the only way I’ll know if it’s connected.”

  “Then sit down.”

  Bosch took the chair by the door and sat down. They both took some time to calm down before Irving finally spoke.

  “We started looking for him Saturday night. We found his car Sunday noon in Griffith Park. One of the tunnels closed after the quake. It was like they knew we’d be looking from the air, so they put the car in a tunnel.”

  “Why’d you start looking before you knew he was dead?”

  “The wife. She started calling Saturday morning. She said he’d gotten a call Friday night at home, she didn’t know who. But whoever it was managed to convince Pounds to leave the house and meet him. Pounds didn’t tell his wife what it was about. He said he’d be back in an hour or two. He left and never came back. In the morning she called us.”

  “Pounds is unlisted, I assume.”

  “Yes. That gives rise to the probability it was someone in the department.”

  Bosch thought about this.

  “Not necessarily. It just had to be someone with connections to people in the city. People that could get his number with a phone call. You ought to put out the word. Grant amnesty to anyone who comes forward and says they gave up the number. Say you’ll go light in exchange for the name of the person they gave it to. That’s who you want. Chances are whoever gave out the number didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  Irving nodded.

  “That’s an idea. Within the department there are hundreds who could get his number. There may be no other way to go.”

  “Tell me more about Pounds.”

  “We went to work right there in the tunnel. By Sunday the media had wind that we were looking for him, so the tunnel worked to our advantage. No helicopters flying over, bothering us. We just set up lights in the tunnel.”

  “He was in the car?”

  Bosch was acting like he knew nothing. He knew that if he expected Hinojos to respect his confidences, he must in turn respect hers.

  “Yes, he was in the trunk. And, my God, was it bad. He…He’d been stripped of his clothes. He’d been beaten. Then—then there was the evidence of torture…”

  Bosch waited but Irving had stopped.

  “What? What did they do to him?”

  “They burned him. The genitals, nipples, fingers…My God.”

  Irving ran his hand over his shaven scalp and closed his eyes while he did it. Bosch could see that he could not get the images out of his mind. Bosch was having trouble with it, too. His guilt was like a palpable object in his chest.

  “It was like they wanted something from him,” Irving said. “But he couldn’t give it. He didn’t have it and…and the
y kept at him.”

  Suddenly, Bosch felt the slight tremor of an earthquake and reached for the table to steady himself. He looked at Irving for confirmation and realized there was no tremor. It was himself, shaking again.