“Let him die!” Pell yelled. “Let that fucker die!”
Bosch shoved Pell back into his seat and then leaned his whole weight on top of him.
“You stupid fool, Clayton,” Bosch said. “You’ll go back in for this.”
“I don’t care. I got nothing outside, anyway.”
His body shuddered and he seemed to give up strength. He started moaning and crying, repeating, “I want him dead, I want him dead.”
Bosch turned to look into the aisle. Chu and the deputy were tending to Hardy. He was either unconscious or dead and the deputy was checking his neck for a pulse. Chu had his head down and his ear turned toward Hardy’s mouth.
“We need paramedics,” the deputy yelled to the driver. “Fast! I’m not finding a pulse.”
“On the way,” the driver yelled back.
The report regarding the lack of a pulse brought cheering and renewed energy from the other prisoners on the bus. They shook their chains and stomped their feet on the floor. It was unclear to Bosch whether they knew who Hardy was or if it was simply blood lust that had them calling for murder.
Through it all Bosch heard coughing and looked down to see Hardy coming to. His face was still a deep shade of red and his eyes were glassy. But they focused for a moment on Bosch until the deputy’s shoulder moved between them.
“Okay, we got him back,” the deputy reported. “He’s breathing.”
This report was greeted with a chorus of boos from the men on the bus. Pell let out a high-pitched keening sound. His whole body shook beneath Bosch. The sound seemed to sum up a lifetime of anguish and despair.
42
That night, Bosch stood on the back deck, looking down at the ribbon of lights on the freeway. He was still wearing his best suit, though the left shoulder had been scuffed with dirt during the struggle with Pell on the bus. He wanted a drink but wasn’t drinking. He’d left the sliding door open so he could hear the music. He’d gone back to the music he always went to in the solemn moments. Frank Morgan on the tenor sax. Nothing better to sculpt the mood.
He had canceled his date with Hannah Stone. The events of the day eliminated any desire to celebrate, any desire to even talk.
Chilton Hardy had survived the attack on the sheriff’s bus largely unscathed. He was transported to the jail ward at County-USC Medical Center and would remain there until doctors discharged him. His arraignment would be postponed until then.
Clayton Pell was rearrested and additional charges stemming from the attack were added. A parole violation was also added and it was clear that Pell was heading back to prison.
Normally, Bosch would be pleased to learn that a serial sex offender was going back into lockup. But he couldn’t help but be wistful about Pell’s situation and to feel somewhat responsible. And guilty.
Guilty about intervening.
When Bosch had put it all together while standing on First Street, he could have let things run their course, and the world would now be rid of a monster, a man as depraved as any Bosch had ever encountered. But Bosch had intervened. He had acted to save the monster and now his thoughts were clouded with regret. Hardy deserved death but would likely never get it, or would get it only when it was so far distant in time from his crimes as to be almost meaningless. Until then he would hold forth in court and in prison and would enter the halls of the criminal zeitgeist, where men like him were talked about, written about and in some dark corners even revered.
Bosch could have stopped all of that but didn’t. Adhering to a code of everybody counts or nobody counts hardly seemed to cover it. Or excuse it. He knew he would carry the guilt for his actions of the day for a long time.
Bosch had spent most of the day writing reports and being interviewed by fellow investigators about the events on the sheriff’s bus. It was determined that Pell knew how to get to Hardy because he knew the system. He knew the methods and routines. He knew that whites were segregated and transported separately and that he had a good chance of getting on the bus with the man he wanted to kill. He knew that he would be shackled at the hands and feet and that his hands would be locked to a waist chain. He knew that he could slip that waist chain down over his small hips and beneath his feet and that it would become his murder weapon.
It had been a grand plan and Bosch had ruined it. The incident was being investigated by the sheriff’s department because it had taken place on their jail bus. The deputy who interviewed Bosch had asked him point blank why he had intervened. Bosch simply said he didn’t know. He had acted on instinct and impulse, without thinking that the world would be a better place without Hardy in it.
As Bosch stared down at the unending river of metal and glass, Pell’s anguish clawed at him. He had robbed Pell of his one chance at redemption, the moment when he would make up for all the damage inflicted on him and, to his way of thinking, the damage he had inflicted on others. Bosch didn’t necessarily agree with it but he understood it. Everybody is looking for redemption. For something.
Bosch had snatched it all away from Pell and that was why he listened to Frank Morgan’s mournful music and wanted to drown himself in drink. He felt sorry for the predator.
The doorbell sounded above the tone of the saxophone. Bosch went in but as he moved through the living room, his daughter bolted out from the bedroom hallway and beat him to the door. She put her hand on the knob and then her eye against the peephole before opening up, just as he had taught her. She paused and then pushed off the door, taking little robot steps backwards and right past Harry.
“It’s Kiz,” she whispered.
She turned and went into the hallway so she would have cover.
“Okay, well, no need to panic,” Bosch said. “I think we can handle Kiz.”
Bosch opened the door.
“Hello, Harry. How are you?”
“I’m good, Kiz. What brings you out?”
“Oh, I guess I was hoping to maybe sit out on the deck with you for a little bit.”
Bosch didn’t respond at first. He just looked at her until the moment became embarrassingly long.
“Harry? Knock, knock. Anyone home?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. I was just—uh, come on in.”
He opened the door wide and let her in. She knew her way to the deck.
“Um, I don’t have anything alcoholic in the house. I’ve got water and some sodas.”
“Water’s fine. I’m going back downtown after.”
As she passed by the bedroom hallway Maddie was still standing there.
“Hi, Kiz.”
“Oh, hey there, Maddie. How’re you doing, girl?”
“I’m good.”
“Glad to hear it. You let me know if you ever need anything, okay?”
“Thank you.”
Bosch turned into the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of water out of the refrigerator. He was only a few seconds behind Rider but she was already at the rail, taking in the view and the sounds. He slid the door closed behind him so Maddie wouldn’t hear whatever it was Kiz had come to say.
“Always amazes me how no matter where you go in this city, you can’t get away from the traffic,” she said. “Even up here.”
Bosch handed her a bottle.
“So if you’re going back downtown and working tonight, this must be an official visit. Let me guess, I’m getting written up for stealing one of the chief’s motorcade cars.”
Rider waved that away like it was a fly.
“That was nothing, Harry. But I am here to warn you.”
“About what?”
“It’s starting. With Irving. This next month is going to be allout war and there are going to be casualties. Just be ready.”
“It’s me, Kiz. Be specific. What’s Irving doing? Am I already a casualty?”
“No you’re not, but for starters he’s gone to the police commission and he wants them to review the whole Chilton Hardy case. From bust to bus. And they’ll do it. Most of them have their seats because of his patronage. They�
��ll do what he says.”
Bosch thought of his relationship with Hannah Stone and what Irving could do with it. And jumping the Hardy warrant. If Irving could get to that, he’d be holding press conferences every day till the election.
“Fine, let them come,” he said. “I’m clean on it.”
“I hope so, Harry. But I’m not as worried about your part in the investigation as I am about the twenty years before that. When Hardy was running below the radar and there was no investigation. We’re going to look very bad when all of that comes out.”
Now Bosch understood why she was there and had come in person. This was how high jingo worked. And this was what Irving had told him would happen.
Bosch knew that the more the Open-Unsolved squad documented the crimes and victims of Chilton Hardy, the greater the public outrage would be over his seeming freedom to act with impunity for more than twenty years. The guy was never concerned enough about the police even to move out of the area.
“So what do you want, Kiz? You want us to stop at Lily Price? Is that it? Tie it all up in one case and go for the death penalty? After all, we can only kill him once, right? Never mind the other victims, like Mandy Phillips with her photo hanging in Hardy’s fucking dungeon. I guess she’s one of the casualties you’re talking about.”
“No, Harry, I don’t want you to stop. We can’t stop. First of all, the story’s gone international. And we want justice for all of the victims. You know that.”
“Then what are you telling me, Kiz? What do you want?”
She paused, looking for a way to avoid saying it out loud.
But there was no way. Bosch waited.
“Just slow things down a bit,” she finally said.
Bosch nodded. He understood.
“The election. We slow things down until the election and hope Irving gets dumped. That’s what you want?”
He knew that once she said it, their relationship would never be the same.
“Yes, it’s what I want,” she said. “It’s what we all want for the good of the department.”
Those five words . . . “the good of the department.” They never added up to anything but high jingo. Bosch nodded and then turned and looked off at the view. He didn’t want to look at Kiz Rider anymore.
“Come on, Harry,” Rider said. “We have Irving on the ground. Don’t give him what he needs to get back up and hurt us, to continue to damage the department.”
He leaned over the wood railing and looked directly down into the brush below the deck.
“It’s funny,” he said. “I think in all of this, Irvin Irving turns out to be the one who had things right, who was probably even telling the truth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It didn’t make sense to me: why would he press the case if he knew it could come back to his own complicity in a pay-for-play scam?”
“Harry, there’s no need to go there. The case is closed.”
“The answer was that he pressed the case because he wasn’t complicit. He was clean.”
He reached into his soiled suit coat and pulled out the folded photocopy of the phone message Irving had given him. He had been carrying it with him since then. Without looking at Rider, he handed it to her and waited as she unfolded the page and scanned it.
“What’s this?” she said.
“It’s Irving’s proof of innocence.”
“It’s a piece of paper, Harry. This could have been slapped together at any time. It’s not proof of anything.”
“Except you and I and the chief, we all know it’s real. It’s true.”
“Speak for yourself. This is worthless.”
She refolded it and handed it back. Bosch put it back in his pocket.
“You used me, Kiz. To get to Irving. You used his son’s death. You used the things I found out. All to get a bullshit story in the newspaper you hoped would knock him to the mat.”
She didn’t respond for a long time and when she did, it was just the company line. Not an acknowledgment of anything.
“Thirty days, Harry. Irving is a thorn in the department’s side. If we can get rid of him, we can build a bigger and better department. And that makes it a safer and better city.”
Bosch stood up straight and cast his eyes back out at the view. The reds were turning purple. It was getting dark.
“Sure, why not?” he said. “But if you have to become him to get rid of him, what’s the difference?”
Rider banged her palms lightly on the railing, a signal that she had said enough and was finished with this conversation.
“I’m going to go, Harry. I have to get back.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks for the water.”
“Yeah.”
He heard her steps on the wood planking as she moved toward the sliding door.
“So was what you said to me the other day bullshit, Kiz?” he asked, his back still turned to her. “Was that just part of the play?”
The steps stopped, but she didn’t say anything.
“When I called you and told you about Hardy. You talked about the noble work we do. You said, ‘This is why we do this.’ Was that just a line, Kiz?”
It was a while before she spoke. Bosch knew she was looking at him and waiting for him to turn and look at her. But he couldn’t do it.
“No,” she finally said. “It wasn’t just a line. It was the truth. And someday you may appreciate that I do what I need to do so that you can do what you need to do.”
She waited for his response but he said nothing.
He heard the door slide open and then close. She was gone. Bosch looked out at the fading light and waited a moment before speaking.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story was in part suggested by Robert McDonald. For that the author is very grateful.
Many others contributed to this work and they are also gratefully acknowledged. They include Asya Muchnick, Bill Massey, Michael Pietsch, Pamela Marshall, Dennis Wojciechowski, Jay Stein, Rick Jackson, Tim Marcia, John Houghton, Terrill Lee Lankford, Jane Davis, Heather Rizzo and Linda Connelly. Many thanks to all.
ALSO BY MICHAEL CONNELLY
Fiction
The Black Echo
The Black Ice
The Concrete Blonde
The Last Coyote
The Poet
Trunk Music
Blood Work
Angels Flight
Void Moon
A Darkness More Than Night
City of Bones
Chasing the Dime
Lost Light
The Narrows
The Closers
The Lincoln Lawyer
Echo Park
The Overlook
The Brass Verdict
The Scarecrow
Nine Dragons
The Reversal
The Fifth Witness
Non-Fiction
Crime Beat
E-books
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Angle of Investigation
Copyright
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Orion Books.
This eBook first published in 2011 by Orion Books.
Copyright © 2011 by Hieronymus, Inc.
The moral right of Michael Connelly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 3430 5
Orion Books
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
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