The office was empty. He walked in and closed the door, then stepped to the side of the door and took in the room as a whole. He checked the floor first and saw no indentations in the carpet or anything else that drew suspicion or interest. Scanning the rest of the room, he saw no signs that a struggle had taken place.
He got up and moved behind the desk, using the cuff of his coat again to hit the space bar on the computer. The screen came alive but was password protected. Continuing with the cuff over his hand, he opened drawers in the desk, finding nothing of note until he got to the first of the bottom file drawers. The key was still in the lock. He managed to turn it with his sleeve and there on top of several files were the documents Bosch had given Manley that morning. Bosch saw that there were several notes written in the margins of the top sheet.
Just as he lifted the documents out of the drawer, the door to the office swung open and the man Bosch had seen at the window in Mitchell’s office was standing there. He was taller than Bosch had realized from the previous glimpse. Sharp shoulders, thick in the middle but not fat. Forty years before, he could have been an offensive lineman.
“Who are you?” he said. “Are you the police? You have no right to be going through an attorney’s documents, dead or alive. This is outrageous behavior.”
Bosch knew there was no good answer or bluff to the questions. He was in a jam. The only thing he apparently had going for him was that Mitchell—if it was Mitchell—didn’t recognize him. This made Bosch jump to the possibility that Mitchell was unaware and isolated from the nefarious actions of his own law firm.
“I said, who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and going through privileged information?” the man demanded.
Bosch decided his only defense was offense.
He pulled the ID tag off his jacket, held it out, then shoved it into his jacket pocket.
“I was a cop but not anymore,” he said. “And I’m not randomly going through Manley’s files. I came for my own files. He’s dead and I want my stuff back.”
“Then what you do is hire a new attorney and he requests the files as your representative,” the man said. “You don’t break and enter an office and steal documents out of a drawer.”
“I didn’t break in. I walked in. And I’m not stealing what is already mine.”
“What is your name?”
“Bosch.”
The name made no discernible impact on the man in the doorway, further supporting Bosch’s assumption.
“I had an appointment with Manley,” Bosch said. “I came in to sign papers and I find out he’s splattered all over the plaza down there. I want my file and I want the documents I gave him and I want to be out of here.”
“I told you, it doesn’t work that way,” the man said. “You take nothing from this room. Do you understand?”
Bosch decided on a different tack.
“You’re Mitchell, right?”
“Samuel Mitchell. I cofounded this firm twenty-four years ago. I am chairman and managing partner.”
“Managing partner. That means you collect the money but aren’t involved in the cases, right?”
“Sir, I am not going to talk to you about my job or this firm.”
“And so you probably didn’t know what Manley and your partner Michaelson were up to. You didn’t know about the woman?”
“The woman? What woman? Who are you talking about?”
“Sonja Soquin. Laurie Lee Wells. The Black Widow—whatever they called her. The woman they used to get things done when there was no other way—legally—to do it.”
“You’re not making sense to me and I want you to leave. Now. The police are coming up here any moment.”
“I know. And that’s not a good thing for you, Samuel. It’s going to unravel everything. Where is she? Where is Sonja Soquin?”
“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the woman they used to kill Judge Montgomery for what he did to Manley in court. The woman they used to kill Edison Banks Jr. so he would not be a threat to the shipping fortune of one of your biggest clients. The woman they used who knows how many other times before that.”
Mitchell looked like he had been hit with a bucket of cold water. His face stiffened. His eyes opened wide and an understanding of things came to them. Bosch judged it to be sincere. Genuine surprise, then a terrible understanding.
He shook his head and recovered.
“Sir,” he said. “I am asking you to leave this office right—”
There was a metal snap and a thumping sound. They overlapped in the way a drummer will hit the snare and pump the bass at the same moment. The top of Mitchell’s carefully combed hair popped up and Bosch heard the bullet hit the coffered ceiling. Mitchell then dropped hard onto his knees, his eyes now blank, unseeing. He was dead before he pitched forward, going down face-first to the floor without putting out a hand to break the fall.
Bosch looked at the open door behind his body. He expected Michaelson to step in but it was the Black Widow. Down at her side she carried a black steel automatic with a suppressor attached. She had the dark wig on and black clothing.
Bosch bent his elbows and raised his hands to show he was no threat. He hoped that the metallic sound of the shot and Mitchell’s body dropping might bring the officer from the waiting area. Or maybe Gustafson and Reyes would finally arrive and save the day.
Bosch nodded at the body.
“I guess the Manley suicide isn’t going to sell now,” he said.
She didn’t take the bait at first. She just looked at him with what was either a sneer or a crooked smile. Like an actress Bosch had always liked over the years. Oddly, he started thinking about the movies she had been in: Diner, Sea of Love, the one where she was a detective working a serial case and—
“Why did you do this?” the woman said. “You’re not even a cop.”
“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “Once a cop, always a cop, I guess.”
“You should’ve stayed away from it.”
Bosch detected a slight accent but couldn’t place it. Eastern Europe, he guessed. He knew she was going to shoot him now and there was no way he could get to his own gun in time.
“Why didn’t you leave—after Manley?” he asked. “You should have been long gone.”
“I did,” she said. “I was clear. But then I saw you. I came back for you. The job was Manley and you. You just saved me a lot of time.”
Bosch put it together: Michaelson was cleaning up a mess. No matter what hold Manley had had on him and the firm, he had finally outstayed his welcome by letting the fox into the henhouse. He had to go—and so did the fox.
“What about Mitchell?” Bosch asked. “Was he a freebie?”
“No, he was just in the way,” the woman said. “But I can make it work. You’ll get credit for him too.”
Bosch nodded.
“I get it,” he said. “Angry ex-cop goes on a rampage. Throws his lawyer off the roof, kills the founding partner. It won’t work. I was with a cop when you threw Manley over the edge.”
She made a gesture with the gun.
“It’s the best I can do under the circumstances,” she said. “I’ll be gone when they figure it out.”
She steadied her aim and Bosch knew this was it. He suddenly thought of Tyrone Power dying while fighting a fake duel and doing what he loved. And John Jack Thompson going to his grave with a terrible secret. He wasn’t ready to go either way.
“Let me ask you one question,” he said.
“Hurry,” she said.
“How’d you get him up there? Manley. How’d you get him to the roof?”
She gave the crooked smile again before answering. Bosch saw her aim drop again.
“That was easy,” she said. “I told him you were coming for him and that we had a helicopter waiting for him on the roof. I said we were going to Vegas, where he was getting a new name and a new life. I told him Mr. Michaelson had set it all u
p.”
“And he believed you,” Bosch said.
“That was his mistake,” she said. “We purged his computer and he sent an e-mail to the firm saying goodbye. Once we were up there, the rest was easy. Just like this.”
BALLARD
51
Ballard came out of the elevator and immediately saw the uniformed police officer standing in a waiting area to the left. She walked directly to him, pulling her jacket back to show her badge. She saw his name was French.
“I’m looking for a guy—sixties, mustache, looks like a cop,” she said.
“There was a guy like that but he had a legit ID,” French said.
“Where is he?”
French pointed.
“He went around the stairs,” he said.
“Okay,” Ballard said.
She walked to the reception desk, where a young man was playing solitaire on his phone.
“Where is Clayton Manley’s office?”
“You go around the stairs and it’s the last office at the end of the hall past Mr. Michaelson’s and Mr. Mitchell’s offices. I can take you back.”
“No, you stay here. I’ll find it.”
Ballard moved quickly toward the curving staircase and the hall. As she entered the passageway she saw the first two doors on the left closed, but the last door was open and she heard voices. One belonged to a woman and the other, unmistakably, to Harry Bosch.
She quietly drew her weapon and held it in two hands in front of her as she moved down the hallway and closer to the open door. She strained to listen.
“That was his mistake,” the woman said. “We purged his computer and he sent an e-mail to the firm saying goodbye. Once we were up there, the rest was easy. Just like this.”
Ballard came to the door and saw a woman standing with her back to her. Dark hair, dark clothes. She thought: Black Widow. Beyond her was a man facedown on the floor. Gray hair but not like Bosch’s.
The woman was raising a weapon with a sound suppressor attached.
“You move, you die,” Ballard said.
The woman froze, her arm straight but the weapon only halfway up to firing position.
“Drop the weapon and let me see both hands,” Ballard ordered. “Now!”
The woman remained frozen and Ballard knew she was going to have to shoot her.
“Last chance. Drop … the … weapon.”
Ballard raised her arms slightly so she could sight down the barrel of her pistol. She would cut the woman’s cords with a shot to the back of the neck.
The woman opened her gun hand and the weight of the barrel with the suppressor dropped the muzzle downward as the handle came up.
“I’ve got a hair trigger on this,” she said. “I drop it, it could go off. I’m going to lower it to the ground.”
“Slowly,” Ballard said. “Harry?”
“I’m here,” Bosch said from the right.
“You carrying?”
“Have it on her right now.”
“Good.”
The woman in the room started to bend her knees and flex down. Ballard followed her with the aim of her gun, holding her breath the whole time until the weapon was dropped the last few inches.
“All right, stand up,” Ballard ordered. “Move to the window and put your palms flat on the glass.”
The woman did as instructed, stepping to the floor-to-ceiling glass panel and then raising and placing her hands against it.
“You got her?” Ballard asked.
“I’ve got her,” Bosch said.
He raised his aim to assure Ballard he had the woman firmly in his sights. Ballard holstered her weapon and moved in to search the woman.
“Do you have any other weapons on you?”
“Just the one on the floor.”
“I’m going to search you now. If I find another weapon on you it’s going to be a problem.”
“You won’t.”
Ballard moved forward and used her foot to push the woman’s legs apart. She then began a pat-down that started low with the legs before moving up.
“Do you have to do that?” the woman asked.
“With you, yes,” Ballard said.
“And I bet you like it.”
“Part of the job.”
Finished with the search, Ballard put her hand on the woman’s back to hold her in place. She then pulled her cuffs off her belt.
“Okay, one at a time,” she said. “I want you to bring your hand down from the glass and behind your back. Your right first.”
Ballard reached up and grabbed the right wrist as it was coming down and started bringing it behind the Black Widow’s back. But the woman turned as if being pivoted by Ballard. Ballard tried to stop it.
“No—”
Ballard saw it before she felt it. In the woman’s hand was an open folding knife with a blade curved like a horn. All matte black except for the edge of the blade that had been sharpened to a shine. The woman brought it up and into Ballard’s left armpit and then put her other arm around her neck in a V hold. She was now behind Ballard and using her as a shield. Ballard saw Bosch holding his weapon, looking for a clean shot that wasn’t there.
“I sliced a bleeder under her arm,” the woman said. “She’s got three minutes and she’ll bleed out. You put the gun down. I walk out of here. She lives.”
“Take the shot, Harry,” Ballard said.
The woman adjusted herself behind Ballard to improve her shielding. Ballard could feel her breath on the back of her neck. She could feel blood running over her ribs and down her side.
“Two and a half minutes,” the woman said.
“There’s a cop out front,” Bosch said.
“And there’s an exit to the stairs in the copy room. We’re almost at two minutes.”
Bosch remembered seeing the emergency exit door. He signaled with the gun toward the door.
“Go,” he said.
“Gun,” the woman said.
Bosch put his gun down on the desk.
“Harry, no,” Ballard managed to say in a whisper.
She then felt herself being dragged toward the office door.
“Get back against the bookshelf,” the woman ordered.
Bosch raised his hands and moved back. Ballard was dragged toward the door.
“You’re going to have a choice now,” the woman said. “Save her or go after me.”
Ballard felt the woman’s grip release and she fell back against the doorframe and then slid down to a sitting position.
Bosch came quickly around the desk to her. His hands immediately went inside her jacket to her belt and pulled off the radio. He knew how to use it.
“Officer down! Need immediate medical on sixteenth floor of California Plaza West. Office of Clayton Manley. Repeat, officer down. Officer stabbed, losing blood, needs immediate medical.”
He put the rover on the floor and then opened Ballard’s jacket to get a look at the knife wound.
“Harry … I’m okay, go after her.”
“I’m going to lay you on your right side so the wound is on the high side. You’re going to be all right. I’ll compress the wound.”
“No, go.”
Bosch ignored her. As he gently put her down on her side he heard footsteps running in the hallway. Officer French appeared in the doorway.
“French,” Bosch yelled. “Get the EMTs. There’s a team down in the plaza. Get them up here, now. Then put out a broadcast. A woman, thirties, white, black hair, all black clothing, armed and dangerous. She went into the exit stairs. She’s trying to get out of the building.”
French didn’t move. He seemed frozen by what he was seeing.
“Go!” Bosch yelled.
French disappeared. Ballard looked up from the floor to Bosch. She felt her clock running out. For some reason, she smiled. She barely heard Bosch talking to her.
“Stay with me, Renée. I’m going to use your arm to compress the wound. It’s gonna hurt.”
Holding her
by the elbow, he shifted her arm up so that he could hold her biceps down on the wound. It didn’t hurt at all and that made her smile.
“Harry …”
“Don’t talk. Don’t waste your energy. Just stay with me, Renée. Stay with me.”
BALLARD AND BOSCH
52
Ballard couldn’t seem to move on the bed without setting off searing pain that ran like branches of lightning over the left side of her body. She was being treated at White Memorial in Boyle Heights. It was the second morning after the events at California Plaza and she was out of the intensive care unit. The Black Widow had only nicked her axillary artery with her curving blade, but nevertheless Ballard had suffered a major loss of blood. The EMTs had contained it and then an ER doctor had sutured her damaged blood vessels in a four-hour surgery. It was just that now her left arm felt like it had been strapped to her body with bungee cords and any little movement set off pain like she had never felt in her life.
“Stop moving.”
She turned her head to see Bosch enter the room.
“Easier said than done,” she said. “Did you have trouble getting in this time?”
“No,” Bosch said. “I’m finally on the Approved list.”
“I told them you were my uncle.”
“I’ll take that over grandfather.”
“I should’ve thought of that. So, what’s the news? She’s still in the wind?”
Bosch sat down on a chair next to the bed. There was a table to his left crowded with flower vases and stuffed animals and cards.
“The Black Widow’s in the wind,” he said. “But at least they know who they’re looking for. They got a print off one of the cartridges in the gun she left and IDed her—they think. Turns out the FBI’s been looking for her for a while for some wet work she did in Miami.”
“They have her name?”
“Catarina Cava.”
“What’s that, Italian?”
“No, Cuban, actually.”
“How did she get hooked up with Batman?”
The Night Fire Page 32