Майкл Коннелли - Two Kinds of Truth

It was her favorite pizza place in L.A.

“Wherever you want.”

“Great, Dad. But I gotta go.”

“Okay, love you. Be safe.”

“You, too.”

Then she was gone.

Bosch felt a wave of grief. His daughter’s world was expanding. She was going places and it was the natural way of things. He loved seeing it and hated living it. She had only been a daily part of his life for a few years before it was time for her to go. Bosch regretted all the lost years before.

When he got to his house, there was a car parked out front with a figure slumped in the front seat. It was nine p.m. and Bosch was not expecting company. He parked in the carport and walked out to the street, coming up behind the car blocking the front walkway to his house. As he approached, he turned on the light on his phone and shined it through the driver’s open window.

Jerry Edgar was asleep behind the wheel.

Bosch tapped lightly on his shoulder until Edgar startled and looked up at him. Because there was a streetlight above and behind him, Bosch was in silhouette.

“Harry?”

“Hey, partner.”

“Shit, I fell asleep. What time is it?”

“About nine.”

“Shit, man. I was out.”

“What’s up?”

“I came by to talk to you. I checked the mail in the box and saw you’re still in the same house.”

“Then let’s go in.”

Bosch opened the car door for him. They went in the front door after Bosch gathered the mail Edgar had checked.

“Honey, I’m home,” Bosch called out.

Edgar gave him an are-you-kidding-me look. He’d always known Bosch to be a loner. Bosch smiled and shook his head.

“Just kidding,” he said. “You want a drink? I’m out of beer. I’ve got a bottle of bourbon and that’s about it.”

“Bourbon’s good,” Edgar said. “Maybe with a cube or two.”

Bosch signaled him into the living room, while he cut right into the kitchen. He got two glasses out of a cabinet and dropped some ice into them. He heard Edgar pull the broomstick out of the sliding door track and open the slider. Bosch grabbed the bottle of bourbon off the top of the refrigerator and went out to the deck. Edgar was standing at the railing, looking down into the Cahuenga Pass.

“Place still looks the same,” Edgar said.

“You mean the house or the canyon?” Bosch asked.

“I guess both.”

“Cheers.”

Bosch handed him both glasses so he could crack the seal on the bottle and pour.

“Wait a minute,” Edgar said when he saw the label. “Are you kidding me?”

“About what?” Bosch asked.

“Harry, do you know what that stuff is?”

“This?”

Now Bosch looked at the label. Edgar turned and dumped the ice over the railing. He then held the empty glasses out to Bosch.

“You don’t put ice in Pappy Van Winkle.”

“You don’t?”

“That’d be like putting ketchup on a hot dog.”

Bosch shook his head. He didn’t get the comparison Edgar was making.

“People put ketchup on hot dogs all the time,” he said.

Edgar held out the glasses, and Bosch started pouring.

“Easy now,” Edgar said. “Where’d you get this?”

“It was a gift from somebody I did some work for,” Bosch said.

“He must be doing pretty good. You look this stuff up on eBay and you’ll wish you never cracked the seal. You coulda bought your daughter a car.”

“It’s a she. The one I did the work for.”

Bosch looked at the label on the bottle again. He held the opening to his nose and picked up a deep, smoky tang.

“A car, huh?” he said.

“Well, at least a down payment,” Edgar said.

“I almost regifted this and gave it to the chief up at San Fernando. I guess it would’ve made his Christmas.”

“More like his whole year.”

Bosch put the bottle down on the two-by-four railing cap, and Edgar immediately panicked. He grabbed the bottle before an earthquake or a Santa Ana wind could send it down into the dark arroyo below. He put it safely down on a table next to the lounge chair.

He came back and they leaned side by side on the rail and sipped and looked into the pass. At the bottom, the 101 freeway was still a ribbon of white light coming up through Hollywood and one of red light going south.

Bosch waited for Edgar to get down to the reason for his visit but nothing came. His old partner seemed content to sip rare bourbon and view the lights.

“So what made you drive up here tonight?” Bosch finally asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Edgar said. “Something about seeing you today. Seeing that you’re still in the game made me think. I hate my job, Harry. We never get anything done. Sometimes I think the state wants to protect bad doctors, not get rid of them.”

“Well, you’re still pulling down a paycheck. I’m not — unless you count the hundo they give me a month for equipment costs.”

Edgar laughed.

“That much, huh? You’re rolling in the green.”

He held out his glass, and Bosch clicked his off of it.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Making bank.”

“How about fucking Hollywood?” Edgar said. “Don’t even have a homicide table anymore.”

“Yeah. Things change.”

“Things change.”

They clicked glasses again and sipped for a few quiet moments before Edgar finally got down to what he had come up the hill to say.

“So Charlie Hovan called me up today, wanted to know all about you.”

“What did you say?”

Edgar turned and looked directly at Bosch. It was so dark on the deck that Bosch could only see a glint of reflection in his eyes.

“I said you were good people. I said trust you and treat you right.”

“I appreciate that, J. Edgar.”

“Harry, whatever this is, I want in. I’ve been sitting on the sidelines too long, watching this shit go down. I’m asking you to include me.”

Bosch took a draw of smoky bourbon before responding.

“We could use all the help we can get. Today I thought you just wanted to get us out of the office.”

“Yeah, because you were a reminder of what I should be fucking doing.”

Bosch nodded. When he and Edgar were partners in Hollywood twenty-five years before, he had never had the sense that Edgar was all in. But he knew the need for redemption comes in all kinds of ways at all kinds of times.

“You know where San Fernando even is?” Bosch asked.

“Sure,” Edgar said. “Went up to the courthouse in San Fernando a few times on cases.”

“Well, if you want in, be at San Fernando PD at eight tomorrow. We’ve got a strategy meeting. We’re going to take down a capper and start fishing. We’ll probably bring Dr. Herrera in at some point too. We could probably use your help with that.”

“Do you have to clear it first?”

“I think the chief will take all the help he can get on this. I’ll talk to him.”

“I’ll be there, Harry.”

He took down the last of his bourbon in one gulp, savored it, and then swallowed. He put the empty glass on the railing and pointed at the glass as he backed away.

“Smooth. Thanks for that, Harry.”

“Want another hit?”

“Would love it, but early start tomorrow. I should go home.”

“You got somebody there waiting, Jerry?”

“Matter of fact, I do. I got remarried when I was working in Vegas. Nice girl.”

“I got married in Vegas once.”

It was the first time Bosch had thought about Eleanor Wish in a long time. Edgar gave him a sad smile.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

He clapped Bosch on the upper arm and headed back into the house and toward the front door. Bosch remained on the deck, sipping his expensive bourbon and thinking about the past. He heard Edgar’s car start up and pull away into the night.