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Майкл Коннелли: Two Kinds of Truth

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Майкл Коннелли Two Kinds of Truth

Two Kinds of Truth: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Harry Bosch is back as a volunteer working cold cases for the San Fernando Police Department and is called out to a local drug store where a young pharmacist has been murdered. Bosch and the town’s 3-person detective squad sift through the clues, which lead into the dangerous, big business world of pill mills and prescription drug abuse. Meanwhile, an old case from Bosch’s LAPD days comes back to haunt him when a long-imprisoned killer claims Harry framed him, and seems to have new evidence to prove it. Bosch left the LAPD on bad terms, so his former colleagues aren’t keen to protect his reputation. He must fend for himself in clearing his name and keeping a clever killer in prison. The two unrelated cases wind around each other like strands of barbed wire. Along the way Bosch discovers that there are two kinds of truth: the kind that sets you free and the kind that leaves you buried in darkness.

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Bosch nodded. But the truth was, it felt to him like he was walking in circles. True justice was the brass ring just out of reach.

Bosch stood up.

“You going to call up Carlos and tell him he’s off the hook?” he asked.

Carlos Tavares was Esmerelda’s husband, fifteen years a suspect.

“Fuck him,” Valdez said. “He’s still an asshole. He can read about it in the paper.”

Bosch went to the door and then looked back at his boss.

“I’ll have the report on this finished today,” he said.

“Good,” Valdez said. “Then we go drinking.”

“That sounds right.”

44

Bosch wanted to avoid the detective bureau. He didn’t want to talk anymore. Bella Lourdes and the others would find out soon enough about Esme Tavares being alive and well, and it would be the talk of the department and then the whole town. But Bosch had talked about it enough for the time being.

He walked out the front door of the station and then crossed the street. He went through the Public Works yard and into the jail. After unlocking his cell, he slid the heavy steel door open and it banged hard against its frame. Like the police chief, Bosch went to the photo of Esme Tavares to yank it down. But then he stopped. He decided to leave it in place so he would always see it and it would remind him about how wrong he had been about the case.

It was the child in the crib that had misled him. He knew this. It seemed against all laws of nature, and so it had led him and many others before him down the wrong path.

He stood there looking at the photo and considered the irony of the week. Elizabeth Clayton couldn’t recover from the loss of a child and wandered the earth as a zombie, not caring what was done to her or what depravity she had willingly sunk to. Esme Tavares left a child in a crib and apparently never looked back.

The reality of the world was dark and horrifying. Bosch sat down behind his makeshift desk to do the paperwork that would document the grim reality of it. But he found that he couldn’t even begin.

He contemplated this for a long moment and then stood back up. There was a bench that ran down the center of the cell perpendicular to his desk. He used it mostly to spread out photos and files so that he could review stubborn cases from a fresh angle, often looking at the crime scene photos placed side by side down the length of the scarred wooden bench. He had been told that the bench had been nicknamed “the diving board” back in the day because it had been the jumping-off point to oblivion for a handful of inmates over time. They would step up on the bench, wrap one leg from their jail pants through the bars guarding the overhead air vent, then wrap the other around their neck.

They’d jump off the end of the bench into the dark pool of emptiness, and their misery would be over.

Bosch stepped up onto the bench now. He reached above his head to grasp one of the overhead bars for support.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Checking the screen, he held the phone up, turning on the bench, moving his arm until he saw one service bar finally appear in the corner. With his thumb, he went to his contact list and scrolled until almost the end and hit the number he was looking for.

Lucia Soto answered right away.

“Harry, what’s up?”

“Did you pull that case I told you about?”

“Daisy Clayton? Yes, first thing this morning.”

“And?”

“You were right, gathering dust. Nobody’s worked it in three, four, years except for the annual due diligence reports, which are word-for-word copies of the year before. You know how it goes: ‘No viable leads at this time’ because they didn’t really look for viable leads.”

“And?”

“And I think they were wrong. I saw some stuff. There are workable angles. It was pretty much written off as a serial. Somebody who moved through Hollywood, did his thing, and moved on. But I’m not so sure about that. I looked at the photos. There was a familiarity with her and the place she was left. He knew the area. I’m going to—”

“Lucia.”

“What, Harry?”

“Cut me in.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I want in. Let’s go get him.”

Acknowledgments

Many people contributed their time, experience, and expertise to the author in the research and writing of this novel. On the research side of things they include Rick Jackson, Tim Marcia, Mitzi Roberts, David Lambkin, Dennis Wojciechowski, Irwin Rosenberg, Anthony Vairo, Lynn Smith, Adam Frisch, Henrik Bastin, and Daniel Daly. On the writing side, there was Asya Muchnick, Bill Massey, Harriet Bourton, Emad Aktar, Pamela Marshall, Terrill Lee Lankford, Jane Davis, Heather Rizzo, John Houghton, and Linda Connelly. Many of those named here had their feet firmly planted in both sides of the equation.

To those listed and those left off inadvertently or by choice to remain anonymous, the author is deeply grateful.

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