Майкл Коннелли - The Night Fire [Harry Bosch - 22]

“Not yet,” the officer said.

“You’re keeping people from leaving?”

“That’s right.”

“When did you get here?”

“We were code seven at the food court across the street. We got here pretty quick after the call. Maybe twenty-five minutes ago.”

“We?”

“My partner’s upstairs. The firm has elevators on the second level too.”

“Okay, I need to go back to the victim’s office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bosch walked past the suede couch and started around the staircase but then thought of something and returned to the officer.

“Officer French, did anybody try to leave while you’ve been here?”

“Just a couple people, sir.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t get names. I wasn’t told to do that.”

“Male or female?”

“Two guys, they said they had to go to court. I told them we’d get them cleared as soon as possible. They said they’d call the courtroom to notify them.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Bosch headed around the stairway again. He was convinced that the Black Widow had come and gone. He moved quietly down the hall. The door to Michaelson’s office was closed but the door to Mitchell’s office was open, and as Bosch passed he saw an older man with graying hair standing at the floor-to-ceiling window looking down into the plaza.

The door to Clayton Manley’s office was closed as well. Bosch leaned his ear against it and listened for conversation but heard nothing. He pulled his jacket sleeve over his palm and pushed the handle down to open the door.

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.