Майкл Коннелли - Dark Sacred Night

“Our suspect somehow got wind of the search and got up early to come watch,” he said.

“That’s fucked up,” Yaro said. “Sounds like you sprung a leak.”

“If we did, I’ll find it.”

Bosch walked on past him and back into the garage. He watched as a metal detector usually used to find water mains was moved over the back wall. It easily picked up the lines of screws used to secure drywall to the interior studs, but no other alerts came up. The bullet that was fired into Cristobal Vega’s head had been a metal-jacketed .38 slug. Similar slugs should have registered as easily as drywall screws.

Despite his feeling that the search for bullets was for naught, Bosch decided to follow through with the execution of the warrant and told the city workers to cut through the drywall and bring the wall down. He reasoned that while Cortez may have dug the slugs out of the wall long ago, the interior side of the drywall would still show where bullets had gone through and the wall had eventually been patched. It would be at least a minor confirmation of the Perez’s story. Most likely not enough to move the case closer to prosecution, but confirmation just the same.

The workers cut out floor-to-ceiling slices of the drywall between the studs. The inside surface of each sixteen-inch-wide cut was then examined by the detectives for indications of bullet entry.

The third cut had what they were looking for. It was clear that there had been two perforations — matching Perez’s story. They were small, bullet-size perforations and there was no indication that any effort had previously been made to extract the slugs. This contradicted Bosch’s theory about why Cortez had showed up across the street to gloat. Rather than knowing there were no bullets in the wall, he knew something else that made him confident enough to show up.

The shots were spread four inches apart on the drywall, an indicator that they were part of the same test firing that Perez had described. The unpainted cinder block corresponding to the drywall penetrations showed impact damage but no bullets. The team had borrowed an evidence technician from the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, which contracted with the tiny SFPD to do all lab work. It was his job to pick through the rat droppings, hair, and other debris at the bottom of the space created by the 2 x 4 framing between the drywall and the cinder-block wall. His name was Harmon and he used a metal pick to search through about six inches of debris that had built up inside the wall, spreading it all out on the floor of the shop.

Bosch recorded Harmon’s efforts on his cell phone, knowing that at some point he might have to lead a jury through the steps he had taken in finding the evidence against Tranquillo Cortez.

“Got one,” Harmon said.

He used the metal pick to knock a slug out of the packed debris and across the concrete floor. Bosch leaned down, still holding the phone out to record. When he saw the slug, his renewed hopes for the case took another tumble. The projectile had split its metal casing and pancaked upon impact with the cinder block inside the wall. Bosch would wait for the expert opinion but he had been around enough cases to know that the bullet was too damaged to be considered for comparison with the bullet that killed Cristobal Vega.

“And here’s the other one,” Harmon said.

He picked out the second slug with a gloved hand and held it up. Bosch’s eyes went to it with urgency.

But this one was in even worse shape. It too had pancaked but it had also shattered. He was looking at about half of the bullet.

“There’s more,” he said, even though someone of Harmon’s skill would already know this.

“Still looking,” Harmon said.

Bosch felt his phone buzz with a call but he let it go to message so he could continue to video Harmon’s search.

Harmon soon found the rest of the second bullet and it was in as poor shape as the others. He then went through evidence-collecting procedures. He spoke without looking up at Bosch.

“Detective, it looks like you’ve been around,” he said. “You probably know what I’m going to tell you.”

“No good, huh?” Bosch said.

“Not for comparison on a scope,” Harmon said. “We’ll be able to determine a brand match and there’s more than enough for metal-alloy comparison, but you know how that goes.”

“Right.”

The content of the slugs could be determined and compared to the bullet that killed Perez, possibly leading to a conclusion that the bullets came from the same manufacturing group and lending some credence to the witness’s story, but it would be nowhere near as definitive as the marks left by the gun that fired them. It was the difference between saying that the bullets came from the same batch and that they were fired by the same weapon. The difference had reasonable doubt written all over it.

Bosch was seeing the case go away as he stood there.

“I want to do the metal-alloy testing anyway,” he said.

It was a last desperate shot.

“I’ll talk to the boss,” Harmon said. “I’ll tell him it’s a good case for it and will let you know.”

Bosch knew that when he would hear back was anyone’s guess. The alloy testing would take money and time. The SFPD was usually last in line at the sheriff’s lab. Any sort of special work would go on the when-we-can-get-to-it list.

Bosch backed away from the grouping at the wall, giving Lourdes a look that said this was going nowhere. He addressed the head man of the Public Works crew.

“Okay, we’re going to need to put this place back together,” he said. “We want to keep the one piece of wall where we found the bullet holes. So you’ll have to replace that.”

One of the men grunted his assent and they headed out to the truck for their tools and a fresh piece of drywall to replace the old one.

Lourdes huddled with Bosch.

“So, if there were bullets in the wall after all, what was Cortez so smug about?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “He knew something, but I doubt he knew the slugs would be useless.”

Lourdes shook her head and then stepped back as the city workers walked a large sheet of fresh drywall into the garage bay.

Bosch’s phone started buzzing again, and he walked out of the garage as he pulled it out of his pocket. The caller ID was blocked but he took the call anyway.

“Bosch.”

“Harry Bosch?”

“That’s right, who’s this?”

“Ted Lannark, Sheriff’s Homicide. You got a minute?”

“What’s up?

“What can you tell me about a guy named Martin Perez?”

All at once Bosch knew why Cortez had acted like he had the world on a string.

“He’s a peripheral witness in a gang murder I’m working. What is he to you?”

“He’s dead and I have to find out who killed him.”

Bosch closed his eyes.

“Where?” he asked.

“His apartment,” Lannark said. “Somebody put a round in the back of his head.”

Bosch opened his eyes and looked around for Lourdes.

“Bosch, you wondering how I knew to call you on your cell?” Lannark asked.

“Yeah,” Bosch said. “How?”

“Your business card with the cell handwritten on it was in his mouth. Like it was a message or something.”

Bosch considered that for a long moment before responding.

“I’m on my way.”

“We’ll be here waiting.”

It was almost as if the killer wanted to make it easy for the landlord to clean up and re-rent the place. Martin Perez had been made to kneel in a walk-in shower with yellowed tiles and a glass sliding door. He was then popped once in the back of the head. He crumpled forward and to his right, the splatter of blood and brains contained within the enclosure, some of it even conveniently dripping down the drain.