Майкл Коннелли - Dark Sacred Night

Bosch first saw the hands of the passenger come out of the car, held high and open as Tranquillo Cortez emerged to surrender. He was wearing the same flat-brimmed Dodgers hat he had worn on the day they met.

The driver followed but held only his left hand up as he emerged.

The Mustang had pulled behind one of the follow cars and was now close enough for Bosch to hear the tense voices from the officers. He looked over the laptop to watch the action play live.

“Hands!”

“Both hands!”

“Hands up!”

And then the warning turned to alarm.

“Gun! Gun!”

Bosch could only see the driver’s head and shoulders because one of the SIS cars was between them. He looked down at the laptop screen and to the camera angle showing the driver’s side of the Chrysler. The driver, a stocky man who had to twist his body to step out of the car, was emerging, turning and bringing his right arm up in a swinging motion. When his arm cleared his body, Bosch saw the gun.

A tremendous volley of shots seemed to come from all around him.

Tranquillo Cortez paid for his bodyguard’s bravado and suicidal decision to wield the gun. Cortez was centered in the killing ground and was fair game. Both men were hit repeatedly as fire continued from the eight shooters fanned around them. The Chrysler’s windows shattered and the men on either side of it went down. Cortez had actually turned, possibly seeking cover, and went face-first back into the car. His body then fell out, and he was left leaning against the door sill, head down. His hat never came off.

Only when the gunfire stopped did Bosch look back up from the laptop screen. Through an angle between the open doors of two of the follow cars, he could see Cortez, the front of his white shirt soaked in blood. His head jerked as his body seized. For the moment, he was still alive.

“Stay in the car, Bosch,” Cespedes yelled.

He jumped out and ran between two of the cars and through the heavy smoke of the gunfire. He followed two of his men, who were cautiously approaching the Chrysler with guns trained on the men on the ground. Bosch went back to the laptop, turning it fully toward him now because the view was better.

There was a gun on the ground next to the bodyguard’s body. One of the SIS officers kicked it away and then leaned down to check the body for a pulse. He made a hand signal, a flat line, indicating the bodyguard was dead.

Cortez was pulled down flat on the ground and an officer knelt next to him. Even on the infrared screen, it was clear he was breathing. Cespedes was on the screen now, already talking on a cell phone. Bosch assumed he was calling for rescue ambulances or making notifications to command staff.

Bosch wanted to get out of the Mustang and enter the scene, but he remained as ordered in the car. If it appeared that Cespedes had forgotten him, he would get out. He saw Cespedes disconnect from a call and make another.

Bosch looked at the screen and saw the same action again, remembering that the feed to the laptop was delayed. He looked at the keyboard, located the left arrow, and pressed it. The video on the screen started rewinding. Bosch held his finger on the button until the images reversed past the shooting and the two SanFers were still in the white Chrysler.

He replayed the fatal confrontation, tapping the reverse button intermittently to slow down the playback or to entirely replay moments. He wasn’t sure how to set the playback to slow motion. He focused on the camera angle on the upper-left corner of the screen. It was an almost straight-on view of the driver emerging from the car with one hand up.

He focused on the driver’s right arm as it moved out of the shadows of the car. As the arm came up from behind his torso, Bosch could see the gun. But the hand was not grasping it by the grip. The driver was holding the weapon but it was not in a ready-fire grip.

Then Bosch saw an impact on the car as a bullet hit the door frame and fragmented. The first shot. It had come before the gun could have been clearly seen and the driver’s intentions made apparent. Bosch took his finger off the keyboard and let the rest of the shooting play out. He looked up through the windshield and saw Cespedes walking toward the Mustang. He quickly put his finger on the forward arrow and sped the playback, catching it up to real time just as the SIS boss opened the passenger-side door.

Cespedes leaned in.

“He’s circling but conscious if you want to say anything to him,” he said.

“Okay,” Bosch said. “Yeah.”

Cespedes backed away and Bosch got out. They walked between two of the SIS cars and to the passenger side of the Chrysler. A heavy pall of smoke still hung in the air.

Cortez’s eyes were open and looked fearful. Blood was on his tongue and lips and Bosch knew his lungs had likely been riddled with fragmented lead. Harry was shocked by how young he looked. The man who had sneered and postured in the lavandería parking lot a few days before was gone. Cortez now looked like a scared boy in a baseball cap.

Bosch knew it was not the time to say anything, to play the victor or to taunt him with vengeful words.

He said nothing.

Cortez said nothing as well. He locked eyes with Bosch and then moved his arm and reached a bloody hand to the cuff of Bosch’s pants. He grabbed hold of it as though he might be able to hang on to life and keep from being pulled into the waiting darkness.

But after a few seconds he lost his strength. He let go, then closed his eyes and died.

Ballard spread the final shake cards out on a table in the break room. There was more room here than on a borrowed desk in the detective bureau. She was waiting for Bosch. She had been through the cards and done the electronic backgrounding. It was time to work these in the field. If Bosch got in before it was too late, they could possibly knock off a few during the night. She wanted to text or call him to say she was waiting but remembered that he had no phone.

She was sitting there, staring at the cards, when Lieutenant Munroe came in to get a cup of coffee.

“Ballard, what are you doing in so early?” he asked.

“Just working on my hobby case,” she said.

She didn’t look up from the cards and he didn’t look up from his prepping of his coffee.

“That old murder of the girl?” Munroe asked.

“The girl, right,” Ballard said.

She moved two cards across the table to the lesser priority side.

“What’s it got to do with that tattoo artist?” Munroe asked. “That one was solved.”

Now Ballard looked over at Munroe.

“What are you talking about, L-T?” she asked.

“Sorry, I guess I was being snoopy,” Munroe asked. “I saw a murder book in your mail slot when I was going through the records retention box. I took a quick look. I remember that one, but they got the bad guy on it pretty quick, from what I can remember.”

The ZooToo book. Ballard had been waiting on it but had forgotten to check her slot when she had come in from dinner.

“They did clear it,” she said. “I just wanted a look at it. Thanks for letting me know it’s there.”

She walked out of the break room and down the back hallway to the mail room, where every officer and detective in the division had an open slot for internal and external deliveries. She pulled the plastic binder out of her slot.

Munroe was gone when she got back to the break room. She decided to review the murder book there so she would not have to leave the spread of shake cards unattended. She sat down and opened the binder.

The design of a murder book was consistent across all department homicide squads. It was divided into twenty-six sections — crime scene reports, lab reports, photos, witness statements, and so on. The first section was always the chronological record, where the case investigators logged their moves by date and time. Ballard flipped back to section sixteen, which contained the crime scene photos.