Майкл Коннелли - Dark Sacred Night

“Then I guess we don’t have a lot of time. Daisy Clayton. Tell me about her.”

“I told you—”

Dillon suddenly abandoned his argument and started screaming “Help!” at the top of his lungs. Bosch did nothing and after twenty seconds Dillon stopped, knowing the effort was useless.

“Ironic, huh?” Bosch said. “You designed and built this place so nobody could get out and nobody could hear anybody’s calls for help. And now... here we are. Go ahead, keep on screaming.”

“Look, please, I’m sorry,” Dillon said. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m sorry if I ever did any—”

Bosch reached out with his foot and slid the bucket a few inches closer to Dillon’s crotch. Dillon tried to lean back but there was no place for his body to go. He turned his face to the right.

“Please,” he said. “The fumes. It’s getting in my lungs.”

“I read a story in the newspaper once,” Bosch replied. “It was about this guy who got sulfuric acid spilled on his hands. He quickly put his hands under a faucet to wash it off and that only made it hurt worse. Water more than doubles the pain, but if you don’t flush the acid it will eat right through your skin.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dillon said. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want. I want the story. Daisy Clayton. Two thousand nine. Tell me the story.”

Dillon kept his face turned away from the fumes.

“Get it away!” he cried. “It’s burning my lungs.”

“Two thousand nine,” Bosch said as he sat back in the chair and it squeaked again.

“Look, what do you want?” Dillon said. “You want me to say I did it? Fine, I did it. Whatever it is, I did it. So let’s just call the cops. I know you’re not a cop but let’s call the cops and I’ll tell them I did it. I promise. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them I did the others, too. As many as you want. I’ll tell them I did them all.”

Bosch reached into his pocket for the mini-recorder he had retrieved from his car.

“How many others?” he asked. “Tell me their names.”

He hit the record button.

Dillon shook his head and then kept it turned away from the bucket.

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “This is crazy.”

Bosch put his thumb over the microphone.

“Give me a name, Dillon. You want to get out of here, you want me to call the cops, give me a name. I can’t believe you if you can’t give me a name.”

He freed the microphone.

“Please, let me go,” Dillon said. “I won’t tell anyone about this. I’ll just forget about it. Just let me go. Please.”

Bosch gave the bucket another push with his foot. It was now touching the inner seam of Dillon’s jeans. He covered the microphone again and whenever he spoke.

“Last chance, Roger,” he said. “You start talking or I start walking. I leave the bucket and maybe it burns through and maybe it doesn’t.”

“No, you can’t do this,” Dillon said. “Please. I didn’t do anything!”

“But you just said you did the others. Which is it?”

“All right, whatever. I killed them. I killed them all, okay?”

“Tell me their names. Tell me one name, then I can believe you.”

“That Daisy girl. Her.”

“No, I gave you that name. You have to give me a name.”

“I don’t have any names!”

“That’s really too bad.”

Bosch stood up as if to leave. The chair squeaked, underlining his intentions.

“Sarah Bender!”

Bosch stood still. The name had a slight resonance but he couldn’t place it. He put his thumb on the mic.

“Who?”

He released his thumb.

“Sarah Bender. She’s the only name I know. I remember her because that one made the papers. Her father didn’t give a shit about her until she was missing, then it was boo-hoo all over the news.”

Thumb on.

“And you killed her?”

Thumb off.

Dillon nodded quickly.

“She was out front of a coffee shop. I remember because it was only a block from the LAPD station. I grabbed her right under their fucking noses.”

Thumb on.

“What did you do with her afterward?”

Thumb off.

Dillon nodded in the direction of the corner where the incinerator was located.

“I burned her.”

Bosch paused.

“What about Daisy Clayton?”

“Her too.”

“You didn’t have the burner then.”

“No, I was working out of my own garage then. Just getting the business started.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I cleaned her. With bleach. I didn’t have my acid permits yet.”

“You used your bathtub?”

“No, I put her in one of my bio containers. With a top. I filled it with bleach and left it like that for a day. Rode around with it while I worked.”

“Who else besides Daisy and Sarah?”

“I told you. I can’t remember their names.”

“What about the most recent one? The girl with the pink fingernails. What was her name?”

"I don't remember."

“Sure you do. You had her in the back of that truck. What was her name?”

“Don’t you see? I never asked her name. I didn’t care. Their names didn’t matter. Nobody missed them. Nobody cared. They didn’t count.”

Bosch stared down at him for a long moment. He had what he needed in the way of confirmation. But he wasn’t done.

“What about their parents? Their mothers — did they count?”

“Most of the girls out there? I got news for you, their parents didn’t give a shit about them.”

Bosch thought about Elizabeth Clayton and her sad end. He put it all on Dillon. He pocketed the recorder and reached down to the bucket. He picked it up, ready to dump its fiery contents over Dillon’s head.

Even blinded by the tape, Dillon knew the decision Bosch was making.

“Don’t,” he said pleadingly.

Bosch reached down to the bucket of water. He quietly lifted it and put it down between Dillon’s legs, making sure to slosh the liquid. He then put the bucket of acid down to the side.

“Jesus, be careful!” Dillon exclaimed.

Bosch picked up the roll of duct tape and started wrapping tape around Dillon and the barrel, making sure he could not get up or go anywhere. He did two turns around Dillon’s neck, leaving him the ability to keep his face turned from the bucket. When he was finished, he tore off a small piece of tape, pulled the recorder from his pocket, wiped all sides and buttons against his shirt, then taped it to Dillon’s chest.

“You sit tight now,” he said.

“Where are you going?” Dillon demanded.

“To get the police, like you asked.”

“And you’re just going to leave me here?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You can’t do that. Sulfuric is very volatile. It could eat through the bucket. It could—”

“I’ll be quick.”

Bosch patted Dillon on the shoulder in a supportive way. He then picked up the bucket containing the acid and walked toward the door he had unlocked for Ballard. He left it unlocked behind him.

Outside, Bosch walked into the narrow passageway between Dillon’s warehouse and the one next door. He poured the acid out on top of the accumulated debris and discarded the bucket there as well. He then exited the passage and walked toward his Jeep.

Van Nuys Division was less than a mile away. Bosch drove there. This was not because he had any intention of speaking to the police in person, but because it was the only place he knew of in the area that still had operating pay phones. There was a bank of them at the bottom of the stairs below the station’s main exit — placed there as a convenience for inmates who were released from the station’s jail and needed to call loved ones or lawyers for pickup.