Michael Connelly: Suicide Run: Three Harry Bosch Stories

Again Bosch waited a few moments to see if he would say more but he didn’t. Bosch continued.

“All right, so the card room in Commerce is off-limits. Where then do you play? The Hustler or the card room at the Hollywood track?”

“Nope, I don’t play anywhere. They’re all together on this. You get banned one place and they put your picture on the wall everyplace else. It’s fucking unconstitutional but nothing I can do anything about.”

“So you play private games?”

“When I can get them, yeah. Meantime, I was my wife’s manager.”

Bosch thought about his ex-wife and the stories she told about private games, the personal items, car keys and guns that would sometimes go into the pots.

“You ever win anything besides money at those private games?”

“What are you talking about?”

“My ex-wife is a player-you might even know her. Eleanor Wish?”

Blitzstein hesitated and then nodded.

“Yeah, I remember her. I think Tracey told me she was in Hong Kong or Macau these days. I was even thinking of heading over there to check out the casinos.”

Bosch saw an opening and went for it.

“When did you start thinking about that?”

“What?”

“Moving to Hong Kong or Macau.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, man. I said I was thinking of going over there to check it out, not move there. Why would I think of moving there?”

“Because you were banned here. Did the ban extend to Las Vegas? Maybe you were thinking of pulling up stakes.”

“Look, man, it’s none of your business. I wasn’t thinking about moving anywhere. We have a house here and I was happy. A lot of things were happening for Trace and I was managing her career. I don’t need to defend myself to you.”

Bosch raised his hands in a back-off gesture.

“You certainly don’t. Anyway, back to what I was asking about. Yes, my wife does play in Macau. She likes it. She used to tell me about these private games she played when she was over here. She said you could win anything sometimes. It was like owning a pawnshop. People would throw in jewelry, cars, guns. You ever won any stuff like that?”

Blitzstein looked at Bosch for a long moment, his eyes going through a slow burn from cold to hot.

“Fuck you, Detective Bosch. I want a lawyer.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong except for you trying to fuck me in the ass. I want a goddamn phone and I want to call a lawyer.”

Bosch leaned back in his seat.

“You know once you say that we’re done, I can’t talk to you and I can’t help you. You sure you want-”

“Help me? Yeah, help me into a prison cell for something I didn’t do. Fuck you. Get me the phone. We’re done here.”

Bosch drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and then nodded.

“All right, we’ll do it your way. I’ll go get you the phone.”

He slowly got up, giving Blitzstein a last chance to change his mind, and then left the room when he didn’t.

Gunn met him in the hallway.

“Well, you got close,” she said. “You convinced me-or rather, he convinced me-but I still don’t think we have enough to charge him.”

“Maybe not. Has my partner called?”

“Oh, shit! Your phone! Where is it? I… I think I left it out there on your desk when we got the coffee.”

They walked out to the squad room and Bosch grabbed his phone. He’d missed three calls from Ferras while he was in the interview room with Blitzstein. He quickly called back.

“Harry, where you been?”

“In an interview. You got something?”

“Jackpot, man. We got it all.”

“Tell me.”

“You were right. The driver-side door has a secret compartment. The armrest unsnaps from the door and opens up. The latch was hidden behind the speaker grille in the door.”

“What did you find?”

“We found the money, the gun, a workout shirt and gloves. It’s all there. The gun’s got a suppressor on it, too. A homemade job. There was also a bracelet in the compartment she must’ve put in there. It’s from when she won a qualifying tournament for the World Series of Poker in oh-four.”

Bosch looked at Gunn. He was annoyed. It was all information he could’ve used before Blitzstein shut things down and called for a lawyer. He turned away and went back to Ferras.

“Did you run the gun yet?”

“Yeah, just did. It’s a dead end. It was reported stolen nine months ago by the original owner in Long Beach. A gun dealer named Kermit Lodge. Said it was stolen off a table at a gun show in Pomona.”

Bosch knew it wasn’t a dead end. If they found a link between the gun’s original owner and Blitzstein, then the dead end could become an integral piece of evidence. But that was for later. He asked Ferras about the workout shirt and the gloves.

“It’s a long-sleeved plastic pullover. You know, for like sweating and losing weight.”

“And the gloves?”

“Just your basic work gloves. They look new. There’s blowback on the shirt and the gloves. The thing is, Harry, the shooter knew about the secret compartment. He shot her then dumped the gun, the shirt and the gloves in the compartment. The husband, Harry. He shot her, hid everything in the compartment and then started calling for help.”

“Yeah, now we just have to prove it. He just lawyered up.”

Ferras didn’t respond and in the silence Bosch thought of something. One last thing to attempt.

“What kind of work gloves are they? Leather, plastic, cotton?”

“Cotton.”

Bosch felt a small spark of hope. The gloves and the shirt had been worn by the killer so that he would avoid getting blowback-blood, brains and gunshot residue-on his body. But blowback came in all sizes-including microscopic-and cotton was porous.

“Okay, I want you to leave the scene,” Bosch said. “Go down to Long Beach and pick up the gun dealer. Bring him up here to RHD.”

“Pick him up for what?”

“Just tell him he reported the theft of a weapon and that we’ve recovered it and need him to come downtown to identify it. Keep him in the dark. Just get him down here.”

“Okay, I’m on it.”

“Good.”

Bosch closed the phone.

“What did they get?” Gunn asked.

“Everything.”

He updated her on the phone call and she was immediately apologetic about forgetting about his phone. She knew he could have used the information about the secret compartment to press Blitzstein. It seemed obvious that he would have known about the compartment in his wife’s car, yet he never mentioned it when discussing the precautions she took.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bosch said. “It’s done.”

“Then what’s the next move?”

Bosch didn’t answer at first. He pulled his fold of cash out of his pocket. He had three one-dollar bills. He studied these and asked Gunn if she had any ones. She pulled out some cash and held out two ones.

Bosch chose one of Gunn’s dollars and gave her one of his in exchange. He then put the dollars in one pocket and returned his cash fold to the other.

“Okay,” he said. “Now we’ll see what kind of poker player David Blitzstein is.”

Bosch walked back into the interview room and put his cell phone down on the table in front of Blitzstein.

“There’s the phone,” he said. “But since you are calling an attorney, I need to read you your constitutional rights and make sure you have a full understanding of them. It’s procedure.”

“Then let’s get it on,” Blitzstein said. “I want to make the call.”

Bosch pulled out a business card and sat down at the interview table across from Blitzstein. The card had the rights advisory on the back side. He read it out loud, then had Blitzstein read it and sign it as well. He watched as the suspect signed it with his left hand.