Michael Connelly - The Drop

Bosch shook his head. She apparently didn’t care that her deception had almost resulted in McQuillen’s being accused of murder.

There was a noise from somewhere in the house and Deborah became alert.

“That’s the back door. Chad is home. Do not tell him this. I beg you.”

“He’s going to find out. I should talk to him. His father must’ve told him something when he told him he needed to fly home.”

“No, he didn’t. I was in the room when he called. He just told him we needed him to come home for a few days because of a family emergency. George assured him that everybody was fine healthwise but that he needed to come home. Do not tell him about this. I will tell him.”

“Mom?”

It was Chad calling from somewhere in the house.

“In the living room, Chad,” his mother called back.

Then she looked at Bosch with beseeching eyes.

“ Please ,” she whispered.

Chad Irving entered the living room. He was dressed in blue jeans and a golf shirt. His hair was unkempt and it looked startlingly different from the carefully combed look he’d had at the funeral.

“Chad,” Bosch said. “How are you doing?”

The boy nodded.

“Fine. What are you doing here? Did you arrest someone for killing my father?”

“No, Chad,” his mother said quickly. “Detective Bosch was just doing some follow-up on your father. I had to answer a few questions about the business. That’s all and, in fact, Detective Bosch was just about to leave.”

The time was rare that Bosch would allow someone to speak for him and lie and even push him out the door. But Bosch played along. He even stood up.

“Yes, I think I have what I need for now. I do want to talk a little more with you, Chad, but that can wait until tomorrow. You are still around tomorrow, right?”

Bosch looked at Deborah the whole time he spoke. The message was clear. If you want to be the one who tells him, then tell him tonight. Otherwise, Bosch would be back in the morning.

“Yes, I’m staying until Sunday.”

Bosch nodded. He moved out of the seating area.

“Mrs. Irving, you have my number. Call me if anything else comes up. I’ll show myself out.”

With that, Bosch headed through the living room and then out of the house. He went off the front walkway and crossed the lawn diagonally to his car.

He received a text as he walked. It was from his daughter, of course. No one else ever texted him.

Going to read in bed. Night, Dad.

He stood next to his car and answered her right away.

On my way home now. . O?

Her response was quick.

Ocean.

It was a game they played, though a game with a higher purpose. He had taught her the LAPD’s phonetic alphabet and often tested her in texts. Or while out driving together, he’d point out a license plate and have her call it out in phonetic code.

He texted her back.

TMG

That’s my girl .

Once he was in the car, he lowered the window and looked up at the Irving house. The lights had been turned off now in the downstairs rooms. But the family — what was left of it — was still awake upstairs, dealing with the debris George Irving had left behind.

Bosch started his car and headed toward Ventura Boulevard. He opened his phone and called Chu’s cell. He checked the dash clock and saw it was only nine thirty-eight. There was plenty of time. The Times deadline for the morning print edition was eleven.

“Harry? Everything all right?”

“Chu, I want you to call your girlfriend at the Times . Give—”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Harry. I made a mistake and I resent how you keep sticking the knife in and turning it.”

“Well, I resent you, Chu. But I need you to do this. Call her and give her the story. No names, it’s got to come from ‘informed sources.’ The LAPD—”

“Harry, she won’t trust me. I killed the story before by threatening to ruin her. She won’t even talk to me anymore.”

“Yes, she will. If she wants the story. Send her an e-mail first that says you want to make it up to her and give her a story. Then call her. Just no names. Informed sources. The LAPD will announce tomorrow that the George Irving case has been closed. His death has been ruled a suicide. Make sure you say to her that a week’s investigation has determined that Irving was facing marital issues and tremendous job pressures and difficulties. You got that? I want it said that way.”

“Then why don’t you call her?”

Bosch turned onto Ventura and headed toward the Cahuenga Pass.

“Because she’s yours, Chu. Now call her or text her or send her an e-mail and give it to her exactly the way I said.”

“She’ll want more. This is generic. She’ll want what she calls the telling details.”

Bosch thought for a moment.

“Tell her that the room Irving jumped from had been his honeymoon suite twenty years ago.”

“Okay, that’s good. She’ll like that. What else?”

“Nothing else. That’s enough.”

“Why now? Why not in the morning?”

“Because if it’s in tomorrow’s print edition, it’s going to be hard to change. And that’s what I’m guarding against. High jingo, Chu. This isn’t the conclusion that’s going to make the city councilman happy. That in turn won’t make the chief happy.”

“But it’s the truth?”

“Yeah, it’s the truth. And the truth gets out. Tell GoGo that if she does this right, there’s going to be a follow-up she’ll want to get a piece of.”

“What follow-up?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Just get this going. She has a deadline.”

“Is this how it’s always going to be, Harry? You just tell me what to do and when to do it. I never get a say?”

“You’ll have a say, Chu. With your next partner.”

Bosch closed the phone. As he drove the rest of the way home, he thought about the things he was setting in motion. With the newspaper, with Irving and with Chu.

He was making risky moves and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was because he had been led so far astray on the investigation. Was he punishing himself or those who had led him astray?

Just as he started climbing Woodrow Wilson toward his home he got another call. He expected it to be Chu, confirming that he had made the call and that the story would be in the morning print edition of the Times . But it wasn’t Chu.

“Hannah, I’m working.”

“Oh, I thought maybe we could talk.”

“Well, I’m alone now and have a few minutes but like I said, I’m working.”

“Is it a crime scene?”

“No, an interview, you could call it. What’s up, Hannah?”

“Well, two things. Is there any update on the case involving Clayton Pell? Clayton asks me about it every time I see him. I wish there was something to tell him.”

“Well, there really isn’t. It kind of got back-burnered while I work on this other thing. But that is ending now and I’ll be back on the Pell case pretty quick. You can tell Clayton that. We’ll find Chilton Hardy. I guarantee it.”

“Okay, that’s good, Harry.”

“What’s the other thing you wanted to talk about?”

He knew what it was but it was her call. She had to ask it.

“Us. . Harry, I know I messed things up with my issues about my son. I am sorry about that and I hope it didn’t completely spoil things. I like you a lot and I hope we can see each other again.”

Bosch pulled to a stop in front of his house. His daughter had left the porch light on. He stayed in the car.

“Hannah. . the truth is, all I’ve been doing is working. I’ve got two cases here and I’m trying to work them both. Why don’t we see how we feel over the weekend or early next week? I’ll call you then or you can call me if you want.”