Michael Connelly - The Last Coyote

Forty minutes later she was already in a booth near the cashier’s cage when he got there. He slipped into the opposite side of the booth.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Sorry, I was renting a car.”

“They took your car, huh? Must be serious.”

“We’re not going to talk about that.”

“I know. You know who owns this place?”

“Yeah, the mayor. Doesn’t make the food bad.”

She curled her lip and looked around as if the place were crawling with ants. The mayor was a Republican. The Times had gone with the Democrat. What was worse, for her, at least, was that the mayor was a supporter of the Police Department. Reporters didn’t like that. That was boring. They wanted City Hall infighting, controversy, scandal. It made things more interesting.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I could’ve suggested Gorky’s or some more liberal establishment.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bosch. I’m just funnin’ with ya.”

She wasn’t more than twenty-five, he guessed. She was a dark-complected black woman who had a beautiful grace about her. Bosch had no idea where she was from but he didn’t think it was L.A. She had the touch of an accent, a Caribbean lilt, that maybe she had worked on smoothing out. It was still there, though. He liked the way she said his name. In her mouth, it sounded exotic, like a wave breaking. He didn’t mind that she was little more than half his age and addressed him only by his last name.

“Where you from, Keisha?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I’m interested is all. You’re on the beat. I wanna know who I’m dealing with.”

“I’m from right here, Bosch. I came from Jamaica when I was five years old. I went to USC. Where are you from?”

“Right here. Been here all my life.”

He decided not to mention the fifteen months he spent fighting in the tunnels in Vietnam and the nine in North Carolina training for it.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Cut it working on my house. Been doing odd jobs while I’m off. So, what’s it been like taking Bremmer’s place on the cop beat? He’d been there a long time.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s been difficult. But I’m making my way. Slowly. I’m making friends. I hope you’ll be one of my friends, Bosch.”

“I’ll be your friend. When I can. Let’s see what you got.”

She brought a manila file up onto the table but the waiter, an old bald man with a waxed mustache, arrived before she could open it. She ordered an egg salad sandwich. He ordered a well-done hamburger and fries. She frowned and he guessed why.

“You’re vegetarian, right?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. Next time you pick the place.”

“I will.”

She opened the file and he noticed she had several bracelets on her left wrist. They were made of braided thread in many bright colors. He looked in the file and saw a photocopy of a small newspaper clipping. Bosch could tell by the size of the clip that it was one of the stories that gets buried in the back of the paper. She passed it over to him.

“I think this is your Johnny Fox. The age is right but it does not describe him like you did. White trash, you said.”

Bosch read the story. It was dated September 30, 1962.

CAMPAIGN WORKER VICTIM OF HIT AND RUN

By Monte Kim, Times Staff Writer

A 29-year-old campaign worker for a candidate for the district attorney’s office was killed Saturday when he was struck by a speeding car in Hollywood, the Los Angeles police reported.

The victim was identified as Johnny Fox, who lived in an apartment on Ivar Street in Hollywood. Police said Fox had been distributing campaign literature supporting district attorney hopeful Arno Conklin at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and La Brea Avenue when he was cut down by the speeding car as he crossed the street.

Fox was crossing the southbound lanes of La Brea about 2 P.M. when the car struck him. Police said it appeared Fox was killed on impact and his body was dragged for several yards by the car.

The car that hit Fox slowed momentarily after the collision but then sped away, police said. Witnesses told investigators the car proceeded south on La Brea at a high rate of speed. Police have not located the vehicle and witnesses could not provide a clear description of the make and model year. Police said an investigation is continuing.

Conklin campaign manager Gordon Mittel said Fox had joined the campaign only a week ago.

Reached at the district attorney’s office, where he is in charge of the special investigation branch under retiring DA John Charles Stock, Conklin said he had not yet met Fox but regretted the death of the man working for his election. The candidate declined further comment.

Bosch studied the clip for a long moment after reading it.

“This Monte Kim, is he still at the paper?”

“Are you kidding? That’s like a millennium ago. Back then the newsroom was a bunch of white guys sitting around in white shirts and ties.”

Bosch looked down at his own shirt, then at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Anyway, he’s not around. And I don’t know about Conklin. A little before my time. Did he win?”

“Yeah. I think he had two terms, then I think he ran for attorney general or something and got his ass handed to him. Something like that. I wasn’t here then.”

“I thought you said you’ve been here all your life.”

“I went away for a while.”

“ Vietnam, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, a lot of cops your age were there. Must’ve been a trip. Is that why you all became cops? So you could keep carrying guns?”

“Something like that.”

“Anyway, if Conklin’s still alive, he’s probably an old man. But Mittel’s still around. Obviously, you know that. He’s probably in one of these booths eating with the mayor.”

She smiled and he ignored it.

“Yeah, he’s a big shot. What’s the story on him?”

“Mittel? I don’t know. First name on a big downtown law firm, friend of governors and senators and other powerful people. Last I heard, he’s running the financing behind Robert Shepherd.”

“Robert Shepherd? You mean that computer guy?”

“More like computer magnate. Yeah, don’t you read the paper? Shepherd wants to run but doesn’t want to use up his own money. Mittel is doing the fund-raising for an exploratory campaign.”

“Run for what?”

“Jesus, Bosch, you don’t read the paper or watch TV.”

“I’ve been busy. Run for what?”

“Well, like any egomaniac I guess he wants to run for president. But for now he’s looking at the Senate. Shepherd wants to be a third-party candidate. Says the Republicans are too far right and the Democrats too left. He’s right down the middle. And from what I hear, if anybody can get the money together for him to do the third-candidate dance, it’s Mittel.”

“So Mittel wants to make himself a president.”

“I guess. But what are you asking me about him for anyway? I’m a cop reporter. You’re a cop. What’s this have to do with Gordon Mittel?”

She pointed to the photocopy. Bosch became aware that he might have asked too many questions.

“I’m just trying to catch up,” he said. “Like you said, I don’t read the papers.”

“That’s paper, not papers,” she said smiling. “I better not catch you reading or talking to the Daily Snews.”

“Hell hath no fury like a reporter scorned, right?”

“Something like that.”

He felt assured that he had deflected her suspicions. He held up the photocopy.

“There was no follow-up to this? They never caught anybody?”

“I guess not or there would be a story.”

“Can I keep this?”

“Sure.”

“You feel like taking another walk back to the morgue?”