Michael Connelly - The Last Coyote

“My final take? Well, I never got over that meeting at Conklin’s office. I guess you had to be there but it just…it just seemed that the one that was in charge of that meeting was Fox. It was like he was calling the shots.”

Bosch nodded. He could see that McKittrick was struggling for an explanation of his feelings.

“You ever interview a suspect with his lawyer there jumpin’ in and out of the conversation?” McKittrick asked. “You know, ‘Don’t answer this, don’t answer that.’ Shit like that.”

“All the time.”

“Well, it was like that. It was like Conklin, the next DA for Chrissake, was this shitheel’s lawyer, objecting all the time to our questions. What it came down to was that if you didn’t know who he was or where we were, you’d’ve sworn he was working for Fox. Both of them, Mittel, too. So, I felt pretty sure Fox had his hooks into Arno. Somehow he did. And I was right. It was all confirmed later.”

“You mean when Fox died?”

“Yeah. He got killed in a hit and run while working for the Conklin campaign. I remember the newspaper story on it didn’t say nothin’ about his background as a pimp, as a Hollywood Boulevard hoodlum. No, he was just this guy who got run down. Joe Innocent. I tell ya, that story must’ve cost Arno a few dollars and made a reporter a little richer.”

Bosch could tell there was more so he said nothing.

“I was in Wilshire dicks by then,” McKittrick continued. “But I got curious when I heard about it. So I called over to Hollywood to see who was on it. It was Eno. Big surprise. And he never made a case on anybody. So that about confirmed what I was thinking about him, too.”

McKittrick stared off across the water to where the sun was getting low in the sky. He threw his empty beer can at the bucket. It missed and bounced over the side into the water.

“Fuck it,” he said. “I guess we should head in.”

He started reeling in his line.

“What do you think Eno got out of all of this?”

“I don’t know exactly. He might’ve just been trading favors, something like that. I’m not saying he got rich, but I think he got something out of the deal. He wouldn’t do it for nothing. I just don’t know what it was.”

McKittrick started taking the rods out of the pipes and stowing them on hooks along the sides of the stern.

“In 1972 you checked the murder book out of archives, how come?”

McKittrick looked at him curiously.

“I signed the same checkout slip a few days ago,” Bosch explained. “Your name was still on it.”

McKittrick nodded.

“Yeah, that was right after I put in my papers. I was leaving, going through my files and stuff. I’d hung on to the prints we took off the belt. Kept the card. Also hung on to the belt.”

“Why?”

“You know why. I didn’t think it would be safe in that file or in the evidence room. Not with Conklin as DA, not with Eno doing him favors. So I kept the stuff. Then a bunch of years went by and it was there when I was cleaning shit out and going to Florida. So right before I decided to punch out, I put the print card back in the murder book and went down and put the belt back in the evidence box. Eno was already in Vegas, retired. Conklin had crashed and burned, was out of politics. The case was long forgotten. I put the stuff back. I guess maybe I hoped someday somebody like you would take a look at it.”

“What about you? Did you look at the book when you put the card back?”

“Yeah, and I saw I had done the right thing. Somebody had gone through it, stripped it. They pulled the Fox interview out of it. Probably was Eno.”

“As the second man on the case you had to do the paper, right?”

“Right. The paperwork was mine. Most of it.”

“What did you put on the Fox interview summary that would have made Eno need to pull it?”

“I don’t remember anything specific, just that I thought the guy was lying and that Conklin was out of line. Something like that.”

“Anything else you remember that was missing?”

“Nah, nothing important, just that. I think he just wanted to get Conklin’s name out of it.”

“Yeah, well, he missed something. You’d noted his first call on the Chronological Record. That’s how I knew.”

“Did I? Well, good for me. And here you are.”

“Yeah.”

“All right, we’re heading in. Too bad they weren’t really biting today.”

“I’m not complaining. I got my fish.”

McKittrick stepped behind the wheel and was about to start the engine when he thought of something.

“Oh, you know what?” He moved to the cooler and opened it. “I don’t want Mary to be disappointed.”

He pulled out the plastic bags that contained the sandwiches his wife had made.

“You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

He opened the bags and dumped the sandwiches over the side. Bosch watched him.

“Jake, when you pulled out that gun, who’d you think I was?”

McKittrick didn’t say anything as he neatly folded the plastic bags and put them back in the cooler. When he straightened up, he looked at Bosch.

“I didn’t know. All I knew was that I thought I might have to take you out here and dump you like those sandwiches. Seems like I’ve been hiding out here all my life, waiting for them to send somebody.”

“You think they’d go that far over time and distance?”

“I don’t have any idea. The more time that goes by, the more I doubt it. But old habits die hard. I always keep a gun nearby. Doesn’t matter that most times I don’t even remember why.”

They rode in from the Gulf with the engine roaring and the soft spray of the sea in their faces. They didn’t talk. That was done with. Occasionally, Bosch glanced over at McKittrick. His old face fell under the shadow of his cap brim. But Bosch could see his eyes in there, looking at something that had happened a long time before and no longer could be changed.

AFTER THE BOAT trip Bosch felt the onset of a headache from the combination of too much beer and too much sun. He begged off an invitation to dinner from McKittrick, saying he was tired. Once in his car, he took a couple of Tylenol caplets out of his overnighter, downed them without any liquid chaser and hoped they would do the job. He took out his notebook and reviewed some of the things he had written about McKittrick’s story.

He had come to like the old cop by the end of the fishing trip. Maybe he saw some of himself in the older man. McKittrick was haunted because he had let the case go. He had not done the right thing. And Bosch knew he was guilty of the same during all the years he had ignored the case that he knew was there waiting for him. He was making up for that now, and so was McKittrick by talking to him. But both of them knew it might be too little too late.

Bosch wasn’t sure what he would do next when he got back to Los Angeles. It seemed to him that his only move was to confront Conklin. He was reluctant to do this because he knew he would go into such a confrontation soft, with only his suspicions and no hard evidence. Conklin would have the upper hand.

A wave of desperation came over him. He did not want the case to come to this. Conklin hadn’t flinched in almost thirty-five years. He wouldn’t with Bosch in his face now. Harry knew he needed something else. But he had nothing.

He started the car but left it in Park. He turned the air conditioner on high and added what McKittrick had told him into the stew of what he already knew. He began formulating a theory. For Bosch, this was one of the most important components of homicide investigation. Take the facts and shake them down into hypothesis. The key was not to become beholden to any one theory. Theories changed and you had to change with them.