Michael Connelly - The Last Coyote

Bosch sat up and looked about, then pulled himself over to the edge. He pulled the gun out of his waistband and then leaned over and looked down. There was only darkness when he looked directly down the side of the rugged hill. He could see the rectangular roofs of houses about a hundred and fifty yards down. He knew they were built along the twisting roads that fed off Hollywood Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue. He did another complete turn and then looked down again. He didn’t see Mittel anywhere.

Bosch surveyed the scene beneath him in its entirety until his eyes caught the backyard lights flicking on behind one of the houses directly below. He watched as a man came out of the house carrying what looked like a rifle. The man slowly approached a round backyard spa platform, the rifle pointed ahead of him. The man stopped at the edge of the spa and reached to what must have been the outdoor electrical box.

The tub light came on, silhouetting the body of a man floating in a circle of blue. Even from on top of the hill Bosch could see the swirls of blood seeping from Mittel’s body. Then the voice of the man with the rifle came up the hillside intact.

“Linda, don’t come out! Just call the police. Tell them we got a body in our hot tub.”

Then the man looked up the hillside and Bosch moved back away from the edge. Immediately, he wondered why he’d had the instinctive reaction to hide.

He got up and slowly made his way back to Mittel’s house along the path. As he walked, he looked out across the city at the lights shimmering in the night and thought it was beautiful. He thought about Conklin and Pounds and then pushed the guilt out of his mind with thoughts about Mittel, about how his death finally closed the circle begun so long ago. He thought of the image of his mother in Monte Kim’s photo. Her looking timidly around the edge of Conklin’s arm. He waited for the feeling of satisfaction and triumph that he knew was supposed to come with vengeance accomplished. But none of it ever came to him. He only felt hollow and tired.

When he got back to the perfect lawn behind the perfect mansion, the man called Jonathan was gone.

ASSISTANT CHIEF Irvin S. Irving stood in the open doorway of the examination suite. Bosch was sitting on the side of the padded table holding an ice pack to his head. The doctor had given it to him after putting in the stitches. He noticed Irving when he adjusted the bag in his hand.

“How do you feel?”

“I’ll live, I guess. That’s what they tell me, at least.”

“Well, that’s better than you can say for Mittel. He took the high dive.”

“Yeah. What about the other one?”

“Nothing on him. We got his name, though. You told the uniforms Mittel called him Jonathan. So that means he’s probably Jonathan Vaughn. He’s worked for Mittel for a long time. They’re working on it, checking the hospitals. Sounds like you might’ve hurt him enough that he’d come in.”

“Vaughn.”

“We’re trying to do a background on him. So far, not much. He’s got no record.”

“How long was he with Mittel?”

“That we’re not sure of. We’ve talked to Mittel’s people at the law firm. Not what you’d call cooperative. But they say Vaughn has been around forever. He was described by most people as Mittel’s personal valet.”

Bosch nodded and put the information away.

“There’s also a driver. We picked him up but he isn’t saying much. A little surfer punk. He couldn’t talk if he wanted to anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“His jaw is broken. Wired shut. He won’t talk about that, either.”

Bosch just nodded again and looked at him. There didn’t seem to be anything hidden in what he had said.

“The doctor said you have a severe concussion but the skull is not fractured. Minor laceration.”

“Could’ve fooled me. My head feels like the Goodyear blimp with a hole in it.”

“How many stitches?”

“I think he said eighteen.”

“He said you’ll probably have headaches and keep the knot up there and the eye hemorrhages for a few days. It’ll look worse than it is.”

“Well, nice to know he’s telling somebody what’s going on. I haven’t heard anything from him. Just the nurses.”

“He’ll be in in a minute. He was probably waiting for you to come out of it a little more.”

“Come out of what?”

“You were a little dazed when we got up there to you, Harry. You sure you want to talk about this now? It can wait. You’re hurt and need to take it-”

“I’m okay. I want to talk. You been by the scene at Park La Brea?”

“Yes, I was there. I was there when we got the call from Mount Olympus. I’ve got your briefcase in the car, by the way. You left it there, didn’t you? With Conklin?”

He started to nod but stopped because it made things swirl.

“Good,” he said. “There’s something there I want to keep.”

“The photo?”

“You looked through it?”

“Bosch! You must be groggy. It was found at the scene of a crime.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry.”

He waved off his objection. He was tired of fighting.

“So, the crew working the scene up on the hill already told me what happened. At least, the early version based on the physicals. What I’m not clear about is what got you up there. You know, how all of this figures. You want to run it down for me or wait until maybe tomorrow?”

Bosch nodded once and waited a moment for his mind to clear. He hadn’t tried to collect the story into one cohesive thought yet. He thought about it some more and finally gave it a shot.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, I want to read you your rights first.”

“What, again?”

“It’s just a procedure so it doesn’t look like we’re cutting any slack to one of our own. You’ve got to remember, you were at two places tonight and at both somebody took a big fall. It doesn’t look good.”

“I didn’t kill Conklin.”

“I know that and we have the security guard’s statement. He says you left before Conklin took the dive. So you’re gonna be okay. You’re clear but I have to follow procedure. Now, you still want to talk?”

“I waive my rights.”

Irving read them to him from a card anyway and Bosch waived them again.

“Okay, then, I don’t have a waive form. You’ll have to sign that later.”

“You want me to tell the story?”

“Yes, I want you to tell the story.”

“Okay, here we go.”

But then he stopped as he tried to put it into words.

“Harry?”

“Okay, here it is. In 1961 Arno Conklin met Marjorie Lowe. He was introduced by local scumbucket Johnny Fox, who made his living off making such introductions and arrangements. Usually for money. This initial meeting between Arno and Marjorie was at the St. Pat’s party at the Masonic Lodge on Cahuenga.”

“That’s the photo in the briefcase, right?”

“Right. Now, at that first meeting, according to Arno ’s story, which I believe, he didn’t know that Marjorie was a pro and Fox was a pimp. Fox arranged the introduction because he probably saw the opportunity and had one eye on the future. See, if Conklin knew it was a pay-to-play sort of thing, he would have walked away. He was the top county vice commando. He would have walked away.”

“So he didn’t know who Fox was either?” Irving asked.

“That’s what he said. He just said he was innocent. If you find that hard to take, the alternative is harder; that this prosecutor would openly consort with these types of people. So, I’m going with Arno ’s story. He didn’t know.”

“Okay, he didn’t know he was being compromised. So what was in it for Fox and…your mother?”