Michael Connelly - The Last Coyote

“I don’t know, Jazz. I’ve got to think about-”

“Look, what was I supposed to do? Wear a sign or something to warn you away from the start? You tell me, when was a good time for me to tell you? Was it right after that first lemonade? Should I have said, ‘Oh, by the way, six years ago I killed the man I was living with when he tried to rape me for the second time in the same night?’ Would that have been proper?”

“Jazz, don’t…”

“Don’t what? Look, the cops didn’t believe my story here, what should I expect from you?”

He could tell she was crying now, not so that he was supposed to hear. But he could tell it in her voice, full of loneliness and pain.

“You said things to me,” she said. “I thought…”

“Jazz, we spent a weekend together. You’re putting too much-”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry…Look, this isn’t the right time. I’ve got too much going on. I gotta call you back…”

She didn’t say anything.

“Okay?”

“Okay, Harry, you call me.”

“Okay, goodbye, Jazz.”

He hung up and kept his eyes closed for a while. He felt the numbness of disappointment that comes from broken hopes and wondered if he would ever talk to her again. In analyzing his thoughts he realized how much they seemed to be the same. And so his fear was not of what she had done, whatever the details were. His fear was that he would indeed call her and that he would become entwined with someone with more baggage than himself.

He opened his eyes and tried to put the thoughts aside. But he came back to her. He found himself marveling at the randomness of their meeting. A newspaper want ad. It might as well have said Single White Killer Seeks Same. He laughed out loud but it wasn’t funny.

He turned the television on as a distraction. There was a talk show on and the host was interviewing women who stole their best friend’s men. The best friends were also on and every question devolved into a verbal cat fight. Bosch turned the sound down and watched for ten minutes in silence, studying the contortions of the women’s angry faces.

After a while he turned it off and rang the nurses’ station on the intercom to inquire about his cereal. The nurse he spoke to knew nothing about his request for breakfast at lunch time. He tried Meredith Roman’s number again but hung up when he got the tape.

Just as Bosch was getting hungry enough to be tempted to call for the return of the Salisbury steak, a nurse finally came back in with another food tray. This one contained a banana, a small glass of orange juice, a plastic bowl with a little box of Frosted Flakes in it and a pint-size carton of milk. He thanked her and began eating the cereal out of the box. The other stuff he didn’t want.

He picked up the phone and dialed the main number at Parker Center and asked for Assistant Chief Irving’s office. The secretary who eventually answered said Irving was in conference with the police chief and could not be disturbed. Bosch left his number.

Next he dialed Keisha Russell’s number at the paper.

“It’s Bosch.”

“Bosch, where have you been? You turn your phone off?”

Bosch reached into his briefcase and took the phone out. He checked the battery.

“Sorry, it’s dead.”

“Great. That doesn’t help me any, does it? The two biggest names in that clip I gave you end up dead last night and you don’t even call. Some deal we made.”

“Hey, this is me on the phone, right?”

“So what’ve you got for me?”

“What’ve you got already? What are they saying about it?”

“They’re not saying jack. I’ve been waiting on you, man.”

“But what are they really saying?”

“I mean it, nothing. They’re saying both deaths are being investigated and that there is no clear connection. They’re trying to pass it off as a big coincidence.”

“What about the other man? Did they find Vaughn?”

“Who’s Vaughn?”

Bosch couldn’t figure out what was happening, why there was a cover-up. He knew he should wait to hear from Irving but the anger was growing in his throat.

“Bosch? You there? What other man?”

“What are they saying about me?”

“You? They’re not saying anything.”

“The other man’s name is Jonathan Vaughn. He was there, too. Up at Mittel’s last night.”

“How do you know?”

“I was there, too.”

“Bosch, you were there?”

Bosch closed his eyes but his mind couldn’t penetrate the shroud being thrown over the case by the department. He didn’t get it.

“Harry, we had a deal. Tell me the story.”

He noted that it was the only time she had ever used his first name. He continued to say nothing while he tried to figure out what was happening and weighed the consequences of talking to her.

“Bosch?”

Back to normal.

“All right. You got your pencil? I’m going to give you enough to get started. You’ll have to go to Irving to get the rest.”

“I’ve been calling him. He won’t even take my calls.”

“He will when he knows you have the story. He’ll have to.”

By the time he was done telling her the story he was fatigued and his head was hurting again. He was ready to go to sleep, if it would have him. He wanted to forget everything and just sleep.

“That’s an incredible story, Bosch,” she said when he was done. “I’m sorry, you know, about your mother.”

“Thanks.”

“What about Pounds?”

“What about him?”

“Is it connected? Irving was honchoing that investigation. Now he’s doing this one.”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“If I can get him on the line.”

“When you call over there, tell the adjutant to tell Irving you’re calling on behalf of Marjorie Lowe. He’ll call you back when he gets the message. I guarantee it.”

“Okay, Bosch, last thing. We didn’t talk about this at the start like we should have. Can I use your name as a source?”

Bosch thought about it but only for a few moments.

“Yeah, you can use it. I don’t know what my name’s worth anymore but you can use it.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you. You’re a pal.”

“Yeah, I’m a pal.”

He hung up and closed his eyes. He dozed off but wasn’t sure for how long. He was interrupted by the phone. It was Irving and he was angry.

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got a message from a reporter. She says she’s calling because of Marjorie Lowe. Have you talked to reporters about this?”

“I talked to one.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her enough so that you won’t be able to let this one blow away.”

“Bosch…”

He didn’t finish. There was a long silence and then Bosch spoke first.

“You were going to cover it all up, weren’t you? Shove it in the trash with her. You see, after everything that’s happened, she still doesn’t count, does she?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bosch sat up. Now he was angry. Immediately, he was hit with vertigo. He closed his eyes until it passed.

“Well, then why don’t you tell me what I don’t know? Okay, Chief? You’re the one who doesn’t know what you’re talking about. I heard what you people put out. That there may be no connection between Conklin and Mittel. What kind of-you think I’m going to sit here for that? And Vaughn. Not even a mention of him. A fucking mechanic in a splatter suit, he throws Conklin out the window and is ready to put me in the dirt. He’s the one who did Pounds and he doesn’t even rate a mention by you people. So, Chief, why don’t you tell me what the fuck I don’t know, okay?”