Michael Connelly: The Brass Verdict

“No, it’s just for me,” Bosch said. “I just want to know if you did the right thing.”

I considered not telling him but ultimately I wanted him to know.

“Yeah, that was me. I wanted to get McSweeney off the jury and then win the case fair and square. I didn’t expect Judge Stanton to take the letter and consult other judges about it.”

“He called up the chief judge and asked her advice.”

I nodded.

“It’s gotta be what happened,” I said. “He calls her, not knowing she was behind the whole thing. She then tipped McSweeney and told him not to show up for court, then used him to try to clean up the mess.”

Bosch nodded as though I was confirming things he already knew.

“And you were part of the mess. She must’ve figured you sent the letter to Judge Stanton. You knew too much and had to go – just like Vincent. It wasn’t about the story we planted. It was about you tipping Judge Stanton.”

I shook my head. My own actions had almost brought about my own demise in the form of a high dive off Mulholland.

“I guess I was pretty stupid.”

“I don’t know about that. You’re still standing. After today none of them will be.”

“There’s that. What kind of deal did McSweeney cut?”

“No death penalty and consideration. If everybody goes down, then he’ll probably get fifteen. In the federal system that means he’ll still do thirteen.”

“Who’s his lawyer?”

“He’s got two. Dan Daly and Roger Mills.”

I nodded. He was in good hands. I thought about what Walter Elliot had told me, that the guiltier you were, the more lawyers you needed.

“Pretty good deal for three murders,” I said.

“One murder,” Bosch corrected.

“What do you mean? Vincent, Elliot and Albrecht.”

“He didn’t kill Elliot and Albrecht. Those two didn’t match up.”

“What are you talking about? He killed them and then he tried to kill me.”

Bosch shook his head.

“He did try to kill you but he didn’t kill Elliot and Albrecht. It was a different weapon. On top of that, it didn’t make sense. Why would he ambush them and then try to make you look like a suicide? It doesn’t connect. McSweeney is clean on Elliot and Albrecht.”

I was stunned silent for a long moment. For the last three days I had believed that the man who killed Elliot and Albrecht was the same man who had tried to kill me and that he was safely locked in the hands of the authorities. Now Bosch was telling me there was a second killer somewhere out there.

“Does Beverly Hills have any ideas?” I finally asked.

“Oh, yeah, they’re pretty sure they know who did it. But they’ll never make a case.”

The hits kept coming. One surprise after another.

“Who?”

“The family.”

“You mean like the Family, with a capital F ? Organized crime?”

Bosch smiled and shook his head.

“The family of Johan Rilz. They took care of it.”

“How do they know that?”

“Lands and grooves. The bullets they dug out of the two victims were nine-millimeter Parabellums. Brass jacket and casing and manufactured in Germany. BHPD took the bullet profile and matched them to a C-ninety-six Mauser, also manufactured in Germany.”

He paused to see if I had any questions. When I didn’t, he continued.

“Over at BHPD they’re thinking it’s almost like somebody was sending a message.”

“A message from Germany.”

“You got it.”

I thought of Golantz telling the Rilz family how I was going to drag Johan through the mud for a week. They had left rather than witness that. And Elliot was killed before it could happen.

“Parabellum,” I said. “You know your Latin, Detective?”

“Didn’t go to law school. What’s it mean?”

“Prepare for war. It’s part of a saying. ‘If you want peace, prepare for war.’ What will happen with the investigation now?”

Bosch shrugged.

“I know a couple of Beverly Hills detectives who’ll get a nice trip to Germany out of it. They fly their people business class with the seats that fold down into beds. They’ll go through the motions and the due diligence. But if the hit was done right, nothing will ever happen.”

“How’d they get the gun over here?”

“It could be done. Through Canada or Der FedEx if it absolutely, positively has to be there on time.”

I didn’t smile. I was thinking about Elliot and the equilibrium of justice. Somehow Bosch seemed to know what I was thinking.

“Remember what you said to me when you told me you had told Judge Holder you knew she was behind all of this?”

I shrugged.

“What did I say?”

“You said sometimes justice can’t wait.”

“And?”

“And you were right. Sometimes it doesn’t wait. In that trial, you had the momentum and Elliot looked like he was going to walk. So somebody decided not to wait for justice and he delivered his own verdict. Back when I was riding patrol, you know what we called a killing that came down to simple street justice?”

“What?”

“The brass verdict.”

I nodded. I understood. We were both silent for a long moment.

“Anyway, that’s all I know,” Bosch finally said. “I gotta go and get ready to put people in jail. It’s going to be a good day.”

Bosch pushed his weight off the railing, ready to go.

“It’s funny you coming here today,” I said. “Last night I decided I was going to ask you something the next time I saw you.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

I thought about it for a moment and then nodded. It was the right thing to do.

“Flip sides of the same mountain… Do you know you look a lot like your father?”

He said nothing. He just stared at me for a moment, then nodded once and turned to the railing. He cast his gaze out at the city.

“When did you put that together?” he asked.

“Technically last night, when I was looking at old photos and scrapbooks with my daughter. But I think on some level I’ve known it for a long time. We were looking at photos of my father. They kept reminding me of somebody and then I realized it was you. Once I saw it, it seemed obvious. I just didn’t see it at first.”

I walked to the railing and looked out at the city with him.

“Most of what I know about him came from books,” I said. “A lot of different cases, a lot of different women. But there are a few memories that aren’t in books and are just mine. I remember coming into the office he had set up at home when he started to get sick. There was a painting framed on the wall – a print actually, but back then I thought it was a real painting. The Garden of Earthly Delights. Weird, scary stuff for a little kid…

“The memory I have is of him holding me on his lap and making me look at the painting and telling me that it wasn’t scary. That it was beautiful. He tried to teach me to say the painter’s name. Hieronymus Bosch. Rhymes with ‘anonymous,’ he told me. Only back then, I don’t think I could say ‘anonymous’ either.”

I wasn’t seeing the city out there. I was seeing the memory. I was quiet for a while after that. It was my half brother’s turn. Eventually, he leaned his elbows down on the railing and spoke.

“I remember that house,” he said. “I visited him once. Introduced myself. He was on the bed. He was dying.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I just told him I’d made it through. That’s all. There wasn’t really anything else to say.”

Like right now, I thought. What was there to say? Somehow, my thoughts jumped to my own shattered family. I had little contact with the siblings I knew I had, let alone Bosch. And then there was my daughter, whom I saw only eight days a month. It seemed like the most important things in life were the easiest to break apart.