Michael Connelly - The Black Echo

“They are sitting on it until they think they are clear,” Wish said. “That’s why Meadows was smoked. He went out of line and pawned the bracelet before he should have, maybe before everyone agreed they were clear. They found out he’d sold it. He wouldn’t say where, so they buzzed him until he told them. Then they killed him.”

“And by coincidence, I get the call.”

“It happens.”

“There is something in that story that doesn’t work,” Bosch said. “We start out with Meadows getting juiced, tortured, right? He tells them what they want, they put the hot load in his arm and they go get the bracelet from the pawnshop, okay?”

“Okay.”

“But, see, it doesn’t work. I’ve got the pawn slip. It was hidden. So he didn’t give it to them, and they had to go break in the shop and take the bracelet, covering the scam by also taking a lot of other junk. So if he didn’t give them the pawn slip, how’d they know where the bracelet was?”

“He told them, I guess,” Wish said.

“I don’t think so. I don’t see him giving up one and not the other. He had nothing to gain from holding back the slip. If they got the name of the shop out of him, they would’ve gotten the slip.”

“So, you’re saying he died before he told them anything. And they already knew where the bracelet was pawned.”

“Right. They worked him to get the ticket, but he wouldn’t give it up, wouldn’t break. They killed him. Then they dump the body and roll his place. But they still don’t find the pawn stub. So they hit the pawnshop like third-rate burglars. The question is, if Meadows didn’t tell them where he had sold the bracelet and they didn’t find the stub, how did they know where it was?”

“Harry, this is speculation on top of speculation.”

“That’s what cops do.”

“Well, I don’t know. Could have been a lot of things. They could have had a tail on Meadows ’cause they didn’t trust him and could have seen him go into the pawnshop. Could’ve been a lot of things.”

“Could’ve been they had somebody, say a cop, who saw the bracelet on the monthly pawn sheets and told them. The sheets go to every police department in the county.”

“I think that kind of speculation is reckless.”

They were there. Bosch braked the car at a gravel entranceway below a wooden sign with a green eagle painted on it and the words Charlie Company. The gate was open and they drove down a gravel road with muddy irrigation ditches running along both sides. The road split the farmland, with tomatoes on the right and what smelled like peppers on the left. Up ahead there was a large aluminum-sided barn and a sprawling ranch-style house. Behind these Bosch could see a grove of avocado trees. They drove into a circular parking area in front of the ranch house and Bosch cut the engine.

A man wearing a white apron that was as clean as his shaven head came to the screen at the front door.

“Mr. Scales here?” Bosch asked.

“Colonel Scales, you mean? No, he is not. It’s almost time for chow, though. He’ll be coming in from the fields then.”

The man did not invite them to come in out of the sun, and so Bosch and Wish went back and sat in the car. A few minutes later a dusty white pickup truck drove up. It had an eagle inside a large letter C painted on the driver’s door. Three men got out of the cab and six more piled out of the back. They moved quickly toward the ranch house. They ranged in age from late thirties to late forties. They wore military green pants and white T-shirts soaked with sweat. No one wore a bandanna or sunglasses or had his sleeves rolled up. No one’s hair was longer than a quarter inch. The white men were burned brown like stained wood. The driver, wearing the same uniform but at least ten years older than the rest, slowed to a stop and let the others go inside. As he approached, Bosch put him on the early side of his sixties, but a guy who was almost as solid as he had been in his twenties. His hair, what could be seen of it against his gleaming skull, was white and his skin was like walnut. He was wearing work gloves.

“Help you?” he asked.

“Colonel Scales?” Bosch said.

“That’s right. You police?”

Bosch nodded and made introductions. Scales didn’t seem too impressed, even with the FBI being mentioned.

“You remember about seven, eight months ago the FBI asked you for some information on a William Meadows, who spent some time here?” Wish asked.

“Sure I do. I remember every time you people call up or come around asking about one of my boys. I resent it, so I remember it. You want more information on Billy? Is he in some trouble?”

“Not anymore,” Bosch said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Scales said. “Sounds like you’re saying he’s dead.”

“You didn’t know?” Bosch said.

“ ’Course I didn’t. Tell me what happened to him.”

Bosch thought he saw genuine surprise and then a flashing hint of sadness cross Scales’s face. The news had hurt.

“He was found dead three days ago in L.A. A homicide. We think it is related to a crime he took part in last year, that you may have heard about from the FBI’s previous contact.”

“The tunnel thing? At that bank in L.A.?” he asked. “I know what I was told by the FBI. That’s it.”

“That’s fine,” Wish said. “What we need from you is more complete information about who was here when Meadows was. We went over this ground before, but we are rechecking, looking for anything that might help. Will you cooperate with us?”

“I always cooperate with you people. I don’t like it because half the time I think you got your wires crossed. Most of my boys, when they leave here, they don’t get mixed up again. We have a good record here. If Meadows did what you’re saying he did, he is the rarity.”

“We understand that,” she said. “And this will be strictly confidential.”

“O’right then, come into my office and you can ask your questions.”

As they went through the front door Bosch saw two long tables in what was probably once the ranch house’s living room. About twenty men sat before plates of what looked like chicken-fried steaks and mounds of vegetables. Not one looked at Eleanor Wish. That was because they were silently saying grace, their heads down, eyes closed and hands folded. Bosch could see tattoos on almost every arm. When they stopped their prayer a chorus of forks struck home on the plates. A few of the men took the time then to look at Eleanor approvingly. The man in the apron who had come to the screen door earlier now stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Colonel, are you eating with the men today, sir?” he called.

Scales nodded and said, “I’ll be through in a few minutes.”

They went down a hallway and through the first door into an office that was supposed to be a bedroom. It was crowded by a desk with a top the size of a door. Scales pointed to two chairs in front of it and Bosch and Wish sat down, while he took the upholstered job behind the desk.

“Now, I know exactly what I am required by law to give you and what I don’t have to even speak to you about. But I am inclined to do more, if it will help and we have an understanding. Meadows-I sort of knew he would end up as you say he did. I prayed to the Good Lord to guide him, but I knew. I will help you. No one should take a life in a civilized world. No one at all.”

“Colonel,” Bosch began, “we appreciate your help. I want you to know, first off, that we know what kind of job you are doing here. We know you have the respect and encouragement of both state and federal authorities. But our investigation of Meadows’s death leads us to conclude he was involved in a conspiracy with other men who had the same skills as he and-”