Michael Connelly - A Darkness More Than Night

Corazón had broken it off after she was named to the top slot in the coroner’s office. Their relationship since that point had been strictly professional, though Corazón’s new position reduced her time in the autopsy suites and Bosch did not see her often. The Jody Krementz case was different. Corazón had instinctively known it might become a case that drew the bead of the media horde and had taken the autopsy herself. It had paid off. Her testimony would be seen across the nation and probably around the globe. She was attractive, smart, skilled and thorough. That half hour on the stand would be like a half-hour commercial for lucrative jobs as an independent examiner or commentator. Bosch knew one thing about her from his time with her: Teresa Corazón always had her eye on the next step.

She was parked in the garage next to the state parole office on the back side of the justice complex. They spoke of banalities – the weather, Harry’s attempts to stop smoking – until Corazón brought the case up.

“It seems to be going well.”

“So far.”

“It’d be nice if we won one of these big ones for a change.”

“It would.”

“I watched you testify this morning. In my office I had the TV on. You did very well, Harry.”

He knew her tone. She was leading to something.

“But?”

“But you look tired. And you know they’re going to come after you. This kind of case, if they destroy the cop they destroy the case.”

“O. J. one-oh-one.”

“Right. So are you ready for them?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Just rest up.”

“Easier said than done.”

As they approached the garage Bosch looked over at the parole office and saw a gathering of the staff out front for some kind of presentation. The group was standing below a banner hanging from the roofline that said WELCOME BACK THELMA. A man in a suit was presenting a plaque to a heavyset black woman who was leaning on a cane.

“Oh…, that’s that parole agent,” Corazón said. “The one who got shot last year. By that hit man from Vegas?”

“Right, right,” Bosch said, remembering the story. “She came back.”

He noticed that there were no television cameras recording the presentation. A woman got shot in the line of duty and then fought her way back to the job. It apparently wasn’t worth wasting videotape over.

“Welcome back,” he said.

Corazón’s car was on the second floor. It was a two-seat, shining black Mercedes.

“I see the outside work must be going pretty well,” Bosch said.

Corazón nodded.

“In my last contract I got four weeks’ professional leave. I’m making the most of it. Trials, TV, that sort of thing. I did a case on that autopsy show on HBO, too. It airs next month.”

“Teresa, you’re going to be world famous before we know it.”

She smiled and stepped close to him and straightened his tie.

“I know what you think about it, Harry. That’s okay.”

“Doesn’t matter what I think about it. Are you happy?”

She nodded.

“Very.”

“Then I’m happy for you. I better get back in there. I’ll see you, Teresa.”

She suddenly rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. It had been a long time since he had gotten one of those.

“I hope you make it through, Harry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Bosch stepped out of the elevator into the hallway and headed toward the Department N courtroom. He saw a line of people cordoned off by the courtroom door: people waiting for a spectator seat to possibly open. A few reporters were milling about the open door of the pressroom but everybody else was at stations, watching the trial.

“Detective Bosch?”

Bosch turned. Standing in a pay-phone alcove was Jack McEvoy, the reporter he had met the day before. He stopped.

“I saw you walk out and I hoped I’d catch you.”

“I have to get back in there.”

“I know. I just wanted to tell you that it is very important that I talk to you about something. The sooner the better.”

“What are you talking about? What’s so important?”

“Well, it’s about you.”

McEvoy stepped out of the alcove so that he was closer to Bosch and did not have to speak as loud.

“What about me?”

“Do you know you are under investigation by the Sheriff’s Department?”

Bosch looked up the hall toward the courtroom door and then back at McEvoy. The reporter was slowly bringing a pad of paper and pen up in his hands. He was ready to take notes.

“Wait a minute.” Bosch put his hand on the notebook. “What are you talking about? What investigation?”

“Edward Gunn, you remember him? He’s dead and you’re their suspect.”

Bosch just stared at him, his mouth coming slightly open.

“I wondered if you wanted to comment on this. You know, defend yourself. I’ll be writing a story for next week’s edition and wanted you to have the chance to tell your -”

“No, no comment. I have to get back.”

Bosch turned and walked a few paces toward the courtroom door but then stopped. He walked back to McEvoy, who was writing in the notebook.

“What are you writing? I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. That’s what I’m writing.”

McEvoy looked up from the notebook to him.

“You said next week,” Bosch said. “When does it come out?”

“New Times is published every Thursday morning.”

“So until when do I have, if I decide to talk to you?”

“About Wednesday lunch. But that will be pressing it. I won’t be able to do much then but drop in some quotes. The time to talk is now.”

“Who told you this? Who’s your source?”

McEvoy shook his head.

“I can’t discuss sources with you. What I want to talk about is this allegation. Did you kill Edward Gunn? Are you some kind of avenging angel? That’s what they think.”

Bosch studied the reporter for a long moment before finally speaking.

“Don’t quote me on this, but fuck you. You know what I mean? I don’t know if this is a bullshit bluff or not, but let me give you some advice. You better make damn sure you’ve got it right before you put anything in that paper of yours. A good investigator always knows the motivation of his sources – it’s called having a bullshit meter. Yours better be working real well.”

He turned and walked quickly to the courtroom door.

Langwiser had just finished with the hair specialist when Bosch came back into the courtroom. Once again Fowkkes stood up and reserved the right to recall the witness during the defense case.

While the witness came through the gate behind the attorneys’ lectern, Bosch slipped past him and went to his seat at the prosecution table. He didn’t look at or say anything to Langwiser or Kretzler. He folded his arms and looked down at the notepad he had left on the table. He realized he had adopted the same position and posture he had seen David Storey take at the defense table. The posture of a guilty man. Bosch quickly dropped his arms to his lap and looked up at the seal of the State of California which hung on the wall above the judge’s bench.

Langwiser got up and called the next witness, a fingerprint technician. His testimony was quick and more corroboration of Bosch’s testimony. It went unchallenged by Fowkkes. The technician was followed to the stand by the patrol officer who answered the first call from Krementz’s roommate and then by his sergeant, who was the next to arrive.

Bosch barely listened to the testimony. There was nothing new in it and his mind was racing in another direction. He was thinking about McEvoy and the story he was working on. He knew he should inform Langwiser and Kretzler but wanted time to think about things. He decided to hold off until after the weekend.