Michael Connelly - The Closers

“What’s going on, Detective? We had a deal, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. And I was just about to call you.”

THE KITCHEN at the Metro Shelter was dark. Bosch went to the small lobby of the adjoining hotel and spoke to the man behind the glass window. He asked for Robert Verloren’s room number.

“He’s gone, man.”

Something about the finality in his tone put a hollow into Bosch’s chest. It didn’t sound like he meant Verloren had gone out for the night.

“What do you mean gone?”

“I mean gone. He did his thing and he’s gone. That’s it.”

Bosch took a step closer to the glass. The man had a paperback novel open on the counter and had not looked up from its yellowed pages.

“Hey, look at me.”

The man flipped the book over to not lose his page and looked up. Bosch showed him his badge. He then glanced down and saw the book was called Ask the Dust .

“Yes, Officer.”

Bosch looked back up at the man’s tired eyes.

“What do you mean, He did his thing, and what do you mean he’s gone?”

The man shrugged.

“He came in drunk and that’s the one rule we got around here. No drinking. No drunks.”

“He was fired?”

The man nodded.

“What about his room?”

“Room came with the job. Like I said, he’s gone.”

“Where?”

The man shrugged one more time. He pointed to the door that led to the sidewalk on Fifth Street. He was telling Bosch that Verloren was out there somewhere.

“It happens,” the man said.

Bosch looked back at him.

“When did he go?”

“Yesterday. It was you cops who did it to him, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard some cop came in here, told him some shit. I don’t know what it was about, but that was right before-know what I’m saying? He got off work and went out and took the taste again. And that was that. All I know is, we need a new chef now ’cause the guy they got fillin’ in can’t make eggs for shit.”

Bosch said nothing else to the man. He stepped away from the window and went to the door. Outside the shelter the street was teeming with people. The night people. The damaged and displaced. People hiding from others and hiding from themselves. People running from the past, from the things they did and the things they didn’t do.

Bosch knew the story was going to hit the news in the morning. He had wanted to tell it to Robert Verloren himself.

Bosch decided he would look for Robert Verloren out there. He didn’t know what the news he would bring would do for him. He didn’t know if it would bring Verloren out or push him further into the hole. Maybe nothing could help him now. But he needed to tell him anyway. The world was full of people who could not get over things. There was no closure and there was no peace. The truth did not set you free. But you could get through things. That’s what Bosch would tell him. You could head toward the light and climb and dig and fight your way out of the hole.

Bosch pushed open the door and headed out into the night.

THE POLICE ACADEMY parade field was nestled like a green blanket against one of the wooded hills of Elysian Park. It was a beautiful and shaded place and spoke well of the tradition the police chief had wanted Bosch to be reminded of.

At 8 a.m. on the morning following his fruitless night search for Robert Verloren, Bosch presented himself at the graduation check-in table and was escorted to an assigned seat on the platform beneath the VIP tent. There were four rows of chairs in formation behind the lectern from which the speeches would be made. Bosch’s seat looked out across the parade grounds where the new cadets would march, then form up and be inspected. As an invited guest of the chief he would be one of the inspectors.

Bosch was in full uniform. It was tradition to fly the colors at the graduation of new officers-to welcome them to the uniform in the uniform. And he was early. He sat by himself and listened to the police band play old standards. As other VIPs were taken to their seats, no one bothered him. They were mostly politicians and dignitaries and a few purple heart winners from Iraq who wore the uniform of the U.S. Marine Corps.

Bosch’s skin felt raw under his starched collar and tightly knotted tie. He had spent almost an hour in the shower scrubbing away the ink he’d had put to his skin, hoping that it would take all the ugliness of the case down the drain with it.

He didn’t notice the approach of Deputy Chief Irvin Irving until the cadet leading him to the tent said, “Excuse me, sir.”

Bosch looked up and saw that Irving was being seated right next to him. He straightened up and grabbed his program off the seat intended for Irving.

“Enjoy yourself, sir,” the cadet said before snapping into a turn and heading back for another VIP.

Irving didn’t say anything at first. He seemed to be spending a lot of time making himself comfortable and looking around to see who might be watching them. They were in the first row, two of the best seats in the place. Finally he spoke without turning or looking at Bosch.

“What is going on here, Bosch?”

“You tell me, Chief.”

Bosch took a turn looking around to see if anyone was watching them. It obviously wasn’t happenstance that they were sitting next to each other. Bosch did not believe in coincidences. Not like that.

“The chief said he wanted me to be here,” he said. “He invited me on Monday when he gave me back my badge.”

“Good for you.”

Another five minutes went by before Irving spoke again. The tent was almost full, except for the spot reserved for the chief of police and his wife at the end of the first row. Irving whispered now.

“You’ve had a hell of a week, Detective. You land in shit and come out stinking like a rose. Congratulations.”

Bosch nodded. It was an accurate assessment.

“What about you, Chief? Just another week at the office for you?”

Irving didn’t respond. Bosch thought about the places he had looked for Robert Verloren the night before. He thought about Muriel Verloren’s face when she had seen her daughter’s killer being led to the patrol car. Bosch had had to hurry Stoddard into the backseat to keep her away from him.

“It was all because of you,” Bosch said quietly.

Irving glanced at him for the first time.

“What are you talking about?”

“Seventeen years, that’s what I’m talking about. You had your man check the alibis on the Eights. He didn’t know that Gordon Stoddard was also the girl’s teacher. If it had been Green and Garcia running down the alibis-as it should have been-they would have come across Stoddard and easily put the whole thing together. Seventeen years ago. All of that time, that’s on you.”

Irving turned fully in his seat to face Bosch.

“We had an agreement, Detective. You break it and I will find other ways of getting to you. I hope that’s understood.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Chief. But you forget one thing. I’m not the only one who knows about you. What are you going to do, make your little deals with everybody? Every reporter, every cop? Every mother and father who has had to live with a hollowed-out life because of what you did?”

“Keep your voice down,” Irving said through his teeth.

Bosch responded in a quiet, calm voice.

“I’ve said all I want to say to you.”

“Well, let me tell you something, I’m not finished talking to you. If I find -”

He dropped the sentence as the chief of police was escorted by with his wife. Irving straightened himself in his seat as the music swelled and the show began. Twenty-four cadets with shining new badges on their uniformed chests marched into the parade grounds and took their positions in front of the VIP tent.