Michael Connelly - EchoPark

Bosch concentrated on eating for a few moments. He then chased a mouthful of pot roast with some wine and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Man, this stuff is great. Where’d you get it?”

She smiled.

“Just another restaurant.”

“No, this is the best pot roast I think I’ve ever had.”

“It’s a place called Jar. They say it stands for Just Another Restaurant.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“It’s off Beverly near my place. They’ve got a long bar where you can eat. After moving out here I ate there a lot at first. Alone. Suzanne and Preech always take care of me. They let me take food to go and it’s not that kind of place.”

“They’re the cooks?”

“Chefs. Suzanne’s also the owner. I love sitting there at the bar and watching the people come in, watching their eyes scanning the place to see who’s who. A lot of celebrities go there. You also get the foodies and you get the regular people. They’re the most interesting.”

“Somebody once said that if you circle around a murder long enough you get to know a city. Maybe it’s the same with sitting at the counter in a restaurant.”

“And easier to do. Harry, are you changing the subject or are you going to tell me about Raynard Waits’s confession?”

“I’m getting to it. I thought we’d finish eating first.”

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s not that. I think I just need a break from it. I don’t know.”

She nodded like she understood. She poured more wine into their glasses.

“I like the music. Who is this?”

Bosch nodded, his mouth full once again.

“I call this ‘miracle in a box.’ It’s John Coltrane and Thelonious Monk at Carnegie Hall. The concert was recorded in nineteen fifty-seven and the tape sat in an unmarked box in archives for almost fifty years. Just sat there, forgotten. Then some Library of Congress guy was going through all the boxes and performance tapes and recognized what they had there. They finally put this out last year.”

“It’s nice.”

“It’s more than nice. It’s a miracle to think it was there all that time. It took the right person to find it. To recognize it.”

He looked at her eyes for a moment. He then looked down at his plate and saw he was down to his last bite.

“What would you have done for dinner if I hadn’t called?” Rachel asked.

Bosch looked back at her and shrugged. He finished eating and started telling her about Raynard Waits’s confession.

“He’s lying,” she said when he was finished.

“About the name? We’ve got that covered.”

“No, about the plan. Rather, the lack of a plan. He tells you he just saw her in the Mayfair, followed her and grabbed her. Uh-uh, no way. I don’t buy that. The whole thing doesn’t feel like a spur-of-the-moment thing. There was a plan to this, whether he’s telling you or not.”

Bosch nodded. He had the same misgivings about the confession.

“We’ll know more tomorrow, I guess,” he said.

“I wish I could be there.”

Bosch shook his head.

“I can’t make a federal case out of this. Besides, it’s not what you do anymore. Your own people wouldn’t let you go, even if you were invited.”

“I know. I can still wish.”

Bosch got up and started clearing the plates. They worked side by side at the sink and after everything was cleaned and put away they took the bottle out on the deck. There was enough left for them each to have a half glass.

The evening chill drew them close to one another as they stood at the railing and looked down at the lights in the Cahuenga Pass.

“Are you staying tonight?” Bosch asked.

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to call, you know. I’ll give you a key. Just come up.”

She turned and looked at him. He put his arm around her waist.

“That fast? Are you saying all is forgiven?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. The past is past and life’s too short. You know, all of those clichés.”

She smiled and they sealed it with a kiss. They finished their wine and went inside to the bedroom. They made love slowly and quietly. At one point Bosch opened his eyes and looked at her and lost his rhythm. She noticed.

“What?” she whispered.

“Nothing. It’s just that you keep your eyes open.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“No, you’re not.”

She smiled and turned her face away from him.

“This is sort of an awkward time for a discussion,” she said.

He smiled and used his hand to turn her face to his. He kissed her and they both kept their eyes open now. Halfway through the kiss they started laughing.

Bosch craved the intimacy and reveled in the escape it brought. He knew she knew this, too. Her gift to him was in taking him away from the world. And that was why the past no longer mattered. He closed his eyes but didn’t stop smiling.

IT SEEMED TO BOSCH to take forever to amass the motorcade, but by 10:30 Wednesday morning the entourage was finally pulling out of the basement garage of the Criminal Courts Building.

The first car in line was unmarked. It was driven by Olivas. A sheriff’s deputy from the jail division was riding shotgun, while in the back, Bosch and Rider were positioned on either side of Raynard Waits. The prisoner was in a bright orange jumpsuit and was bound by shackles on his ankles and wrists. The manacles on his wrists were secured in front to a chain that went around his waist.

Another unmarked car, driven by Rick O’Shea and carrying Maury Swann and a DA’s office evidence videographer, was second in the motorcade. It was followed by two vans, one from the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division and the other from the coroner’s office. The group was prepared to locate and disinter the body of Marie Gesto.

In was a perfect day for a field trip. A brief overnight rain shower had cleared the sky and it was a brilliant blue with just the last wisps of upper-level clouds in view. The streets were still wet and shiny. The precipitation had also kept the temperature from climbing with the sun’s ascent. Though there can never be a good day to dig up the body of a twenty-two-year-old woman, the glory of the weather would offer a counterbalance to the grim duty at hand.

The vehicles stayed in a tight formation as they made their way onto the North 101 Freeway off the Broadway ramp. Traffic was heavy in downtown and moving at a slower than usual pace because of the wet streets. Bosch asked Olivas to crack a window to let in some fresh air and hopefully wash out the funk of Waits’s body odor. It had become apparent that the admitted killer had not been allowed a shower or issued a laundered jumpsuit that morning.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and light up, Detective?” Waits said.

Since they were sitting shoulder to shoulder Bosch had to turn awkwardly to look at Waits.

“I want the window open because of you, Waits. You stink. I haven’t had a smoke in five years.”

“I’m sure.”

“Why do you think you know me? We’ve never met. What makes you think you know me, Waits?”

“I don’t know you. I know your type. You have an addictive personality, Detective. Murder cases, cigarettes, maybe even the alcohol I smell coming out of your pores. You’re not that hard to read.”

Waits smiled and Bosch looked away. He thought about things for a moment before speaking again.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Are you talking to me?” Waits asked.

“Yes, I’m talking to you. I want to know. Who are you?”

“Bosch,” Olivas quickly interjected from the front. “The deal is, we don’t question him without Maury Swann being present. So leave him alone.”