Michael Connelly - EchoPark

Bosch nodded.

“That’s the unofficial version. I’m not a doctor and I shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

Bosch felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket but he ignored it.

“I appreciate that you did,” he said. “When will I be able to see her?”

“I have no idea, man. I just bring ’em in here. I told you all I know and that was probably too much. If you’re going to wait around I suggest you wash your face and change out of those clothes. You’re probably scaring people with the way you look.”

Bosch nodded and Dillon stood up. He had defused a potentially explosive ER situation and his work was done.

“Thanks, Dale.”

“No problemo. Take her easy and if you see the security guard, you might want to…”

He left it at that.

“I will,” Bosch said.

After the paramedic left, Bosch went into the lavatory and stripped off his sweatshirt. Because there were no pockets in the surgical clothes and no place for him to carry his weapon, phone, badge and other things, he decided to leave his dirty jeans on. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw that he had blood and dirt smeared on his face. He spent the next five minutes washing up, running the soap and water over his hands until he finally saw the water running clear into the drain.

When he stepped out of the lavatory he noticed that someone had come into the break room and either taken or thrown out his coffee. He checked his pockets again for change but still didn’t find any.

Bosch walked back to the ER reception area and now found it crowded with police, both uniformed and not. His supervisor, Abel Pratt, was there among the suits. He looked as though the blood had completely drained from his face. He saw Bosch and immediately came over.

“Harry, how is she? What happened?”

“They’re not giving me anything official. The paramedic who brought her in said it looks like she’ll be okay, unless something new happens.”

“Thank Christ! What happened up there?”

“I’m not sure. Waits got a gun and started shooting. Anything on whether they’ve got a bead on him?”

“He dumped the car he jacked by the Red Line station on Hollywood Boulevard. They don’t know where the fuck he is.”

Bosch thought about that. He knew that if Waits had gone underground on the Red Line, he could have gone anywhere from North Hollywood to downtown. The downtown line had a stop near Echo Park.

“Are they looking in Echo Park?”

“They’re looking everywhere, man. OIS is sending a team here to talk to you. I didn’t think you’d be willing to leave to go to Parker.”

“Right.”

“Well, you know how to handle it. Just tell it like it was.”

“Right.”

The Officer Involved Shooting squad would not be a problem. As far as Bosch could see he had not personally done anything wrong in the handling of Waits. OIS was a rubber-stamp squad, anyway.

“They’ll be a while,” Pratt said. “They’re up at Sunset Ranch right now interviewing the others. How the fuck did he get a gun?”

Bosch shook his head.

“Olivas got too close to him while he was coming up a ladder. He grabbed it then and started shooting. Olivas and Kiz were up top. It happened so fast and I was down below them.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Pratt shook his head and Bosch knew he wanted to ask more questions about what had happened and how it could have happened. He was probably worried about his own situation as much as he was worried about Rider pulling through. Bosch decided he needed to tell him about the thing that could be a containment problem.

“He wasn’t cuffed,” he said in a low voice. “We had to take off the cuffs so he could go up a ladder. The cuffs were going to be off for thirty seconds at the max, and that’s when he made his move. Olivas let him get too close. That’s how it started.”

Pratt looked stunned. He spoke slowly, as if not understanding.

“You took the cuffs off?”

“O’Shea told us to.”

“Good. They can blame him. I don’t want any blowback on Open-Unsolved. I don’t want any on me. It’s not my idea of the way to go out after twenty-five fucking years.”

“What about Kiz? You’re not going to cut her loose, are you?”

“No, I’m not going to cut her loose. I’ll stand behind Kiz but I’m not standing behind O’Shea. Fuck him.”

Bosch’s phone vibrated again and this time he took it out of his pocket to check the screen. It said “Unknown Number.” He answered it anyway to get away from Pratt’s questions, judgments, and ass-covering strategies. It was Rachel.

“Harry, we just got the BOLO on Waits. What happened?”

Bosch realized he was going to be telling the story over and over for the rest of the day and possibly the rest of his life. He excused himself and stepped into an alcove where there were pay phones and a water fountain so he could speak privately. As concisely as possible he told her what had happened at the top of Beachwood Canyon and what the situation was with Rider. As he told the story he replayed the visual memories of the moment he saw Waits go for the gun. He replayed their efforts to stop the bleeding and save his partner.

Rachel offered to come to the ER but Bosch talked her out of it, saying he wasn’t sure how long he would be there and reminding her he would likely be taken into a private interview with OIS investigators.

“Will I see you tonight?” she asked.

“If I get done with everything and Kiz is stable. Otherwise, I might stay here.”

“I’m going to go to your place. Call me and let me know what you know.”

“I will.”

Bosch stepped out of the alcove and saw that the ER waiting room was beginning to fill with media now as well as cops. Bosch guessed this probably meant the word had gone out that the chief of police was on his way. Bosch didn’t mind. Maybe the leverage of having the chief in the ER would get the hospital to open up with some information about his partner’s condition.

He walked up to Pratt, who was standing with his boss, Captain Norona, the head of the Robbery-Homicide Division.

“What’s going to happen with the excavation?” he asked both of them.

“I’ve got Rick Jackson and Tim Marcia headed up there,” Pratt said. “They’ll handle it.”

“It’s my case,” Bosch said, a mild protest in his voice.

“Not anymore,” Norona said. “You’re with OIS until they finish this thing up. You’re the only one with a badge who was up there and is still able to talk about it. That’s front burner. The Gesto dig is back burner and Marcia and Jackson will handle it.”

Bosch knew there would be no use arguing. The captain was right. Though there were four others present at the shooting who were unharmed, it would be Bosch’s description and memory that would count the most.

There was a commotion at the ER entrance as several men with TV cameras on their shoulders jostled one another for position on either side of the double doors. When the doors came open, an entourage entered with the chief of police at the center. The chief strode to the reception desk, where he was met by Norona. They spoke to the same woman who had rejected Bosch earlier. This time she was the picture of cooperation, immediately picking up a phone and making a call. She obviously knew who counted and who didn’t.

Inside of three minutes the hospital’s chief surgeon came through the ER doors and invited the chief back for a private consultation. As they moved through the doors Bosch hitched a ride, joining the group of sixth-floor commanders and assistants in the chief’s wake.

“Excuse me, Dr. Kim,” a voice from behind the group called.

They all stopped and turned. It was the desk woman. She pointed at Bosch and said, “He’s not with that group.”