Michael Connelly - EchoPark

He raised his gun and pointed it at her.

“Mrs. Saxon? Take it easy. My name is Harry Bosch. I’m just looking for Robert.”

A look of puzzlement played on her features.

“Who?”

“Robert Foxworth. Is he here?”

“You’ve got the wrong place, and how dare you come in here without knocking.”

“I-”

“Bobby uses the garage. I don’t let him use the house. All those chemicals, it smells awful.”

Bosch started edging toward her, his eyes on the gun the whole time.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Saxon. I thought he was up here. Has he been here lately?”

“He comes and goes. He comes up here to give me the rent, that’s all.”

“For the garage?”

He was getting closer.

“That’s what I said. What do you want him for? Are you his friend?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

Bosch reached down and took the gun out of her hand.

“Hey! That’s my protection.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Saxon. I’ll give it back. I just think it needs to be cleaned up a little. And oiled. This way it will be sure to work in case you ever really need to use it.”

“I need it.”

“I’m going to take it down to the garage and get Bobby to clean it. Then I’ll bring it back.”

“You better.”

Bosch checked the gun. It was loaded and appeared operational. He put it into the waistband at the back of his pants and looked at Rachel. She was standing three feet behind him in the entryway. She made a movement with her hand, pantomiming turning a key. Bosch understood.

“Do you have a key to the garage door, Mrs. Saxon?” he asked.

“No. Bobby came and got the extra key.”

“Okay, Mrs. Saxon. I’ll check with him.”

He moved toward the front door. Rachel joined him and they went out. Halfway down the steps to the garage, Rachel grabbed his arm and whispered.

“We have to call backup. Now!”

“Go ahead and call but I’m going into the garage. If he’s in there with the girl, we can’t wait.”

He shook off her grip and continued down. When he got to the garage he looked once again through the windows on the top panels and saw no movement inside. His eyes focused on the door on the rear wall. It was still closed.

He moved over to the pedestrian door and opened the blade of a small folding knife that was attached to his key ring.

Bosch went to work on the door’s lock and got the blade across the tongue. He nodded to Rachel to be ready and pulled the door open. But it didn’t come. He tried it again and pulled hard. Again the door would not come open.

“There’s an inside lock,” he whispered. “It means he’s in there.”

“No, it doesn’t. He could’ve come out through one of the garage doors.”

He shook his head.

“They’re locked from the inside,” he whispered. “All the doors are locked from the inside.”

Rachel understood and nodded.

“What do we do?” she whispered back.

Bosch thought about things for a moment and then handed her his keys.

“Go back and get the car. When you get up here, park it with the rear end right here. Then pop the trunk.”

“What are you-”

“Just do it. Go!”

She ran down the sidewalk in front of the garages and then crossed the street and dropped from sight down the hill. Bosch moved toward the pull-up door that looked like it had closed awkwardly. It was out of alignment and he knew it would be the better of the two doors to try to breach.

Bosch heard the Mustang’s big engine before he saw his car come over the hill. Rachel drove toward him fast. He stepped back against the garage to give her maximum room to maneuver. She made almost a complete turn in the street and then backed toward the garage. The trunk was popped and Bosch immediately reached in for the rope he kept in the back. It was gone. He then remembered that Osani had taken it after discovering it on the tree in Beachwood Canyon.

“Shit!”

He quickly looked through the trunk and found a shorter length of clothesline he had used once to tie down the trunk lid when he was moving a piece of furniture to the Salvation Army. He quickly tied one end of the cord to a steel towing loop underneath the car’s bumper and then the other end to the handle at the bottom of the garage door. He knew that something would have to give. The door, the handle or the rope. They had a one-in-three shot at getting the door open.

Rachel had gotten out of the car.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Bosch quietly closed the car’s trunk.

“We’re going to pull it open. Get back in the car and go forward. Go slow. A sudden jerk will snap the line. Go ahead, Rachel. Hurry.”

Without a word she got back in the car, dropped it in drive and started moving forward. She watched in the rearview and he rolled a finger to keep her moving. The cord pulled taut and then Bosch could hear the sound of the garage door groaning as the pressure mounted. He stepped back and at the same time drew his gun again.

The garage door gave way all at once and popped up and out three feet.

“Stop!” Bosch yelled, knowing there was no longer any need for whispers.

Rachel stopped pulling but the line remained taut and the garage door was held open. Bosch moved forward quickly and used his momentum to duck and roll beneath it. He came up inside the garage with his gun up and ready. He swept the space but saw no one. Keeping his eyes on the door at the rear wall, he sidestepped over to the van. He jerked one of the side doors open and quickly checked the interior. It was empty.

Bosch moved toward the back wall, making his way around an obstacle course of upright barrels, rolls of plastic, bales of towels, squeegee blades and other window-washing equipment. There was a strong smell of ammonia and other chemicals. Bosch’s eyes were beginning to water.

The hinges on the door at the rear wall were visible and Bosch knew it would swing toward him when he opened it.

“FBI!” Walling yelled from outside. “Coming in!”

“Clear!” Bosch yelled back.

He heard her scrabble under the garage door but kept his attention on the door in the back wall. He moved toward it, listening all the time for any sound.

Taking a position to the side of the door Bosch put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. It was unlocked. He looked back for the first time at Rachel. She was in a combat stance at an angle from the door. She nodded and in one quick move he flung the door open and moved across the threshold.

The room was dark and windowless and he saw no one. He knew he was a target standing in the light in the doorway and quickly sidestepped into the room. He saw a string from an overhead light and reached out and yanked on it. The string snapped in his hand but the light came on, the hanging bulb jumping and swinging in response. He was in a crowded work and storage room that was about ten feet deep. There was no one in the room.

“Clear!”

Rachel entered and they stood there scanning the room. A bench cluttered with old paint cans, household tools and flashlights was on the right. Four old and rusting bikes were stacked against the left wall, along with folding chairs and a pile of collapsed cardboard boxes. The back wall was concrete block. Hung on it was the dusty old flag for the pole up on the front terrace of the house. On the floor in front of it was a stand-up electric fan, its blades caked with dust and crud. It looked like at one time somebody had tried to blow the fetid, damp smell out of the room.

“Shit!” Bosch said.

He lowered his gun, turned and walked past Rachel back into the garage. She followed him.

Bosch shook his head and tried to rub some of the chemical sting out of his eyes. He didn’t understand. Were they too late? Were they following the wrong lead altogether?