Michael Connelly - EchoPark

Bosch leaned forward at his desk. He was suddenly very interested in what Edgar was telling him.

“He said this guy showed a badge and said he was monitoring your investigation and he asked Jason what you and the agent had wanted. My cousin took him up to the floor you people had gone to and walked this guy out to the window. They were standing there looking down on the house in Echo Park when you and the lady agent showed up down there. They watched you go into the garage.”

“Then what happened?”

“The guy ran out of there. Grabbed an elevator and went down.”

“Did your cousin get a name off this guy?”

“Yeah, the guy said his name was Detective Smith. When he held up his ID he sort of had his fingers over the part with his name.”

It was an old ploy, Bosch knew, used mostly when detectives were going off the reservation and didn’t want their real name out in circulation. Bosch had used it himself on occasion.

“What about a description?” he asked.

“Yeah, he gave me all that. He said white guy, about six feet and one-eighty. The guy had silver-gray hair he kept cut short. Let’s see, midfifties and he was wearing a blue suit, white shirt and a striped tie. He had an American flag on the lapel.”

The description matched about fifty thousand men in the immediate vicinity of downtown. And Bosch was looking at one of them. Abel Pratt was still standing in his office doorway. He was staring at Bosch with eyebrows raised in question. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket but Bosch could see it on a hook on the door behind him. There was an American flag pinned to the lapel.

Bosch looked back down at his desk.

“How late does he work to?” he asked quietly.

“Normally, I think he stays till five. But there’s a bunch of people hanging up there, watching the scene in Echo Park.”

“Okay, thanks for the tip. I’ll call you later.”

Bosch hung up before Edgar could say anything else. He looked up and Pratt was still staring at him.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Oh, just something on the Matarese case. The one we filed this week. It looks like we might have a witness after all. It will help at trial.”

Bosch said it as nonchalantly as he could. He stood up and looked at his boss.

“But don’t worry. It will hold until I get back from home duty.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

BOSCH WALKED TOWARD PRATT. He came too close to him, invading his personal space, which caused Pratt to back into his office and move back to his desk. This was what Bosch wanted. He said good-bye and have a good weekend. He then headed toward the door of the squad room.

The Open-Unsolved Unit had three cars assigned to its eight detectives and one supervisor. The cars were used on a first-come first-served basis and the keys hung on hooks next to the squad room door. The procedure was for a detective taking a car to write his or her name and the estimated time of return on an erasable white board that hung below the keys. When Bosch got to the door he opened it wide to block the view from Pratt’s office of the key hooks. There were two sets of keys on the hooks. Bosch grabbed one and left.

A few minutes later he pulled out of the garage behind Parker Center and headed toward the DWP Building. The mad rush to empty downtown by sunset was only just beginning and he made it the seven blocks in quick time. He parked illegally in front of the fountain at the entrance to the building and jumped out of his car. He checked his watch as he approached the front door. It was twenty minutes to five.

A uniformed security guard came through the doors, waving at him.

“You can’t park-”

“I know.”

Bosch showed him his badge and pointed to the radio on the man’s belt.

“Can you get Jason Edgar on that thing?”

“Edgar? Yeah. What’s this-”

“Get him on there and tell him Detective Bosch is waiting out front. I need to see him as soon as possible. Do it now, please.”

Bosch turned and headed back to his car. He got in and waited five minutes before he saw Jason Edgar come through the glass doors. When he got to the car he opened the passenger door to look in, not get in.

“What’s up, Harry?”

“I got your message. Get in.”

Edgar reluctantly got in the car. Bosch pulled away from the curb as he was closing his door.

“Wait a minute. Where are we going? I can’t just leave.”

“This should only take a few minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Parker Center. We won’t even get out of the car.”

“I have to let them know.”

Edgar took a small two-way off his belt. He called in at the DWP security center and said he would be off-location on a police matter for a half hour. He received a 10-4 and put the radio back on his belt.

“You should’ve asked me first,” he said to Bosch. “My cousin said you had a habit of acting first and asking questions later.”

“He said that, huh?”

“Yeah, he did. What are we doing at Parker Center?”

“Making an ID of the cop who talked to you after I left today.”

Traffic had already gotten worse. A lot of nine-to-fivers getting an early jump on the commute home. Friday afternoons were particularly brutal. Bosch finally pulled back into the police garage at ten to five and hoped they wouldn’t be too late. He found a parking space in the first row. The garage was an open-air structure and the space afforded them a view of San Pedro Street, which ran between Parker Center and the garage.

“You have a cell phone?” Bosch asked.

“Yeah.”

Bosch gave him the general number for Parker Center and told him to call it and ask for the Open-Unsolved Unit. Calls transferred from the main number did not carry forward caller ID. Edgar’s name and number would not show up on the OU lines.

“I just want to see if somebody answers,” Bosch said. “If somebody does, just ask for Rick Jackson. When you’re told that he’s not there, don’t leave a message. Just say you’ll get him on his cell and hang up.”

Edgar’s call was answered and he went through the routine Bosch had outlined. When he was finished he looked over at Bosch.

“Somebody named Pratt answered.”

“Good. He’s still there.”

“So what’s that mean?”

“I wanted to make sure he hadn’t left. He’ll leave at five, and when he does he’ll cross the street right over there. I want to see if he’s the guy who told you he was monitoring my investigation.”

“Is he IAD?”

“No. He’s my boss.”

Bosch slapped the visor down as a precaution against being seen. They were parked a good thirty yards from the crosswalk Pratt would use to get to the garage but he didn’t know which way Pratt would go once he was inside the structure. As a squad supervisor he had the perk of being able to park a personal car in the police garage, and most of those assigned spaces were on the second level. There were two sets of stairs and the ramp up. If Pratt walked up the ramp he would come right by Bosch’s position.

Edgar asked questions about the Echo Park shooting and Bosch answered them in short sentences. He didn’t want to talk about it but he had just yanked the guy off post and had to respond in some way. It was only being courteous. Finally, at 5:01 he saw Pratt come through the back doors of Parker Center and down the ramp by the jail’s intake doors. He walked out to San Pedro and started to cross with a group of four other detective supervisors who were heading home as well.

“Okay,” Bosch said, cutting Edgar off in the middle of a question. “See those guys crossing the street. Which one came to DWP today?”

Edgar studied the pack crossing the street. He had an unobstructed view of Pratt, who was walking next to another man at the back of the group.