“Harry, we had a deal. Tell me the story.”

He noted that it was the only time she had ever used his first name. He continued to say nothing while he tried to figure out what was happening and weighed the consequences of talking to her.

“Bosch?”

Back to normal.

“All right. You got your pencil? I’m going to give you enough to get started. You’ll have to go to Irving to get the rest.”

“I’ve been calling him. He won’t even take my calls.”

“He will when he knows you have the story. He’ll have to.”

By the time he was done telling her the story he was fatigued and his head was hurting again. He was ready to go to sleep, if it would have him. He wanted to forget everything and just sleep.

“That’s an incredible story, Bosch,” she said when he was done. “I’m sorry, you know, about your mother.”

“Thanks.”

“What about Pounds?”

“What about him?”

“Is it connected? Irving was honchoing that investigation. Now he’s doing this one.”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“If I can get him on the line.”

“When you call over there, tell the adjutant to tell Irving you’re calling on behalf of Marjorie Lowe. He’ll call you back when he gets the message. I guarantee it.”

“Okay, Bosch, last thing. We didn’t talk about this at the start like we should have. Can I use your name as a source?”

Bosch thought about it but only for a few moments.

“Yeah, you can use it. I don’t know what my name’s worth anymore but you can use it.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you. You’re a pal.”

“Yeah, I’m a pal.”

He hung up and closed his eyes. He dozed off but wasn’t sure for how long. He was interrupted by the phone. It was Irving and he was angry.

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got a message from a reporter. She says she’s calling because of Marjorie Lowe. Have you talked to reporters about this?”

“I talked to one.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her enough so that you won’t be able to let this one blow away.”

“Bosch…”

He didn’t finish. There was a long silence and then Bosch spoke first.

“You were going to cover it all up, weren’t you? Shove it in the trash with her. You see, after everything that’s happened, she still doesn’t count, does she?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bosch sat up. Now he was angry. Immediately, he was hit with vertigo. He closed his eyes until it passed.

“Well, then why don’t you tell me what I don’t know? Okay, Chief? You’re the one who doesn’t know what you’re talking about. I heard what you people put out. That there may be no connection between Conklin and Mittel. What kind of-you think I’m going to sit here for that? And Vaughn. Not even a mention of him. A fucking mechanic in a splatter suit, he throws Conklin out the window and is ready to put me in the dirt. He’s the one who did Pounds and he doesn’t even rate a mention by you people. So, Chief, why don’t you tell me what the fuck I don’t know, okay?”

“Bosch, listen to me. Listen to me. Who did Mittel work for?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“He was employed by very powerful people. Some of the most powerful in this state, some of the most powerful in the country. And-”

“I don’t give a shit!”

“-a majority of the city council.”

“So? What are you telling me? The council and the governor and the senators and all of those people, what, are they all involved now, too? You covering their asses, too?”

“Bosch, would you calm down and make sense? Listen to yourself. Of course, I’m not saying that. What I am trying to explain to you is that if you taint Mittel with this, then you taint many very powerful people who associated with him or who used his services. That could come back to haunt this department as well as you and me in immeasurable ways.”

That was it, Bosch saw. Irving the pragmatist had made a choice, probably along with the police chief, to put the department and themselves ahead of the truth. The whole deal stunk like rotting garbage. Bosch felt exhaustion roll over him like a wave. He was drowning in it. He’d had enough of this.

“And by covering it up, you are helping them in immeasurable ways, right? And I’m sure you and the chief have been on the phone all morning letting each of those powerful people know just that. They’ll all owe you, they’ll all owe the department a big one. That’s great, Chief. That’s a great deal. I guess it doesn’t matter that the truth is nowhere to be found in it.”

“Bosch, I want you to call her back. Call that reporter and tell her that you took this knock on the head and you-”

“No! I’m not calling anybody back. It’s too late. I told the story.”

“But not the whole story. The whole story is just as damaging to you, isn’t it?”

There it was. Irving knew. He either outright knew or had made a pretty good guess that Bosch had used Pounds’s name and was ultimately responsible for his death. That knowledge was now his weapon against Bosch.

“If I can’t contain this,” Irving added, “I may have to take action against you.”

“I don’t care,” Bosch said quietly. “You can do whatever you want to me, but the story is coming out, Chief. The truth.”

“But is it the truth? The whole truth? I doubt it and deep in inside I know you doubt it, too. We’ll never know the whole truth.”

A silence followed. Bosch waited for him to say more and when there was only more silence, he hung up. He then disconnected the phone and finally went to sleep.

Chapter Forty-five

BOSCH AWOKE AT six the next morning with dim memories of his sleep having been interrupted by a horrible dinner and the visits of nurses through the night. His head felt thick. He gently touched the wound and found it not as tender as the day before. He got up and walked around the room a bit. His balance seemed back to normal. In the bathroom mirror his eyes were still a colorful mess but the dilation of the pupils had evened out. It was time to go, he knew. He got dressed and left the room, briefcase in hand and carrying his ruined jacket over his arm.

At the nurses’ station he pushed the elevator button and waited. He noticed one of the nurses behind the counter eyeing him. She apparently didn’t readily recognize him, especially with his street clothes on.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you a patient?”

“I was. I’m leaving. Room four-nineteen. Bosch.”

“Wait a moment, sir. What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving. Going home.”

“What?”

“Just send me the bill.”

The elevator doors opened and he stepped in.

“You can’t do that,” the nurse called. “Let me get the doctor.”

Bosch raised his hand and waved good-bye.

“Wait!”

The doors closed.

He bought a newspaper in the lobby and caught a cab outside. He told the driver to take him to Park La Brea. Along the way, he read Keisha Russell’s story. It was on the front page and it was pretty much an abbreviated account of what he had told her the day before. Everything was qualified with the caveat that it was still under investigation, but it was a good read.

Bosch was mentioned throughout by name as a source and main player in the story. Irving was also a named source. Bosch figured the assistant chief must have decided in the end to throw in with the truth, or a close approximation of it, once Bosch had already let it out. It was the pragmatic thing to do. This way it seemed like he had a handle on things. He was the voice of conservative reason in the story. Bosch’s statements were usually followed by those from Irving cautioning that the investigation was still in its infancy and no final conclusions had been made.

The part Bosch liked best about the story were the statements from several statesmen, including most of the city council, expressing shock both at the deaths of Mittel and Conklin and at their involvement in and/or cover-up of murders. The story also mentioned that Mittel’s employee, Jonathan Vaughn, was being sought by police as a murder suspect.