“What’s it got to do with me, man? I was up here by then.”

Bosch nodded emphatically.

“You’re right, Rufus, you were up here. But you see, by two thousand three they had this thing called the National Integrated Ballistic Identification System. It’s a computer data bank run by the ATF, and it keeps track of bullets and casings collected from crime scenes and murder victims.”

“That’s fucking fantastic.”

“Ballistics, Rufus, it’s practically like having fingerprints now. They matched those shells from Eddie Vaughn’s car to the gun you used seven years earlier to wipe out Walter Regis. Same gun used in both killings by two different killers.”

“That’s some cool shit there, Dee-tective.”

“It sure is but it’s not really news to you. I know they came up here to talk to you about the Vaughn case. The investigators on that one, they wanted to know who you gave the gun to after you hit Regis. They wanted to know who the Rolling Sixties shot caller that you did the hit for was. Because they were thinking the same guy might’ve called the shot on Vaughn.”

“I think I might remember that. It was a long time ago. I didn’t tell them shit then and I ain’t telling you shit now.”

“Yeah, I pulled the report. You told them to fuck themselves and go on back home. See, back then you were still a soldier, brave and strong. But that was nine years ago and you had nothing to lose then. The thought of making parole in ten years was pie-in-the-sky stuff to you. But now it’s a different story. And now we’re talking about three murders with the same gun. Earlier this year I took the shell we picked up at the Jespersen scene in ‘ninety-two and had it run through the ATF data bank. It matched up to Regis and Vaughn. Three killings tied to one gun—a Beretta model ninety-two.”

Bosch sat back in his chair and waited for a reaction. He knew that Coleman knew what he wanted.

“I can’t help you, man,” Coleman said. “You can call the hacks back in for me.”

“You sure? Because I can help you.”

He lifted the envelope.

“Or I could hurt you.”

He waited.

“I could make sure you put in another ten years here before they even look at you again for parole. Is that how you want to play it?”

Coleman shook his head.

“And how long you think I’d last out there if I helped you, man?”

“Not long at all. I’ll give you that. But nobody has to know about this, Rufus. I’m not asking you to testify in court or give a written statement.”

At least not yet, Bosch thought.

“All I want is a name. Between you and me right here and that’s it. I want the guy who called the hit. The guy who gave you the gun and told you to take out Regis. The guy you gave the gun back to after you did the job.”

Coleman cast his eyes to the table as he thought. Bosch knew he was weighing the years. Even the strongest of soldiers has a limit.

“It’s not like that,” he finally said. “The shot caller never talks to the gunner. There are buffers, man.”

Bosch had been briefed by Gang Intelligence before making the journey. He had been told that the hierarchies of the longtime South Central gangs were usually set up like paramilitary organizations. It was a pyramid and a bottom-level enforcer like Coleman wouldn’t even know who had called the hit on Regis. So Bosch had used the question as a test. If Coleman named the shot caller, he would know Coleman was lying.

“All right,” Bosch said. “I get that. So then let’s keep it simple. Keep it on the gun. Who gave it to you the night you hit Regis and who’d you give it back to after?”

Coleman nodded and kept his eyes down. He remained silent and Bosch waited. This was the play. This was what he had come for.

“I can’t do this no more,” Coleman whispered.

Bosch said nothing and tried to keep his breathing normal. Coleman was going to break.

“I got a kid,” he said. “She’s practically a grown woman and I never seen her anywhere but this place. I seen her in prison, that’s all.”

Bosch nodded.

“That shouldn’t be,” he said. “I’ve got a daughter myself and I went through a lot of years without her.”

Bosch now saw a wet shine in Coleman’s eyes. The gang soldier was worn by years of incarceration and guilt and fear. Sixteen years of watching his own back. The layers of muscle were simply the disguise of a broken man.

“Give me the name, Rufus,” he urged. “And I send the letter. Done deal. You don’t give me what I want and you know you’ll never get out of here alive. And there’ll always be glass between you and your girl.”

With his arms cuffed behind him, Coleman could do nothing about the tear that dripped down his left cheek. He bowed his head.

“True story,” Bosch heard him say.

Bosch waited. Coleman said nothing else.

“Tell it,” Bosch finally said.

“Tell what?” Coleman asked.

“The true story. Tell it.”

Coleman shook his head.

“No, man, that’s the name. Trumont Story. They call him Tru, like T-R-U. He gave me the gun to do the job and I gave it back after.”

Bosch nodded. He had gotten what he’d come for.

“One thing, though,” Coleman said.

“What’s that?”

“Tru Story’s been dead a long time, man. Least that’s what I heard up here.”

Bosch had prepared himself on the way up. In the past two decades, the gang body count in South L.A. was in the thousands. He knew that there was a better-than-good chance he was looking for a dead man. But he also knew that the trail didn’t necessarily stop with Tru Story.

“You still going to send in that letter?” Coleman asked.

Bosch stood up. He was done. The brutish man in front of him was a stone-cold killer and was in the place he deserved to be. But Bosch had made a deal with him.

“You’ve probably thought about it a million times,” he said. “What do you do after you get out and hug your daughter?”

Coleman answered without missing a beat.

“I find a corner.”

He waited, knowing Bosch would jump to the wrong conclusion.

“And I start to preach. I tell everybody what I’ve learned. What I know. Society won’t have no problem with me. I’ll be a soldier still. But I’ll be a soldier for Christ.”

Bosch nodded. He knew that many who left here had the same plan. To go with God. Few of them made it. It was a system that relied on repeat customers. In his gut he knew Coleman was probably one of them.

“Then I’ll send the letter,” he said.

3

In the morning, Bosch went to the South Bureau on Broadway to meet with Detective Jordy Gant in the Gang Enforcement Detail. Gant was at his desk and on a phone call when Bosch arrived but it didn’t sound important and he quickly got off.

“How’d it go up there with Rufus?” he said.

He smiled as a way of showing understanding if Bosch said, as expected, that the trip to San Quentin was a bust.

“Well, he gave me a name but he also told me the guy was dead, so the whole thing could have been him playing me while I was playing him.”

“What’s the name?”

“Trumont Story. Heard of him?”

Gant just nodded, but Bosch could tell it wasn’t necessarily in confirmation of Story’s death but in how the name fit with something else. Gant turned to a short stack of files on the side of his desk. Next to it was a small black box labeled “Rolling 60s—1991–1994.” Bosch recognized it as a box that was used in the old days for holding field interview cards. That was before the department started using computers to store intelligence data.

“Imagine that,” Gant said. “And I just happen to have Tru Story’s file right here.”

“Yeah, imagine that,” Bosch said, taking the file.

He opened it directly to an 8 x 10 shot of a man lying dead on a sidewalk. There was a contact entry wound on his left temple. His right eye had been replaced with a large exit wound. A small amount of blood had oozed onto the concrete and coagulated by the time the photo had been shot.