“Then, how would he know about her?”

“Man, you’re asking me shit I don’t know. Go ask McSweeney.”

I immediately realized I had slipped up. I wouldn’t know that name unless I had been investigating juror number seven.

Bosch looked at me curiously. I didn’t know if he realized the jury was supposed to be anonymous, even to the lawyers on the case. Before he could come up with a question, I was saved by someone yelling from the brush where I had almost been pushed over the side.

“I’ve got the gun!”

Bosch pointed a finger at my chest.

“Stay right here.”

I watched Bosch and Armstead trot over and join a few of the others as they studied the found weapon under a flashlight beam. Bosch didn’t touch the weapon but bent down into the light to examine it closely.

The William Tell Overture started to play behind me. I turned around and saw my phone lying on the gravel, its tiny square screen glowing like a beacon. I went over and picked it up. It was Cisco and I took the call.

“Cisco, I gotta call you back.”

“Make it quick. I’ve got some good shit for you. You’re going to want to know this.”

I closed the phone and watched as Bosch finished his study of the weapon and then stepped over to McSweeney. He leaned close to him and whispered something into his ear. He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked back toward me. I could tell even in the dim moonlight that he was excited. Armstead was following behind him.

“The gun’s a Beretta Bobcat, like we were looking for on Vincent,” he said. “If the ballistics match, then we’ve got that guy locked in a box. I’ll make sure you get a commendation from City Hall.”

“Good. I’ll frame it.”

“Put this together for me, Haller, and you can start with him being the one who killed Vincent. Why did he want to kill you, too?”

“I don’t know.”

“The bribe,” Armstead asked. “Is he the one who got the money?”

“Same answer I gave you five minutes ago. I don’t know. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“How did he know your friend’s name on the phone?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Then, what good are you?” Bosch asked.

It was a good question and the immediate answer didn’t sit well with me.

“Look, Detective, I-”

“Don’t bother, man. Why don’t you just get in your car and get the fuck out of here? We’ll take it from here.”

He turned and started walking away and Armstead followed. I hesitated and then called out to Bosch. I waved him back. He said something to the FBI agent and came back to me alone.

“No bullshit,” he said impatiently. “I don’t have the time.”

“Okay, this is the thing,” I said. “I think he was going to make it look like I jumped.”

Bosch considered this and then shook his head.

“Suicide? Who would believe that? You’ve got the case of the decade, man. You’re hot. You’re on TV. And you’ve got a kid to worry about. Suicide wouldn’t sell.”

I nodded.

“Yes, it would.”

He looked at me and said nothing, waiting for me to explain.

“I’m a recovering addict, Bosch. You know anything about that?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“The story would go that I couldn’t take the pressure of the big case and all the attention, and I either had or was about to relapse. So I jumped instead of going back to that. It’s not an uncommon thing, Bosch. They call it the fast out. And it makes me think that…”

“What?”

I pointed across the clearing toward juror number seven.

“That he and whoever he was doing this for knew a lot about me. They did a deep background. They came up with my addiction and rehab and Lanie’s name. Then they came up with a solid plan for getting rid of me because they couldn’t just shoot down another lawyer without bringing down massive scrutiny on what it is they’ve got going. If I went down as a suicide, there’d be a lot less pressure.”

“Yeah, but why did they need to get rid of you?”

“I guess they think I know too much.”

“Do you?”

Before I could answer, McSweeney started yelling from the other side of the clearing.

“Hey! Over there with the lawyer. I want to make a deal. I can give you some big people, man! I want to make a deal!”

Bosch waited to see if there was more but that was it.

“My tip?” I said. “Go over there and strike while the iron’s hot. Before he remembers he’s entitled to a lawyer.”

Bosch nodded.

“Thanks, Coach,” he said. “But I think I know what I’m doing.”

He started to head across the clearing.

“Hey, Bosch, wait,” I called. “You owe me something before you go over there.”

Bosch stopped and signaled to Armstead to go to McSweeney. He then came back to me.

“What do I owe you?”

“One answer. Tonight I called you and told you I was in for the night. You were supposed to cut the surveillance down to one car. But this is the whole enchilada up here. What changed your mind?”

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what?”

“You get to sleep late tomorrow, Counselor. There’s no trial anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because your client’s dead. Somebody – probably our friend over there who wants to make a deal – took Elliot and his girlfriend out tonight when they came home from dinner. His electric gate wouldn’t open and when he got out to push it open, somebody came up and put a bullet in the back of his head. Then he hit the woman in the car.”

I took a half step back in shock. I knew the gate Bosch was talking about. I had been to Elliot’s mansion in Beverly Hills just the other night. And as far as the girlfriend went, I also thought I knew who that would be. I’d had Nina Albrecht figured for that position ever since Elliot told me he’d had help on the day of the murders in Malibu.

Bosch didn’t let the stunned look on my face keep him from continuing.

“I got tipped from a friend in the medical examiner’s office and figured that somebody might be out there cleaning the slate tonight. I figured I ought to call the team back and see what happens at your place. Lucky for you I did.”

I stared right through Bosch when I answered.

“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky for me.”

Fifty-three

There was no longer a trial but I went to court on Tuesday morning to see the case through to its official end. I took my place next to the empty seat Walter Elliot had occupied for the past two weeks. The news photographers who had been allowed access to the courtroom seemed to like that empty chair. They took a lot of photos of it.

Jeffrey Golantz sat across the aisle. He was the luckiest prosecutor on earth. He had left court one day, thinking he was facing a career-hobbling loss, and came back the next day with his perfect record intact. His upward trajectory in the DA’s office and city politics was safe for now. He had nothing to say to me as we sat and waited for the judge.

But there was a lot of talk in the gallery. People were buzzing with news of the murders of Walter Elliot and Nina Albrecht. No one made mention of the attempt on my life and the events at the Fryman Canyon overlook. For the moment, that was all secret. Once McSweeney told Bosch and Armstead that he wanted to deal, the investigators had asked me to keep quiet so they could move slowly and carefully with their cooperating suspect. I was happy to cooperate with that myself. To a point.

Judge Stanton took the bench promptly at nine. His eyes were puffy and he looked like he’d had very little sleep. I wondered if he knew as many details of what had transpired the night before as I did.

The jury was brought in and I studied their faces. If any of them knew what had happened, they weren’t showing it. I noticed several of them check out the empty seat beside me as they took their own.

“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” the judge said. “At this time I am going to discharge you from service in this trial. As I am sure you can see, Mr. Elliot is not in his seat at the defense table. This is because the defendant in this trial was the victim of a homicide last night.”