“Christ, Pounds, there is something going on. Don’t you see that?”
Pounds put the ruler back in the drawer and closed it.
“Yes, something is going on. But I don’t see it your way,” he said. “That’s it, Bosch. That’s an order. You are off. These two men want to talk to you and you are on a desk till Internal Affairs is finished with its investigation.”
He was quiet a moment before beginning again in a solemn tone. A man unhappy with what he had to say.
“You know, you were sent out here to me last year and I could have put you anywhere. I could have put you on the goddam burglary table, handling fifty reports a week, just buried you in paper. But I didn’t. I recognized your skills and put you on homicide, what I thought you wanted. They told me last year that you’re good but you don’t stay in the lines. Now I see they were right. How this will hurt me, I don’t know. But I’m not worrying about what’s best for you anymore. Now, you can either talk to these guys or not. I don’t really care. But that’s it. We’re done, you and me. If somehow you ride this one out, you better see about getting a transfer, because you won’t be on my homicide table anymore.”
Pounds picked up the blue binder off his desk and stood up. As he headed out of the office he said, “I have to get somebody to take this over to the bureau. You men can have the office as long as you need it.”
He closed the door and was gone. Bosch thought about it and decided he really couldn’t fault Pounds for what he had said, or done. He took out a cigarette and lit it.
“Hey, no smoking, you heard the man,” Lewis said.
“Fuck off,” Bosch said.
“Bosch, you’re dead,” Clarke said. “We’re going to toast your ass right this time. You aren’t the hero you once were. No PR problems this time. Nobody’s going to give a shit about what happens to you.”
Then he stood up and turned the tape recorder back on. He recited the date, the names of the three men present and the Internal Affairs case number assigned to the investigation. Bosch realized the number was about seven hundred higher than the case number from the internal investigation nine months earlier that sent him to Hollywood. Nine months, and seven hundred other cops have been through the bullshit wringer, he thought. One day there will be no one left to do what it says on the side of every patrol car, to serve and protect.
“Detective Bosch”-Lewis took over then in a modulated, calm tone-“we would like to ask you questions regarding the investigation of the death of William Meadows. Will you tell us of any past association with or knowledge you had of the decedent.”
“I refuse to answer any questions without an attorney present,” Bosch said. “I cite my right to representation under California’s Policeman’s Bill of Rights.”
“Detective Bosch, the department administration does not recognize that aspect of the Policeman’s Bill of Rights. You are commanded to answer these questions, and if you do not you will be subject to suspension and possible dismissal. You-”
“Can you loosen these handcuffs, please?” Bosch said.
“What?” Lewis cried out, losing his calm, confident tone.
Clarke stood up and went to the tape recorder and bent over it.
“Detective Bosch is not handcuffed and there are two witnesses here who can attest to that fact,” he said.
“Just the two that cuffed me,” Bosch said. “And beat me. This is a direct violation of my civil rights. I request that a union rep and my attorney be present before we continue.”
Clarke rewound the tape and turned the recorder off. His face was almost purple with anger as he carried it back to his partner’s briefcase. It was a few moments before words came to either one of them.
Clarke said, “It’s going to be a pleasure to do you, Bosch. We’ll have the suspension papers on the chief’s desk by the end of the day. You’ll be assigned to a desk at Internal Affairs where we can keep an eye on you. We’ll start with CUBO and work our way up from there, maybe even to murder. Either way, you’re done in the department. You’re over.”
Bosch stood up and so did the two IAD detectives. Bosch took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped it on the floor in front of Clarke and stepped on it, grinding it into the polished linoleum. He knew they would clean it up rather than let Pounds know they had not controlled the interview or the interviewee. He stepped between them then, exhaled the smoke and walked out of the room without saying a word. Outside, he heard Clarke’s barely controlled voice call out.
“You stay away from the case, Bosch!”
Avoiding the eyes that followed him, Bosch walked through the squad room and dropped into his seat at the homicide table. He looked across at Edgar, who was seated at his own space.
“You did good,” Bosch said. “You should come out all right.”
“What about you?”
“I’m off the case and those two assholes are going to put paper in on me. I’ve got the afternoon and that’s about it before I get the ROD.”
“God damn.”
The deputy chief in charge of IAD had to sign off on all Relieved of Duty orders and temporary suspensions. Stiffer penalties had to be recommended to a police commission subcommittee for approval. Lewis and Clarke would go for a temporary ROD for conduct unbecoming an officer, or CUBO, as it was known. Then they’d work on something stiffer to take to the commission. If the deputy chief signed an ROD on Bosch, he would have to be notified according to union regs. That meant in person or in a tape-recorded phone conversation. Once notification was made, Bosch could be assigned to a desk at IAD in Parker Center or to his home until the conclusion of the investigation. But as they had just promised, Lewis and Clarke would go for assignment to IAD. That way they could put him on display like a trophy.
“You need anything from me on Spivey?” he asked Edgar.
“No. I’m set. I’m gonna start typing it up if I can get a machine.”
“Did you happen to check like I asked on Meadows’s job on the subway project?”
“Harry, you…” Edgar must have thought better of saying what he wanted to say. “Yeah, I checked it out. For what it’s worth, they said they haven’t had anyone named Meadows on the job. There is a Fields, but he’s black and he was at work today. And Meadows probly wasn’t working under any other name because they aren’t running a midnight shift. The project is ahead of schedule, if you can believe that shit.” Edgar then called out, “I got dibs on the Selectric.”
“No way,” called back an autos detective named Minkly. “I’m on deck with that one.”
Edgar started looking around for another candidate. Late in the day, the typewriters in the office were like gold. There were a dozen machines for thirty-two detectives: that was if you included the manual jobs and the electrics with nervous tics like moving borders or jumpy space bars.
“Okay then,” Edgar called out. “I got dibs after you, Mink.” Then Edgar lowered his voice and turned to Bosch. “Who you think he’ll put me with?”
“Pounds? I don’t know.” It was like guessing who your wife would marry after you punched the time clock for the last time. Bosch wasn’t all that interested in speculating who would be partnered with Edgar. He said, “Listen, I have to do some things.”
“Sure, Harry. You need any help, anything from me?”
Bosch shook his head and picked up the phone. He called his lawyer and left a message. It usually took three messages before the guy would call back, and Bosch made a note to call again. Then he turned his Rolodex, got a number and called the U.S. Armed Services Records Archive in St. Louis. He asked for a law enforcement clerk and got a woman named Jessie St. John. He put in a priority request for copies of all of Billy Meadows’s military records. Three days, St. John said. He hung up thinking that he would never see the records. They’d come but he wouldn’t be in this office, at this table, on this case. Next he called Donovan at SID and learned there had been no latent prints on the needle kit found in Meadows’s shirt pocket and only smears on the can of spray paint. The light-brown crystals found in the straining cotton in the kit came back as 55 percent pure heroin, Asian blend. Bosch knew that most heroin dealt on the street and shot into the vein was about 15 percent pure. Most of it was tar heroin made by Mexicans. Somebody had given Meadows a very hot shot. In Harry’s mind, that made the tox tests he was waiting for a formality. Meadows had been murdered.