Read Online City of Bones by Michael Connelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Connelly
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officers went into the station to change out of uniforms, shower and call it a night, if they could. He looked down at the MagLite he held in his hands and rubbed his thumb over the end cap and felt the scratchings where Julia Brasher had etched her badge number.
He hefted the light and then flipped it in his hand, feeling its weight. He flashed on what Golliher had said about the weapon that had killed the boy. He could add flashlight to the list.
Bosch watched a patrol car come into the lot and park by the motor pool garage. A cop he recognized as Julia Brasher’s partner, Edgewood, emerged from the passenger side and headed into the station carrying the car’s shotgun. Bosch waited and watched, suddenly unsure of his plan and wondering if he could abandon it and get into the station without being seen.
Before he decided on a move Brasher got out of the driver’s side and headed toward the station door. She walked with her head down, the posture of someone tired and beat from a long day. Bosch knew the feeling. He also thought something might be wrong. It was a subtle thing, but the way Edgewood had gone in and left her behind told Bosch something was off. Since Brasher was a rookie, Edgewood was her training officer, even though he was at least five years younger than her. Maybe it was just an awkward situation because of age and gender. Or maybe it was something else.
Brasher didn’t notice Bosch on the bench. She was almost to the station door before he spoke.
“Hey, you forgot to wash the puke out of the back seat.”
She looked back while continuing to walk until she saw it was him. She stopped then and walked over to the bench.
“I brought you something,” Bosch said.
He held out the flashlight. She smiled tiredly as she took it.
“Thank you, Harry. You didn’t have to wait here to—”
“I wanted to.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment.
“Were you working the case tonight?” she asked.
“More or less. Started the paperwork. And we sort of got the autopsy earlier today. If you could call it an autopsy.”
“I can tell by your face it was bad.”
Bosch nodded. He felt strange. He was still sitting and she was still standing.
“I can tell by the way you look that you had a tough one, too.”
“Aren’t they all?”
Before Bosch could say anything two cops, fresh from showers and in street clothes, came out of the station and headed toward their personal cars.
“Cheer up, Julia,” one of them said. “We’ll see you over there.”
“Okay, Kiko,” she said back.
She turned and looked back down at Bosch. She smiled.
“Some people from the shift are getting together over at Boardner’s,” she said. “You want to come?”
“Um . . .”
“That’s okay. I just thought maybe you could use a drink or something.”
“I could. I need one. Actually, that’s why I was waiting here for you. I just don’t know if I want to get into a group thing at a bar.”
“Well, what were you thinking, then?”
Bosch checked his watch. It was now eleven-thirty.
“Depending on how long you take in the locker room, we could probably catch the last martini call at Musso’s.”
She smiled broadly now.
“I love that place. Give me fifteen minutes.”
She headed toward the station door without waiting for a reply from him.
“I’ll be here,” he called after her.
10
M USSO and Frank’s was an institution that had been serving martinis to the denizens of Hollywood—both famous and infamous—for a century. The front room was all red leather booths and quiet conversation with ancient waiters in red half-coats moving slowly about. The back room contained the long bar, where most nights it was standing room only while patrons vied for the attention of bartenders who could have been the fathers of the waiters. As Bosch and Brasher came into the bar two patrons slipped off their stools to leave. Bosch and Brasher quickly moved in, beating two black-clad studio types to
He hefted the light and then flipped it in his hand, feeling its weight. He flashed on what Golliher had said about the weapon that had killed the boy. He could add flashlight to the list.
Bosch watched a patrol car come into the lot and park by the motor pool garage. A cop he recognized as Julia Brasher’s partner, Edgewood, emerged from the passenger side and headed into the station carrying the car’s shotgun. Bosch waited and watched, suddenly unsure of his plan and wondering if he could abandon it and get into the station without being seen.
Before he decided on a move Brasher got out of the driver’s side and headed toward the station door. She walked with her head down, the posture of someone tired and beat from a long day. Bosch knew the feeling. He also thought something might be wrong. It was a subtle thing, but the way Edgewood had gone in and left her behind told Bosch something was off. Since Brasher was a rookie, Edgewood was her training officer, even though he was at least five years younger than her. Maybe it was just an awkward situation because of age and gender. Or maybe it was something else.
Brasher didn’t notice Bosch on the bench. She was almost to the station door before he spoke.
“Hey, you forgot to wash the puke out of the back seat.”
She looked back while continuing to walk until she saw it was him. She stopped then and walked over to the bench.
“I brought you something,” Bosch said.
He held out the flashlight. She smiled tiredly as she took it.
“Thank you, Harry. You didn’t have to wait here to—”
“I wanted to.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment.
“Were you working the case tonight?” she asked.
“More or less. Started the paperwork. And we sort of got the autopsy earlier today. If you could call it an autopsy.”
“I can tell by your face it was bad.”
Bosch nodded. He felt strange. He was still sitting and she was still standing.
“I can tell by the way you look that you had a tough one, too.”
“Aren’t they all?”
Before Bosch could say anything two cops, fresh from showers and in street clothes, came out of the station and headed toward their personal cars.
“Cheer up, Julia,” one of them said. “We’ll see you over there.”
“Okay, Kiko,” she said back.
She turned and looked back down at Bosch. She smiled.
“Some people from the shift are getting together over at Boardner’s,” she said. “You want to come?”
“Um . . .”
“That’s okay. I just thought maybe you could use a drink or something.”
“I could. I need one. Actually, that’s why I was waiting here for you. I just don’t know if I want to get into a group thing at a bar.”
“Well, what were you thinking, then?”
Bosch checked his watch. It was now eleven-thirty.
“Depending on how long you take in the locker room, we could probably catch the last martini call at Musso’s.”
She smiled broadly now.
“I love that place. Give me fifteen minutes.”
She headed toward the station door without waiting for a reply from him.
“I’ll be here,” he called after her.
10
M USSO and Frank’s was an institution that had been serving martinis to the denizens of Hollywood—both famous and infamous—for a century. The front room was all red leather booths and quiet conversation with ancient waiters in red half-coats moving slowly about. The back room contained the long bar, where most nights it was standing room only while patrons vied for the attention of bartenders who could have been the fathers of the waiters. As Bosch and Brasher came into the bar two patrons slipped off their stools to leave. Bosch and Brasher quickly moved in, beating two black-clad studio types to
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