have to go to records and pull a hard copy.
But there was a limited description of the gold-and-jade bracelet, and several other pieces of jewelry taken from Beecham.
The bracelet Beecham reported lost could or could not have been the one that Meadows had pawned — the description was too
vague. There were several supplementary report numbers given on the computer report and Bosch wrote them all down in his notebook.
It seemed to him as he did this that Harriet Beecham’s loss had generated an unusual amount of paper.
He next called up the information on the two bulletins. Both had come from the FBI, the first issued two weeks after Beecham
had been burglarized. It was then reissued three months later when Beecham’s jewelry had still not turned up. Bosch wrote
down the bulletin number and turned off the computer. He went across the room to the robbery/commercial burglary section.
On a steel shelf that ran along the back wall were dozens of black binders that held the bulletins and BOLOs from past years.
Bosch took down the one marked September and began looking through it. He quickly realized that the bulletins were not in
chronological order and weren’t all issued in September. In fact, there was no order. He might have to look through all ten
months since Beecham’s burglary to find the bulletin he needed. He pulled an armful of the binders off the shelf and sat down
at the burglary table. A few moments later he felt the presence of someone across the table from him.
“What do you want?” he said without looking up.
“What do I want?” the duty detective said. “I want to know what the fuck you are doing, Bosch. This isn’t your place anymore.
You can’t just come in here like you’re running the crew. Put that shit back on the shelf, and if you want to look through
it come back down here tomorrow and ask, goddammit. And don’t give me any bullshit about an autopsy. You’ve already been here
a half hour.”
Bosch looked up at him. He put his age at twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine, even younger than Bosch had been when he had made
it to Robbery-Homicide. Either standards had dropped or RHD wasn’t what it was. Bosch knew it was actually both. He looked
back down at the bulletin binder.
“I’m talking to you, asshole!” the detective boomed.
Bosch reached his foot up under the table and kicked the chair that was across from him. The chair shot out from the table
and its backrest hit the detective in the crotch. He doubled over and made an
oomph
sound, grabbing the chair for support. Bosch knew he had his reputation going for him now. Harry Bosch: a loner, a fighter,
a killer. C’mon kid, he was saying, do something.
But the young detective just stared at Bosch, his anger and humiliation in check. He was a cop who could pull the gun but
maybe not the trigger. And once Bosch knew that, he knew the kid would walk away.
The young cop shook his head, waved his hands like he was saying Enough of this, and walked back to the duty desk.
“Go ahead, write me up, kid,” Bosch said to his back.
“Fuck you,” the kid feebly returned.
Bosch knew he had nothing to worry about. IAD wouldn’t even look at an officer-on-officer beef without a corroborating witness
or tape recording. One cop’s word against another’s was something they wouldn’t touch in this department. Deep down, they
knew a cop’s word by itself was worthless. That was why Internal Affairs cops always worked in pairs.
An hour and seven cigarettes later, Bosch found it. A photocopy of another Polaroid of the gold-and-jade bracelet was part
of a fifty-page packet of descriptions and photos of property lost in a burglary at WestLand National Bank at Sixth and Hill.
Now Bosch was able to place the address in his mind, and he remembered the dark smoked glass of the building. He had never
been inside the bank. A bank heist with jewelry taken, he thought. It didn’t make much sense. He
But there was a limited description of the gold-and-jade bracelet, and several other pieces of jewelry taken from Beecham.
The bracelet Beecham reported lost could or could not have been the one that Meadows had pawned — the description was too
vague. There were several supplementary report numbers given on the computer report and Bosch wrote them all down in his notebook.
It seemed to him as he did this that Harriet Beecham’s loss had generated an unusual amount of paper.
He next called up the information on the two bulletins. Both had come from the FBI, the first issued two weeks after Beecham
had been burglarized. It was then reissued three months later when Beecham’s jewelry had still not turned up. Bosch wrote
down the bulletin number and turned off the computer. He went across the room to the robbery/commercial burglary section.
On a steel shelf that ran along the back wall were dozens of black binders that held the bulletins and BOLOs from past years.
Bosch took down the one marked September and began looking through it. He quickly realized that the bulletins were not in
chronological order and weren’t all issued in September. In fact, there was no order. He might have to look through all ten
months since Beecham’s burglary to find the bulletin he needed. He pulled an armful of the binders off the shelf and sat down
at the burglary table. A few moments later he felt the presence of someone across the table from him.
“What do you want?” he said without looking up.
“What do I want?” the duty detective said. “I want to know what the fuck you are doing, Bosch. This isn’t your place anymore.
You can’t just come in here like you’re running the crew. Put that shit back on the shelf, and if you want to look through
it come back down here tomorrow and ask, goddammit. And don’t give me any bullshit about an autopsy. You’ve already been here
a half hour.”
Bosch looked up at him. He put his age at twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine, even younger than Bosch had been when he had made
it to Robbery-Homicide. Either standards had dropped or RHD wasn’t what it was. Bosch knew it was actually both. He looked
back down at the bulletin binder.
“I’m talking to you, asshole!” the detective boomed.
Bosch reached his foot up under the table and kicked the chair that was across from him. The chair shot out from the table
and its backrest hit the detective in the crotch. He doubled over and made an
oomph
sound, grabbing the chair for support. Bosch knew he had his reputation going for him now. Harry Bosch: a loner, a fighter,
a killer. C’mon kid, he was saying, do something.
But the young detective just stared at Bosch, his anger and humiliation in check. He was a cop who could pull the gun but
maybe not the trigger. And once Bosch knew that, he knew the kid would walk away.
The young cop shook his head, waved his hands like he was saying Enough of this, and walked back to the duty desk.
“Go ahead, write me up, kid,” Bosch said to his back.
“Fuck you,” the kid feebly returned.
Bosch knew he had nothing to worry about. IAD wouldn’t even look at an officer-on-officer beef without a corroborating witness
or tape recording. One cop’s word against another’s was something they wouldn’t touch in this department. Deep down, they
knew a cop’s word by itself was worthless. That was why Internal Affairs cops always worked in pairs.
An hour and seven cigarettes later, Bosch found it. A photocopy of another Polaroid of the gold-and-jade bracelet was part
of a fifty-page packet of descriptions and photos of property lost in a burglary at WestLand National Bank at Sixth and Hill.
Now Bosch was able to place the address in his mind, and he remembered the dark smoked glass of the building. He had never
been inside the bank. A bank heist with jewelry taken, he thought. It didn’t make much sense. He
Similar Books
