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Authors: Michael Connelly
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Sunday, no parole. So, what’s up? I haven’t talked to you since, uh, your problem with the Dollmaker case. How you liking Hollywood Division?”
“It’ll do. For a while, at least.” He was speaking low so the duty detective would not overhear.
Bremmer said, “Like that, huh? Well, I heard you caught the stiff up at the dam this morning.”
Joel Bremmer had covered the cop shop for the
Times
longer than most cops had been on the force, including Bosch. There was not much he didn’t hear about the department, or couldn’t find out with a phone call. A year ago he called Bosch for comment on his twenty-two-day suspension, no pay. Bremmer had heard about it before Bosch. Generally, the police department hated the
Times,
and the
Times
was never short in its criticism of the department. But in the middle of that was Bremmer, whom any cop could trust and many, like Bosch, did.
“Yeah, that’s my case,” Bosch said. “Right now, it’s nothing much. But I need a favor. If it works out the way it’s looking, then it will be something you’d want to know about.”
Bosch knew he didn’t have to bait him, but he wanted the reporter to know there might be something later.
“What do you need?” Bremmer said.
“As you know, I was out of town last Labor Day on my extended vacation, courtesy of IAD. So I missed this one. But there was-”
“The tunnel job? You’re not going to ask about the tunnel job, are you? Over here in downtown? All the jewelry? Negotiable bonds, stock certificates, maybe drugs?”
Bosch heard the reporter’s voice go up a notch in urgency. He had been right, it had been a tunnel and the story had played well. If Bremmer was this interested, then it was a substantial case. Still, Bosch was surprised he had not heard of it after coming back to work in October.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” he said. “I was gone then, so I missed it. Ever any arrests?”
“No, it’s open. FBI’s doing it, last I checked.”
“I want to look at the clips on it tonight. Is that all right?”
“I’ll make copies. When are you coming?”
“I’ll head over in a little while.”
“I take it this has got something to do with this morning’s stiff?”
“It’s looking that way. Maybe. I can’t talk right now. And I know the feebees have the case. I’ll go see them tomorrow. That’s why I want to see the clips tonight.”
“I’ll be here.”
After hanging up the phone, Bosch looked down at the FBI photocopy of the bracelet. There was no doubt it was the piece that had been pawned by Meadows and was in Obinna’s Polaroid. The bracelet in the FBI photo was in place on a woman’s liver-spotted wrist. Three small carved fish swimming on a wave of gold. Bosch guessed it was Harriet Beecham’s seventy-one-year-old wrist and the photo had probably been taken for insurance purposes. He looked over at the duty detective, who was still leafing through the gun catalog. He coughed loudly like he had seen Nicholson do in a movie once and at the same time tore the BOLO sheet out of the binder. The kid detective looked over at Bosch and then went back to the guns and bullets.
As he folded the BOLO sheet into his pocket, Bosch’s electronic pager went off. He picked up the phone and called Hollywood Station, expecting to be told there was another body waiting for him. It was a watch sergeant named Art Crocket, whom everyone called Davey, who took the call.
“Harry, you still out in the field?” he said.
“I’m at Parker Center. Had to check on a few things.”
“Good, then you’re already near the morgue. A tech over there name of Sakai called, said he needs to see you.”
“See me?”
“He said to tell you that something came up and they’re doing your cut today. Right now, matter of fact.”
***
It took Bosch five minutes to get over to County-USC Hospital and fifteen minutes to find a parking spot. The medical examiner’s office was located behind one of the medical center
“It’ll do. For a while, at least.” He was speaking low so the duty detective would not overhear.
Bremmer said, “Like that, huh? Well, I heard you caught the stiff up at the dam this morning.”
Joel Bremmer had covered the cop shop for the
Times
longer than most cops had been on the force, including Bosch. There was not much he didn’t hear about the department, or couldn’t find out with a phone call. A year ago he called Bosch for comment on his twenty-two-day suspension, no pay. Bremmer had heard about it before Bosch. Generally, the police department hated the
Times,
and the
Times
was never short in its criticism of the department. But in the middle of that was Bremmer, whom any cop could trust and many, like Bosch, did.
“Yeah, that’s my case,” Bosch said. “Right now, it’s nothing much. But I need a favor. If it works out the way it’s looking, then it will be something you’d want to know about.”
Bosch knew he didn’t have to bait him, but he wanted the reporter to know there might be something later.
“What do you need?” Bremmer said.
“As you know, I was out of town last Labor Day on my extended vacation, courtesy of IAD. So I missed this one. But there was-”
“The tunnel job? You’re not going to ask about the tunnel job, are you? Over here in downtown? All the jewelry? Negotiable bonds, stock certificates, maybe drugs?”
Bosch heard the reporter’s voice go up a notch in urgency. He had been right, it had been a tunnel and the story had played well. If Bremmer was this interested, then it was a substantial case. Still, Bosch was surprised he had not heard of it after coming back to work in October.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” he said. “I was gone then, so I missed it. Ever any arrests?”
“No, it’s open. FBI’s doing it, last I checked.”
“I want to look at the clips on it tonight. Is that all right?”
“I’ll make copies. When are you coming?”
“I’ll head over in a little while.”
“I take it this has got something to do with this morning’s stiff?”
“It’s looking that way. Maybe. I can’t talk right now. And I know the feebees have the case. I’ll go see them tomorrow. That’s why I want to see the clips tonight.”
“I’ll be here.”
After hanging up the phone, Bosch looked down at the FBI photocopy of the bracelet. There was no doubt it was the piece that had been pawned by Meadows and was in Obinna’s Polaroid. The bracelet in the FBI photo was in place on a woman’s liver-spotted wrist. Three small carved fish swimming on a wave of gold. Bosch guessed it was Harriet Beecham’s seventy-one-year-old wrist and the photo had probably been taken for insurance purposes. He looked over at the duty detective, who was still leafing through the gun catalog. He coughed loudly like he had seen Nicholson do in a movie once and at the same time tore the BOLO sheet out of the binder. The kid detective looked over at Bosch and then went back to the guns and bullets.
As he folded the BOLO sheet into his pocket, Bosch’s electronic pager went off. He picked up the phone and called Hollywood Station, expecting to be told there was another body waiting for him. It was a watch sergeant named Art Crocket, whom everyone called Davey, who took the call.
“Harry, you still out in the field?” he said.
“I’m at Parker Center. Had to check on a few things.”
“Good, then you’re already near the morgue. A tech over there name of Sakai called, said he needs to see you.”
“See me?”
“He said to tell you that something came up and they’re doing your cut today. Right now, matter of fact.”
***
It took Bosch five minutes to get over to County-USC Hospital and fifteen minutes to find a parking spot. The medical examiner’s office was located behind one of the medical center
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