“What were they doing?”
“That you’ll have to get somewhere else. I know you have other sources in the department.”
Bremmer was writing in a long, thin spiral notebook, the kind that always gave reporters away. He was nodding as he wrote.
“Second, find out about Rourke’s funeral. It will probably be out of state somewhere. Someplace far enough away that the media back here won’t bother to send anybody. But send somebody anyway. Somebody with a camera. He’ll probably be the only one there. Just like today’s planting. That should tell you something.”
Bremmer looked up from his notebook. “You mean no hero’s funeral? You’re saying Rourke was part of this thing, or he just fucked it up? Christ, the bureau-and we, the media-are making the guy out to be John Wayne reincarnated.”
“Yeah, well, you gave him life after death. You can take it away, I guess.”
Bosch just looked at him a moment, contemplating how much he should tell, what was safe for him to tell. For just a moment he felt so outraged he wanted to tell Bremmer everything he knew, and the hell with what would happen and what Irving had said. But he didn’t. Control came back.
“What’s the third thing?” Bremmer asked.
“Get the military records of Meadows, Rourke, Franklin and Delgado. That will tie it up for you. They were in Vietnam, same time, same unit. That’s where this whole thing starts. When you get that far, call me and I’ll try to fill in what you don’t have.”
Then all at once Bosch grew tired of the charade being orchestrated by his department and the FBI. The thought of the boy, Sharkey, kept coming to mind. Flat on his back, his head cocked at that odd, sickening angle. The blood. They were going to mop that one up like it didn’t matter.
“There’s a fourth thing,” he said. “There was a kid.”
When the story about Sharkey was finished, Bosch started the car and drove Bremmer back down the driveway to his own car. The TV reporters had cleared out of the cemetery and a man in a small front loader was pushing dirt into Meadows’s grave. Another man leaned on a shovel nearby and watched.
“I’ll probably need a job after your story comes out,” Bosch said while watching the gravediggers.
“You won’t be in it as an attribution. Plus, when I get the military records, they’ll speak for themselves. I’ll be able to scam the department’s public information officers into confirming some of this other stuff, make it look like it came from them. And then near the bottom of the story, I’ll say, ‘Detective Harry Bosch declined comment.’ How’s that?”
“I’ll probably need a job after your story comes out.”
Bremmer just looked at the detective for a long moment.
“Are you going over to the grave?”
“I might. After you leave me alone.”
“I’m leaving.” He opened the car door and got out, then leaned back in. “Thanks, Harry. This is going to be a good one. Heads are going to bounce.”
Bosch looked at the reporter and sadly shook his head. “No they aren’t,” he said.
Bremmer stared uneasily and Bosch dismissed him with his hand. The reporter closed the door and went to his own car. Bosch had no misconceived notion about Bremmer. The reporter was not guided by any genuine sense of outrage or by his role as a watchdog for the public. All he wanted was a story no other reporter had. Bremmer was thinking of that, and maybe the book that would come after, and the TV movie, and the money and ego-feeding fame. That was what motivated him, not the outrage that had made Bosch tell him the story. Bosch knew this and accepted it. It was the way things worked.
“Heads never bounce,” he said to himself.
He watched the gravediggers finish their job. After a while he got out and walked over. There was one small bouquet of flowers next to the flag stuck in the soft orange ground. The flowers were from the VFW. Bosch stared at the scene and didn’t know what he should feel. Maybe some kind of sentimental affection or remorse. Meadows was underground for good this time. Bosch didn’t feel a thing. After a while he looked up from the grave and toward the Federal Building. He started walking in that direction. He felt like a ghost, coming from the grave for justice. Or maybe just vengeance.
If she was surprised it was Bosch who had pressed the door buzzer, Eleanor Wish didn’t show it. Harry had flipped his badge to the guard on the first floor and been waved to the elevator. There was no receptionist working on the holiday, so he had pressed the night bell. It was Eleanor who opened the door. She wore faded jeans and a white blouse. There was no gun on her belt.
“I thought you might come, Harry. Were you at the funeral?”
He nodded but made no move toward the door she held open. She looked at him a long moment, her eyebrows arched in that lovely questioning look she had. “Well, are you going to come in or stand out there all day?”
“I was thinking we would take a walk. Talk alone.”
“I have to get my keycard so I can come back in.” She made a move to go back in and then stopped. “I doubt you heard this, because they haven’t put the word out. But they found the diamonds.”
“What?”
“Yes. They traced Rourke to some public storage lockers in Huntington Beach. They found receipts somewhere. They got the court order this morning and just opened them. I’ve been listening to the scanner. They’re saying hundreds of diamonds. They’ll have to get an appraiser. We were right, Harry. Diamonds. You were right. They also found all the other stuff-in a second locker. Rourke hadn’t gotten rid of it. The boxholders will get their stuff back. There’s going to be a press conference, but I doubt they will be saying whose lockers they were.”
He just nodded, and she disappeared through the door. Bosch wandered over to the elevators and pushed the button while waiting for her. She had her purse with her when she came out. It made him conscious of not having a gun. And it privately embarrassed him that he momentarily thought that was a concern. They didn’t speak on the way down, not until they were out of the building and on the sidewalk, heading toward Wilshire. Bosch had been weighing his words, wondering if the finding of the diamonds meant anything. She seemed to be waiting for him to begin but uncomfortable in the silence.
“I like the blue sling,” she finally said. “How do you feel, anyway? I’m surprised they let you out of there so soon.”
“I just left. I feel fine.” He stopped to put a cigarette in his mouth. He had bought a pack from a machine in the lobby. He lit it with the lighter.
“You know,” she said, “this would be a good time to quit those. Make a new start.”
He ignored the suggestion and breathed the smoke in deeply.
“Eleanor, tell me about your brother.”
“My brother? I told you.”
“I know. I want to hear again. About what happened to him and what happened when you visited the wall in Washington. You said it changed things for you. Why did it change things for you?”
They were at Wilshire. Bosch pointed across the street and they crossed toward the cemetery. “I left my car over here. I’ll drive you back.”
“I don’t like cemeteries. I told you.”
“Who does?”
They walked through the opening in the hedge and the sound of traffic was quieted. Before them was the expanse of green lawn, white stones and American flags.
“My story’s the same as a thousand others,” she said. “My brother went over there and didn’t come back. That’s all. And then, you know, going to the memorial, well, it filled me with a lot of different feelings.”
“Anger?”
“Yes, there was that.”
“Outrage?”
“Yes, I guess. I don’t know. It was very personal. What’s going on, Harry? What has this got to do with… with anything?”
They were on the gravel drive that ran alongside the rows of white stone. Bosch was leading her toward the replica.