The Last Coyote

'But you called me in, remember?'

'I did not.'

'The car. You said you wanted the car.'

'I said turn it in at the garage. I didn't say come in here. Now get out!'

Bosch could see the rosy spread of anger on the other man's face. Bosch remained cool and took that as a sign of a declining level of stress. He brought his hand out of his pocket with the car keys in them. He dropped them on the desk in front of Pounds.

'It's parked out by the drunk tank door. You want it back, you can have it. But you take it through the checkout at the garage. That's not a cop's job. That's a job for a bureaucrat.'

Bosch turned to leave and picked up his briefcase. He then opened the door to the office with such force that it swung around and banged against one of the glass panels of the office. The whole office shook but nothing broke. He walked around the counter, saying, 'Sorry about that, Henry,' without looking at the old man, and then headed down the front hall.

A few minutes later he was standing on the curb on Wilcox, in front of the station, waiting for the cab he had

called with his portable. A gray Caprice, almost a duplicate of the car he had just turned in, pulled up in front of him and he bent down to look in. It was Edgar. He was smiling. The window glided down.

'You need a ride, tough guy?'

Bosch got in.

'There's a Hertz on La Brea near the Boulevard.'

'Yeah, I know it.'

They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Edgar laughed and shook his head.

'What?'

'Nothing ... Bums, man. I think he was about to shit his pants when you were in there with Pounds. He thought you were gonna come outta there and throw his ass outta your chair at the table. He was pitiful.'

'Shit. I should've. I didn't think of it.'

Silence came back again. They were on Sunset coming up to La Brea.

'Harry, you just can't help yourself, can you?'

'I guess not.'

'What happened to your hand?'

Bosch held it up and studied the bandage.

'Ah, I hit it last week when I was working on the deck. Hurt like a son of a bitch.'

'Yeah, you better be careful or Pounds is going to be on you like a son of a bitch.'

'He already is.'

'Man, he's nothing but a bean counter, a punk. Why can't you just leave it alone? You know you're just -'

'You know, you're beginning to sound like the shrink they're sending me to. Maybe I should just sit with you for an hour today, what you say?'

'Maybe she's talking some sense to you.'

'Maybe I should've taken the cab.'

'I think you should figure out who your friends are and listen to them for once.'

'Here it is.'

Edgar slowed in front of the rental car agency. Bosch got out before the car was even stopped.

'Harry, wait a minute.'

Bosch looked back in at him.

'What's going on with this Fox thing? Who is the guy?'

'I can't tell you now, Jerry. It's just better this way.'

'You sure?'

Bosch heard the phone in his briefcase start to ring. He looked down at it and then back at Edgar.

'Thanks for the ride.'

He closed the car door.

The call was from Keisha Russell at the Times. She said she'd found one small story in the morgue under Fox's name but she wanted to meet with Bosch to give it to him. He knew it was part of the game, part of making the pact. He looked at his watch. He could wait to see what the story said. He told her he'd buy her lunch at the Pantry in downtown.

Forty minutes later she was already in a booth near the cashier's cage when he got there. He slipped into the opposite side of the booth. 'You're late,' she said. 'Sorry, I was renting a car.' 'They took your car, huh? Must be serious.' 'We're not going to talk about that.' 'I know. You know who owns this place?' 'Yeah, the mayor. Doesn't make the food bad.' She curled her lip and looked around as if the place were crawling with ants. The mayor was a Republican. The Times had gone with the Democrat. What was worse, for her, at least, was that the mayor was a supporter of the Police Department. Reporters didn't like that. That was boring. They wanted City Hall infighting, controversy, scandal. It made things more interesting.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I guess I could've suggested Gorky's or some more liberal establishment.'

'Don't worry about it, Bosch. I'm just funnin' with ya.'

She wasn't more than twenty-five, he guessed. She was a dark-complected black woman who had a beautiful grace about her. Bosch had no idea where she was from but he didn't think it was LA. She had the touch of an accent, a Caribbean lilt, that maybe she had worked on smoothing out. It was still there, though. He liked the way she said his name. In her mouth, it sounded exotic, like a wave breaking. He didn't mind that she was little more than half his age and addressed him only by his last name.

'Where you from, Keisha?'

'Why?'

'Why? Because I'm interested is all. You're on the beat. I wanna know who I'm dealing with.'

'I'm from right here, Bosch. I came from Jamaica when I was five years old. I went to USC. Where are you from?'

'Right here. Been here all my life.'

He decided not to mention the fifteen months he spent fighting in the tunnels in Vietnam and the nine in North Carolina training for it.

'What happened to your hand?'

'Cut it working on my house. Been doing odd jobs while I'm off. So, what's it been like taking Bremmer's place on the cop beat? He'd been there a long time.'

'Yeah, I know. It's been difficult. But I'm making my way. Slowly. I'm making friends. I hope you'll be one of my friends, Bosch.'

'I'll be your friend. When I can. Let's see what you got.'

She brought a manila file up onto the table but the waiter, an old bald man with a waxed mustache, arrived before she could open it. She ordered an egg salad sandwich. He ordered a well-done hamburger and fries. She frowned and he guessed why.

'You're vegetarian, right?'

'Yes.'

'Sorry. Next time you pick the place.'

'I will.'

She opened the file and he noticed she had several bracelets on her left wrist. They were made of braided thread in many bright colors. He looked in the file and saw a photocopy of a small newspaper clipping. Bosch could tell by the size of the clip that it was one of the stories that gets buried in the back of the paper. She passed it over to

him.

'I think this is your Johnny Fox. The age is right but it does not describe him like you did. White trash, you said.'

Bosch read the story. It was dated September 30, 1962.

CAMPAIGN WORKER VICTIM OF HIT AND RUN

By Monte Kim, Times Staff Writer

Bosch studied the clip for a long moment after reading it. 'This Monte Kim, is he still at the paper?'

'Are you kidding? That's like a millennium ago. Back then the newsroom was a bunch of white guys sitting around in white shirts and ties.'

Bosch looked down at his own shirt, then at her.

'Sorry,' she said. 'Anyway, he's not around. And I don't know about Conklin. A little before my time. Did he win?'

'Yeah. I think he had two terms, then I think he ran for attorney general or something and got his ass handed to him. Something like that. I wasn't here then.'

'I thought you said you've been here all your life.'

'I went away for a while.'

'Vietnam, right?'

'Right.'

'Yeah, a lot of cops your age were there. Must've been a trip. Is that why you all became cops? So you could keep carrying guns?'

'Something like that.'

'Anyway, if Conklin's still alive, he's probably an old man. But Mittel's still around. Obviously, you know that. He's probably in one of these booths eating with the mayor.'

She smiled and he ignored it.

'Yeah, he's a big shot. What's the story on him?'

'Mittel? I don't know. First name on a big downtown

law firm, friend of governors and senators and other powerful people. Last I heard, he's running the financing behind Robert Shepherd.'