'You want to tell me what this is about?' He heard a clunking sound coming from the bedroom. 'What the hell?' He walked to the door and saw another suit in his bedroom, standing over the open drawer of the
night table. 'Hey, fuckhead, get out of there. Get out
now!
Bosch stepped in and kicked the drawer closed. The man stepped back, raised his hands like a prisoner and walked out to the living room.
'And this is Jerry Toliver,' Irving added. 'He's with Lieutenant Brockman, IAD. Detective Sizemore has joined us here from RHD.'
'Fantastic,' Bosch said. 'So everybody knows everybody. What's going on?'
He looked at Irving as he said this, believing if he was going to get a straight answer from anyone here, it would be him. Irving was generally a straight shooter when it came to his dealings with Bosch.
'De Harry, we have got to ask you some questions,' Irving said. 'It would be best if we explain things later.'
Bosch could tell this one was serious.
'You got a warrant to be in here?'
'We'll show it to you later,' Brockman said. 'Let's go.'
'Where are we going?'
'Downtown.'
Bosch had had enough run-ins with the Internal Affairs Division to know things were being handled differently here. Just the fact that Irving, the second-highest-ranking officer in the department, was with them was an indication of the gravity of the situation. He guessed it was more than their simply finding out about his private investigation. If it was just that, Irving wouldn't have been here. There was something terribly wrong.
'All right,' Bosch said, 'who's dead?'
All four looked at him with faces of stone, confirming that in fact someone was dead. Bosch felt his chest tighten and for the first time he began to be scared. The names and taces of people he had involved flashed through his mind. Meredith Roman, Jake McKittrick, Keisha Russell, the
two women in Las Vegas. Who else? Jazz? Could he have possibly put her in some kind of danger? Then it hit him. Keisha Russell. The reporter had probably done what he told her not to. She had gone to Conklin or Mittel and asked questions about the old clip she had pulled for Bosch. She had walked in blindly and was now dead because of her mistake.
'Keisha Russell?' he asked.
He got no reply. Irving stood up and the others followed. Sizemore kept the murder book in his hand. He was going to take it. Brockman went into the kitchen, picked up the overnighter and carried it to the door.
'Harry, why don't you ride with Earl and I?' Irving said.
'How 'bout I meet you guys down there.'
'You ride with me.'
It was said sternly. It invited no further debate. Bosch raised his hands, acknowledging he had no choice, and moved toward the door.
Bosch sat in the back of Sizemore's LTD, directly behind Irving. He looked out the window as they went down the hill. He kept thinking of the young reporter's face. Her eagerness had killed her but Bosch couldn't help but share the blame. He had planted the seed of mystery in her mind and it had grown until she couldn't resist it.
'Where'd they find her?' he asked.
He was met only with silence. He couldn't understand why they said nothing, especially Irving. The assistant chief had led him to believe in the past that they had an understanding, if not a liking, between each other.
'I told her not to do anything,' he said. 'I told her to sit on it a few days.'
Irving turned his body so that he could partially see Bosch behind him.
'Detective, I don't know who or what you're talking about.'
'Keisha Russell.'
'Don't know her.'
He turned back around. Bosch was puzzled. The names and faces went dirough his mind again. He added Jasmine but then subtracted her. She knew nothing about the case.
'McKittrick?'
'Detective,' Irving said and again struggled to turn around to look at Bosch. 'We are involved in the investigation of the homicide of Lieutenant Harvey Pounds. These other names are not involved. If you think they are people that should be contacted, please let me know.'
Bosch was too stunned to answer. Harvey Pounds? That made no sense. He had nothing to do with the case, didn't even know about it. Pounds never left the office, how could he have gotten into danger? Then it came to him, washing over him like a wave of water that brought with it a chill. He understood. It made sense. And in the moment that he saw that it did, he also saw his own responsibility as well as his own predicament.
'Am I ... ?'
He couldn't finish.
'Yes,' Irving said. 'You are currently considered a suspect. Now maybe you will be quiet until we can set up a formal interview.'
Bosch leaned his head against the window glass and closed his eyes.
'Ah, Jesus
And in that moment he realized he was no better than Brockman was for having sent a man to the closet. For Bosch knew in the dark part of his heart that he was responsible. He didn't know how or when it had happened but he knew.
He had killed Harvey Pounds. And he carried Pounds's badge in his pocket.
Bosch was numb to most of what was going on around him. After they reached Parker Center he was escorted up to Irving's office on the sixth floor and then placed in a chair in the adjoining conference room. He was in there alone for a half hour before Brockman and Toliver came in. Brockman sat directly across from Bosch, Toliver to Harry's right. It was obvious to Bosch by their being in Irving's conference room instead of an IAD interview room that Irving wanted to keep a tight control on this one. If it turned out to be a cop-killed-cop case, he'd need all the control he could muster to contain it. It could be a publicity debacle to rival those of the Rodney King days.
Through his daze and the jarring images of Pounds being dead, a pressing thought finally got Bosch's attention: he was in serious trouble himself. He told himself he couldn't retreat into a shell. He must be alert. The man sitting across from him would like nothing better than to hang a killing on Bosch and he was willing to go to any extreme to do it. It wasn't good enough that Bosch knew in his own mind that he had not, at least physically, killed Pounds. He had to defend himself. And so he resolved that he would show Brockman nothing. He would be just as tough as anybody in the room. He cleared his throat and began before Brockman got the chance. 'When did it happen?'
'I'm asking the questions.'
'I can save you time, Brockman. Tell me when it happened and I'll tell you where I was. We'll get this over with. I understand why I'm a suspect. I won't hold it against you but you're wasting your time.'
'Bosch, don't you feel anything at all? A man is dead. You worked with him.'
Bosch stared at him a long moment before answering in an even voice.
'What I feel doesn't matter. Nobody deserves to be killed, but I'm not going to miss him and I certainly won't miss working for Him.'
'Jesus.' Brockman shook his head. 'The man had a wife, a kid in college.'
'Maybe they won't miss him, either. You never know. The guy was a prick at work. No reason to expect him to be anything else at home. What's your wife think about you, Brockman?'
'Save it, Bosch. I'm not falling for any of your-'
'Do you believe in God, Brickman?'
Bosch used Brockman's nickname in the department, awarded to him for his methodical way of building cases against other cops, like the late Bill Connors.
'This isn't about me or what I believe in, Bosch. We're talking about you.'
'That's right, we're talking about me. So, I'll tell you what I think. I'm not sure what I believe. My life's more than half over and I still haven't figured it out. But the theory I'm leaning toward is that everybody on this planet has some kind of energy that makes them what they are. It's all about energy. And when you die, it just goes somewhere else. And Pounds? He was bad energy and now it's gone somewhere else. So I don't feel too bad about him dying, to answer your question. But I'd like to