from the hallway cut across the bed and Bosch could see it was not occupied. He flicked the wall switch and a bed table lamp came on. The bag Sheehan had carried his belongings in was empty on the floor. His clothes had been dumped onto the bed in a pile.
Bosch’s curiosity turned into a low-grade concern. He quickly moved back into the hallway and made a quick search of his own bedroom and the bathrooms. There was no sign of Sheehan.
Back in the living room Bosch paced about for a few moments wondering what Sheehan might have done. He had no car. It was unlikely he would have tried to walk down the hill into the city and where would he be going anyway? Bosch picked up the phone and hit redial to see if by chance Sheehan had called a cab. It sounded like more than seven tones to Bosch but the redial was so fast he wasn’t sure. After one ring the phone was answered by the sleepy voice of a woman.
“Yes?”
“Uh, who is this, please?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m sorry. My name is Detective Harry Bosch of the LAPD. I am trying to trace a call that was made from – ”
“Harry, it’s Margie Sheehan.”
“Oh… Margie…”
He realized he should have guessed Sheehan would have called her.
“What’s wrong, Harry?”
“Nothing, Margie, nothing. I’m trying to find Frankie and I thought maybe he called a cab or something. I’m sorry to – ”
“What do you mean, find him?”
He could read the rising concern in her voice.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Margie. He was staying with me tonight and I had to go out. I just got home and he isn’t here. I’m just trying to figure out where he went. He talked to you tonight?”
“Earlier.”
“How’d he seem, okay?”
“He told me what they did to him. How they’re trying to blame him.”
“No, not anymore. That’s why he’s staying with me. We got him out of there and he’s going to hide out here a few days, till it blows over. I’m really sorry that I woke – ”
“He said they’d come back for him.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t believe they’re going to let him go. He doesn’t trust anybody, Harry. In the department. Except you. He knows you’re his friend.”
Bosch was silent. He wasn’t sure what to say.
“Harry, find him, would you? Then call me back. I don’t care what time it is.”
Bosch looked through the glass doors to the deck and from this angle saw something on the deck railing. He stepped over to the wall and flipped on the outside light. He saw five amber beer bottles lined up on the railing.
“Okay, Margie. Give me your number.”
He took the number and was about to hang up when she spoke again.
“Harry, he told me you got married and divorced already.”
“Well, I’m not divorced but… you know.”
“Yes, I know. Take care, Harry. Find Francis and then one of you call me back.”
“Okay.”
He put down the phone, opened the slider and went out onto the deck. The beer bottles were empty. He turned to his right and there, lying on the chaise lounge, was the body of Francis Sheehan. Hair and blood were splattered on the cushion above his head and on the wall next to the slider.
“Jesus,” Bosch whispered out loud.
He stepped closer. Sheehan’s mouth was open. Blood had pooled in it and spilled over his bottom lip. There was a saucer-sized exit wound at the crown of his head. Rain had matted the hair down, exposing the horrible wound even more. Bosch took one step back and looked around the deck planking. He saw a pistol lying just in front of the lounge’s front left leg.
Bosch stepped forward again and looked down at his friend’s body. He blew his breath out with a loud animal- like sound.
“Frankie,” he whispered.
A question went through his mind but he didn’t say it out loud.
Did I do this?
Bosch watched one of the coroner’s people close the body bag over Frankie Sheehan’s face while the other two held umbrellas. They then put the umbrellas aside and lifted the body onto a gurney, covered it with a green blanket and began wheeling it into the house and toward the front door. Bosch had to be asked to step out of the way. As he watched them head to the front door the crushing weight of the guilt he was feeling took hold again. He looked up into the sky and saw there were no helicopters, thankfully. The notifications and call outs had all been made by landline. No radio reports meant the media had yet to pick up on the suicide of Frankie Sheehan. Bosch knew that the ultimate insult to his former partner would have been for a news chopper to hover over the house and film the body lying on the deck.
“Detective Bosch?”
Bosch turned. Deputy Chief Irving beckoned from the open slider. Bosch went inside and followed Irving to the dining room table. Agent Roy Lindell was already standing there.
“Let us talk about this,” Irving said. “Patrol is outside with a woman who says she is your neighbor. Adrienne Tegreeny?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“She lives next door.”
“She said she heard three or four shots from the house earlier tonight. She thought it was you. She did not call the police.”
Bosch just nodded.
“Have you fired weapons in the house or off the deck before?”
Bosch hesitated before answering.
“Chief, this isn’t about me. So let’s just say that there could be reason for her to have thought it was me.”
“Fine. The point I’m making is that it appears Detective Sheehan was drinking – drinking heavily – and firing his weapon. What is your interpretation of what happened?”
“Interpretation?” Bosch said, staring blankly at the table.
“Accidental or intentional.”
“Oh.”
Bosch almost laughed but held back.
“I don’t think there’s much of a doubt about it,” he said. “He killed himself. Suicide.”
“But there is no note.”
“No note, just a lot of beers and wasted shots into the sky. That was his note. That said all he had to say. Cops go out that way all the time.”
“The man had been cut loose. Why do this?”
“Well… I think it’s pretty clear…”
“Then make it clear for us, would you please?”
“He called his wife tonight. I talked to her after. She said he might have been cut loose but he thought that it wouldn’t last.”
“The ballistics?” Irving asked.
“No, I don’t think that’s what he meant. I think he knew that there was a need to hook somebody up for this. A cop.”
