“Doesn’t matter. The press releases have been made, the press conferences given, the story’s out and the city is ready to go like kindling. You think the people in the south end care which cop killed Elias? They don’t give a shit. They already have what they want. Chastain, Sheehan, doesn’t matter. What matters is that a badge did it. And if you go making noise you’ll just be adding more fuel to the fire. You bring up Chastain and you bring up the cover- up. A lot of people might get hurt, lose their jobs, all because they wanted to head this off in the first place. You better think about that, Harry. Nobody cares.”
Bosch nodded. He understood the message. Go along to get along.
“I care,” he said.
“Is that enough of a reason?”
“What about Chastain then?”
Garwood had a thin smile on his face. Bosch could see it behind the glowing point of his cigarette.
“I think Chastain deserves whatever he gets. And someday he’ll get it.”
Now there was a new message and Bosch thought he understood that as well.
“And what about Frankie Sheehan? What about his reputation?”
“There’s that,” Garwood said, nodding. “Frankie Sheehan was one of my guys… but he’s dead and his family doesn’t live here anymore.”
Bosch said nothing but that answer wasn’t acceptable. Sheehan was his friend and partner. Tainting him tainted Bosch himself.
“You know what bothers me?” Garwood asked. “And maybe you might be able to help me, being that you and Sheehan were partners at one time.”
“What? What bothers you?”
“The gun Sheehan used. It wasn’t yours now, was it? I know they asked you that.”
“No, not mine. We had gone by his house on the way to mine. To get clothes and things. He must’ve picked it up then. The FBI must’ve missed it when they searched his place.”
Garwood nodded.
“I heard you made notification to his wife. Did you ask her about that? You know, about the gun.”
“I asked. She said she didn’t know about any gun but that doesn’t – ”
“No serial number,” Garwood said, cutting in. “A throw-down gun, everybody knows that’s what that was.”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s what bothers me. I knew Sheehan a lot of years. He worked for me a long time and you get to know your guys. I never knew him to be the kind of guy who would have a throw-down… I asked some of the other guys – especially the ones that partnered with him since you went to Hollywood. They never knew about a throw-down. What about you, Harry? You worked with him the longest. Did he ever carry an extra piece?”
It hit Bosch then, like a punch in the chest. The kind where you have to keep perfectly still and silent and wait it out until you slowly get your breath back. He had never known Frank Sheehan to carry a throw-down on the job. He was too good for that. And if you were too good to carry one on the job, why have one hidden at home? That question and its obvious answer had been there right in front of him all along. But he had missed it.
Bosch remembered sitting in his car outside Sheehan’s house. He remembered the set of headlights he saw in the mirror and the car pulling to the curb down the block. Chastain. He had followed them. To Chastain, Sheehan alive was the only loose end that could cause things to unravel.
He thought of his neighbor’s reports of three to four shots being fired at his house. In his mind a drunken cop’s suicide was now a calculated murder.
“Motherfucker,” Bosch whispered.
Garwood nodded. He had successfully led Bosch down the road to where he apparently already was.
“Now, do you see how it could have been done?” he asked.
Bosch tried to slow his thoughts and let it come to him. Finally, he nodded.
“Yes, I see now.”
“Good. I’ll make a call. I’ll have whoever is on duty in the basement let you have a look at the sign-out log. No questions asked. That way you’ll be sure.”
Bosch nodded. He reached over and opened the door. He got out without another word and started back toward his car. He was running before he got there. He didn’t know why. There was no hurry. It was no longer raining. He just knew he had to keep moving to keep from screaming.
Chapter 37
OUTSIDE of Parker Center there was a candlelight vigil and a funeral procession. Two cardboard caskets – one marked JUSTICE, the other marked HOPE -were being carried aloft by the crowd as they marched back and forth across the front plaza. Others carried signs that said JUSTICE FOR PEOPLE OF ALL COLORS and JUSTICE FOR SOME IS JUSTICE FOR NONE. Above news helicopters circled and on the ground there were at least six news crews that Bosch could see. It was getting close to eleven and all of them were getting ready to put out live reports from the protest front.
At the front door a phalanx of cops in uniforms and riot helmets stood ready to defend the police headquarters if the crowd turned from peaceful demonstration to violence. In 1992 a peaceful demonstration had turned violent and the mob roamed downtown destroying everything in its path. Bosch hurried toward the lobby doors, skirting behind the procession of protesters and through a crack in the human defense line, after holding his badge up high over his head.
Inside, he passed the front counter, which had four cops behind it, also wearing helmets, and went through the elevator lobby and took the stairwell. He went down to the basement level and then followed the hallway to the evidence storage center. He realized as he went through the door into evidence that he hadn’t passed a soul since the front counter. The place seemed empty. Under the emergency response plan, all available hands of the A shift were out on the street.
Bosch looked through the wire-mesh window but didn’t recognize the man on duty. He was an old vet with a white mustache on a face flushed with gin blossoms. They moved a lot of the old broken-down ones to the basement. This one got off his stool and came to the window.
“So what’s the weather like outside? I don’t have no windows in here.”
“The weather? It’s partly cloudy with a chance of riots.”
“I figured. Tuggins still got his crowd out front?”
“They’re there.”
“Yeah, the mutts. Wonder how’d they’d like it if there were no coppers around. See how they’d like life in the jungle then.”
“That’s not their point. They want police. They just don’t want cops that are killers. Can you blame ’em for that?”
“Yeah, well some people need killing.”
Bosch had nothing to say to that. He didn’t even know why he was parrying with this old dog. He looked down at his nameplate. It said HOWDY. Bosch almost laughed. Something about seeing the unexpected name cracked through the tension and anger that had been twisting him all night.
“Fuck you. It’s my name.”
“Sorry. I’m not laughing at – it’s something else.”
“Sure.”
Howdy pointed over Bosch’s shoulder at a little counter with forms on it and pencils tied to strings.
“You want something you gotta fill out the form with the case number.”
“I don’t know the case number.”
“Well, we must have a couple million in here. Why don’t you take a wild guess?”
“I want to see the log.”
The man nodded.
“Right. You the one Garwood sent over?”
