That’s who we’re talking about here.”
Burkhart showed nothing. Bosch had been hoping for a tell, some sort of sign that he was on the right track.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Burkhart said, his face a stone.
“We’ve got you on tape. Mackey called last night. It’s over, Burkhart. Seventeen years is a long run, but it’s over.”
“You got shit. If there is a tape then all you’ll hear is me tellin’ him to shut up. I don’t have a cell phone and I don’t trust ’em. That’s standing operating procedure. If he was going to start telling me his problems I didn’t want to do it on a goddamn cell phone. As far as Rebecca whatever-her-name-is, I don’t know nothing about that. I guess you should’ve asked Ro while you had the chance.”
He looked at Bosch and winked and Bosch felt like coming across the table at him. But he didn’t.
They verbally sparred for another twenty minutes but neither Bosch nor Rider put a ding in Burkhart’s armor. Eventually Burkhart stopped taking part in the back-and-forth, saying once more that he wanted an attorney and not responding in any form to any question that followed.
Rider and Bosch left the room to discuss their options, which they agreed were minimal. They had thrown a bluff at Burkhart. He had called them on it and they either had to book him and get him his lawyer or kick him loose.
“We don’t have it, Harry,” Rider said. “We shouldn’t kid ourselves. I say we kick him.”
Bosch nodded. He knew it was true. They didn’t have a case now, and for that matter they might never have one. Mackey, the one direct connection to Verloren they had, was gone. Bosch’s own doing had lost him. Now they would have to go back in time and run a full field on Burkhart and search for something that was missed or hidden or ignored seventeen years before. The full depression of their case situation was descending on him like a lead blanket.
He opened his phone and called Marcia once more.
“Anything?”
“Nothing, Harry. No phone, no evidence, nothing.”
“Okay. Just so you know, we’re going to kick him. He might show up there in a little while.”
“Great. He won’t like what he finds here.”
“Good.”
Bosch closed the phone and looked at Rider. Her eyes told the story. Disaster. He knew he had let her down. For the first time he thought maybe Irving had been right-maybe he shouldn’t have come back.
“I’ll go tell him he’s a free man,” he said.
After he walked away Rider called after him.
“Harry, I don’t blame you.”
He looked back at her.
“I went along every step of the way. It was a good plan.”
He nodded.
“Thanks, Kiz.”
35
BOSCH WENT HOME to take a shower, get fresh clothes and maybe close his eyes for a while before heading back downtown for the unit meeting. Once again he drove through a city that was just waking for the day. And once more it came up ugly in his eyes, all sharp edges and harsh glare. Everything seemed ugly to him now.
Bosch didn’t look forward to the unit meeting. He knew all eyes would be on him. Everybody in Open-Unsolved understood that their actions would now be analyzed and second-guessed following Mackey’s death. They also understood that if they were looking for a reason for the potential threat to their careers, they didn’t have to look far.
Bosch threw his keys on the kitchen counter and checked the phone. No messages. He looked at his watch and determined that he had at least a couple hours before he needed to head toward the Pacific Dining Car. Checking the time reminded him of the ultimatum he had given Irving during their confrontation in the hallway outside RHD. But Bosch doubted he would hear from Irving or McClellan now. It seemed as though everybody was calling his bluffs.
He knew sleeping for a couple hours wasn’t really an option, not with everything that weighed on him. He had carried the murder book and the accumulated files into the house. He decided he would work on them. He knew that when all else went wrong there was always the murder book. He had to keep his eyes on the prize. The case.
He started the coffee brewer, took a five-minute shower and then went to work rereading the murder book while a remastered release of
The feeling that he was missing something right in front of him was grinding on him. He felt that he would be haunted by the case, that he would carry it around with him forever, unless he cracked through and found that missing thing. And he knew that if it was to be found anywhere, it would be in the book.
He decided that this time he would not read through the documents in the order they had been presented to him by the first investigators of the case. He snapped open the rings and took the documents out. He started reading them in random order, taking his time, making sure that he absorbed every name, every word, every photo.
Fifteen minutes later he was staring once again at the crime scene photos of Rebecca Verloren’s bedroom when he heard a car door close in front of his house. Curious about who would be parking out there so early he got up and went to the door. Through the peephole he saw a man approaching by himself. It was hard to clearly see him through the convex lens of the peep. Bosch opened the door anyway, before the man had a chance to knock.
It did not surprise the man that his approach had been watched. Bosch could tell by his demeanor that he was a cop.
“McClellan?”
He nodded.
“Lieutenant McClellan. And I assume you are Detective Bosch.”
“You could have called.”
Bosch stepped back to let him in. Neither man offered to shake hands. Bosch thought it was typical of Irving to send his man to the house. A standard procedure in the old I-know-where-you-live intimidation strategy.
“I thought it better that we talk face to face,” McClellan said.
“You thought? Or Chief Irving thought?”
McClellan was a big man with sandy, almost transparent hair and wide, florid cheeks. Bosch thought he could best be described as well fed. His cheeks turned a darker shade at Bosch’s question.
“Look, I’m here to cooperate with you, Detective.”
“Good. Can I get you something? I have water.”
“Water’d be fine.”
“Have a seat.”
Bosch went into the kitchen and chose the dustiest glass from the cabinet and then filled it with tap water. He flicked off the switch on the coffeemaker and warmer. He wasn’t going to let McClellan get cozy.
When he returned to the living room McClellan was looking out through the sliding glass door and across the deck. The air was clear in the pass. But it was still early.
“Nice view,” McClellan said.
“I know. I don’t see any files in your hand, Lieutenant. I hope this isn’t a social call or like one of those visits you made to Robert Verloren seventeen years ago.”
McClellan turned to Bosch and accepted the glass of water and the insult with the same blank expression.
“There are no files. If there were, they disappeared a long time ago.”
“And what? You’re here to try to convince me with your memories?”
