“Is that what I think it is?”
Bosch looked up. It was O’Grady, the FBI agent. Bosch felt his face burn with embarrassment that he’d been caught red-handed with the file and with his growing dislike for the agent.
“Yeah, it’s what you think it is, O’Grady. You were supposed to be here a half hour ago to pick it up.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t run on your time. I had things to do.”
“Like what, get your buddy Roy a new ponytail?”
“Just give me the binder, Bosch. And all the rest.”
Bosch still had not gotten up and made no move to now.
“What do you want it for, O’Grady? We all know you’re going to let the thing drop. You people don’t care who killed Tony Aliso and you don’t want to know.”
“That’s bullshit. Give me the file.”
O’Grady reached over the counter and was reaching around blindly for the release button on the half door.
“Hold your fucking horses, man,” Bosch said as he stood up. “Just wait there. I’ll get it all.”
Carrying the binder, Bosch walked back to the homicide table and, using his back to shield O’Grady’s view, placed the binder on the table and picked up the box containing the original binder and the ancillary reports and evidence bags that Edgar and Rider had put in with it. He carried it back and dropped it on the counter in front of O’Grady.
“You gotta sign for it,” he said. “We’re extra careful about how we handle evidence and who gets to handle it.”
“Yeah, right. The whole world knows that from the O.J. case, don’t they?”
Bosch grabbed O’Grady’s tie and jerked his upper body down over the counter. The agent could not find a purchase with his hands that would give him the leverage to pull back. Bosch bent down so that he was talking directly into his ear.
“Excuse me?”
“Bosch, you-”
“Harry!”
Bosch looked up. Billets was standing in the door of her office. Bosch let go of the tie and O’Grady’s body sprang backward as he straightened up. His face was crimson with embarrassment and anger. As he jerked his tie loose from around his neck he yelled, “You’re certifiable, you know that? You’re a fucking asshole!”
“I didn’t know you agents used that kind of language,” Bosch said.
“Harry, just sit down,” Billets commanded. “I’ll take care of this.”
She had come up to the counter now.
“He’s got to sign the receipt.”
“I don’t care! I’ll handle it!”
Bosch went back to his desk and sat down. He stared dead-eyed at O’Grady while Billets dug through the box until she found the inventory list and receipt Edgar had prepared. She showed O’Grady where to sign and then told him to go.
“You better watch him,” he said to Billets as he picked the box up off the counter.
“You better watch yourself, Agent O’Grady. If I hear anything else about this little disagreement here, I’ll file a complaint against you for inciting it.”
“He’s the one who-”
“I don’t care. Understand? I don’t care. Now leave.”
“I’m leaving. But you watch your boy there. Keep him away from this.”
O’Grady pointed to the contents of the box. Billets didn’t answer. O’Grady picked the box up and made a move to step away from the counter but stopped and looked once more at Bosch.
“Hey, Bosch, by the way, I got a message from Roy.”
“Agent O’Grady, would you please leave!” Billets said angrily.
“What is it?” Bosch said.
“He just wanted to ask, who’s the meat now?”
With that he turned around and headed down the hall to the exit. Billets watched him until he was gone and then turned around and looked at Bosch with anger in her eyes.
“You just don’t know how to help yourself, do you?” she said. “Why don’t you grow up and quit these little pissing wars?”
She didn’t wait for his reply because he didn’t have one. She walked quickly back into her office and shut the door. She then closed the blinds over the interior window. Bosch leaned back with his hands laced behind his neck, looked up at the ceiling and exhaled loudly.
After the O’Grady incident Bosch almost immediately became busy with a walk-in case involving an armed robbery. At the time, the entire robbery crew was out on a carjacking that had involved a high-speed chase, and that meant Bosch, as the desk man, had to interview the walk-in victim and type up a report. The victim was a young Mexican boy whose job it was to stand on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard at Sierra Bonita and sell maps to the homes of movie stars up in the hills. At ten that morning, shortly after he had set up his plywood sign and begun waving down cars, an old American-made sedan had pulled up with a man driving and a woman in the passenger seat. After asking how much the maps cost and whether he had sold very many of them, the woman had pointed a gun at the boy and robbed him of thirty-eight dollars. He had come in to report the crime with his mother. As it turned out, he had sold only one map that day before the robbery, and nearly all of the money taken from him was his own-he had brought it with him to make change. His loss was about what he made for a whole day of standing on the corner and waving his arm like a windmill.
Because of the small take and sloppy method used by the robbers, Bosch immediately thought the suspects were a couple of hypes looking for a quick score to buy their next balloon of heroin. They had not even bothered to hide the car’s license plate, which the boy had spotted and memorized as they drove away.
After he was finished with the boy and his mother, he went to the teletype machine and put out a wanted on the car with a description of the suspects. He found when he did this that there was already a wanted out on the vehicle for its use in two prior robberies in the last week. A lot of good that did the kid who lost a day’s pay, Bosch thought. The robbers should have been picked up before they got to the boy. But this was the big city, not a perfect world. Disappointments like that didn’t stay long with Bosch.
By this time the squad room had pretty much cleared out for lunch. Bosch saw only Mary Cantu at the sex crimes table, probably working on the paper from that morning’s walk-in job.
Edgar and Rider were gone, apparently having decided it would be better to go separately to Musso’s. As Bosch got up to leave, he noticed that the blinds were still drawn over the window to the lieutenant’s office. Billets was still in there, he knew. He went to the homicide table and put the copy of the murder book into his briefcase and then went and knocked on her door. Before she could answer, he opened the door and stuck his head in.
“I’m going to go catch some lunch and then go downtown for the IAD thing. You won’t have anybody out on the counter.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll put Edgar or Rider up there after lunch. They’re just waiting around for a case, anyway.”
“Okay then, I’ll see you.”
“Uh, Harry?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for what happened earlier. Not for what I said. I meant what I said, but I should have taken you in here and spoken to you. Doing it out there in front of the others was wrong. I apologize.”
“Don’t worry about it. Have a nice weekend.”
“You, too.”
“I’ll try, Lieutenant.”
“Grace.”
“Grace.”
Bosch got to Musso and Frank’s Restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard at exactly twelve-thirty and parked in the back. The restaurant was a Hollywood landmark, having been on the Boulevard since 1924. In its heyday it had been a popular destination for Hollywood’s elite. Fitzgerald and Faulkner held forth. Chaplin and Fairbanks once raced each other down Hollywood Boulevard on horseback, the loser having to pick up the dinner tab. The
