'I've heard it,' Toliver said.
Both Brockman and Bosch looked at him.
'Sorry,' he offered.
'Again, Bosch,' Brockman said. 'What are you talking about?'
'I'm talking about that I spent most of the time with a woman I know there. Most of the other time I spent with a fishing guide on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico. What I'm talking about, asshole, is that I was with people almost every minute. And the times I wasn't weren't long enough for me to fly back here and kill Pounds. I don't even know when he was killed but I'll tell you right now you don't have a case, Brockman, because there is no case. You're looking in the wrong direction.'
Bosch had chosen his words carefully. He was unsure what, if anything, they knew about his private investigation and he wasn't going to give them anything if he could help it. They had the murder book and the evidence box but he thought that he might be able to explain all of that away. They also had his notebook because he had stuffed it into his overnighter at the airport. In it were the names, numbers and addresses of Jasmine and McKittrick, the address of the Eno house in Vegas, and other notes about the case. But they might not be able to put together what it all meant. Not if he was lucky.
Brockman pulled a notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.
'Okay, Bosch, give me the name of the woman and this fishing guide. I need their numbers, everything.'
'I don't think so.'
Brockman's eyes widened.
'I don't care what you think, give me the names.'
Bosch said nothing, just stared down at the table in front of him.
'Bosch, you've told us your whereabouts, now we need to confirm them.'
'I know where I was at, that's all I need.'
'If you're in the clear, as you claim, let us check it out, clear you and move on to other things, other possibilities.'
'You've got the airlines and the car rental right there. Start with that. I'm not dragging people into this who don't need to be. They're good people and unlike you, they like me. I'm not going to let you spoil that by having you come in with your concrete block feet and step all over the relationships.'
'You don't have a choice, Bosch.'
'Oh, yes, I do. Right now, I do. You want to try to make a case against me, do it. If it gets to that point, I'll bring these people out and they'll blow your shit away, Brockman. You think at the moment you've got PR problems in the department over sending Bill Connors to the closet? You'll end this case with worse PR than Nixon had. I'm not giving you the names. If you want to write something down there in your notebook, just write that I said 'Fuck you.' That ought to cover it.'
Brockman's face got kind of blotchy with pinks and whites. He was quiet a moment before speaking.
'Know what I think? I still think you did it. I think you hired somebody to do it and you went waltzing off to Florida so you'd be nowhere near here. A fishing guide. If that doesn't sound like a conjured-up piece of shit I don't know what does. And the woman? Who was she, some hooker you picked up in a bar? What was she, a fifty-dollar alibi? Or did you go a hundred?'
In one explosive move, Bosch shoved the table toward Brockman, catching him completely by surprise. It slid under his arms and crashed into his chest. His chair tipped back against the wall behind him. Bosch kept the pressure on his end and pinned Brockman against the wall. Bosch pushed back on his own chair until it was against the wall behind him. He raised his left leg and put his foot against
the table to keep the pressure on it. He saw the blotches of color on Brockman's face become more pronounced as he went without air. His eyes bugged. But he had no leverage and couldn't move the table off himself.
Toliver was slow to react. Stunned, he seemed to look at Brockman for a long moment as if awaiting orders before jumping up and moving toward Bosch. Bosch was able to fend off his first effort, shoving the younger man back into a potted palm tree that was in the corner of the room. While Bosch did this, he saw in his peripheral vision a figure enter the room through the other door. Then his chair was abrupdy knocked over and he was on the ground with a heavy weight on top of him. By turning his head slightly he could see it was Irving.
'Don't move, Bosch!' Irving yelled in his ear. 'Settle down right now!'
Bosch went limp to signify his compliance and Irving got off him. Bosch stayed still for a few moments and then put a hand up on the table to pull himself up. As he got up, he saw Brockman hacking and trying to get air into his lungs while holding both hands against his chest. Irving held one hand out to Bosch's chest as a calming gesture and a means of stopping him from taking another run at Brockman. With his other hand, he pointed at Toliver, who was trying to right the potted palm. It had become uprooted and wouldn't stand up. He finally just leaned it against the wall.
'You,' Irving snapped at him. 'Out.'
'But, sir, the -'
'Get out!'
Toliver quickly left through the hallway door as Brockman was finally finding his voice.
'Buh ... Bosch, you sonova bitch, you ... you're going to jail. You -'
'Nobody's going to jail,' Irving said sternly. 'Nobody's going to jail.'
Irving stopped to gulp down some air. Bosch noticed that the assistant chief seemed just as winded as anybody in the room.
'There will be no charges on this,' Irving finally continued. 'Lieutenant, you baited him and got what you got.'
Irving's tone invited no debate. Brockman, his chest still heaving, put his elbows on the table and began running his fingers through his hair, trying to look as if he still had some composure but all he had was defeat. Irving turned to Bosch, anger bunching the muscles of his jaw into hard surfaces.
'And you. Bosch, I don't know how to help you. You're always the loose cannon. You knew what he was doing, you've done it yourself. But you couldn't sit there and take it. What kind of man are you?'
Bosch didn't say anything and he doubted Irving wanted a spoken answer. Brockman started coughing and Irving looked back at him.
'Are you all right?'
'I think.'
'Go across the street, have one of the paramedics check you out.'
'No, I'm all right.'
'Good, then go down to your office, take a break. I have someone else I want to have talk to Bosch.'
'I want to continue the inter -'
'The interview is over, Lieutenant. You blew it.' Then, looking at Bosch, he added, 'You both did.'
Irving left Bosch alone in the conference room and in a few moments Carmen Hinojos walked in. She took the same seat that Brockman had sat in. She looked at Bosch with eyes that seemed filled with equal parts anger and disappointment. But Bosch didn't flinch under her gaze.
'Harry, I can't believe -'
He held a finger up to his mouth, silencing her.
'What is it?'
'Are our sessions still supposed to be private?'
'Of course.'
'Even in here?'
'Yes. What is it?'
Bosch got up and walked to the phone on the counter. He pushed the button that disconnected the conference call. He returned to his seat.
'I hope that was left on unintentionally. I'm going to speak to Chief Irving about that.'
'You're probably speaking to him right now. The phone was too obvious. He's probably got the room wired.'
'C'mon, Harry, this isn't the CIA.'
