night and you don't even call. Some deal we made.'
'Hey, this is me on the phone, right?'
'So what've you got for me?'
'What've you got already? What are they saying about it?'
'They're not saying jack. I've been waiting on you, man.'
'But what are they really saying?' 'I mean it, nothing. They're saying both deaths are being investigated and that there is no clear connection. They're trying to pass it off as a big coincidence.' 'What about the other man? Did they find Vaughn?' 'Who's Vaughn?'
Bosch couldn't figure out what was happening, why there was a cover-up. He knew he should wait to hear from Irving but the anger was growing in his throat. 'Bosch? You there? What other man?' 'What are they saying about me?' 'You? They're not saying anything.' 'The other man's name is Jonathan Vaughn. He was there, too. Up at Mittel's last night.' 'How do you know?' 'I was there, too.' 'Bosch, you were there?'
Bosch closed his eyes but his mind couldn't penetrate the shroud being thrown over the case by the department. He didn't get it.
'Harry, we had a deal. Tell me the story.' He noted that it was the only time she had ever used his first name. He continued to say nothing while he tried to figure out what was happening and weighed the consequences of talking to her. 'Bosch?'
Back to normal.
'All right. You got your pencil? I'm going to give you enough to get started. You'll have to go to Irving to get the rest.'
'I've been calling him. He won't even take my calls.'
'He will when he knows you have the story. He'll have to.'
By the time he was done telling her the story he was fatigued and his head was hurting again. He was ready to go to sleep, if it would have him. He wanted to forget everything and just sleep.
'That's an incredible story, Bosch,' she said when he was done. 'I'm sorry, you know, about your mother.'
'Thanks.'
'What about Pounds?'
'What about him?'
'Is it connected? Irving was honchoing that investigation. Now he's doing this one.'
'You'll have to ask him.'
'If I can get him on the line.'
'When you call over there, tell the adjutant to tell Irving you're calling on behalf of Marjorie Lowe. He'll call you back when he gets the message. I guarantee it.'
'Okay, Bosch, last thing. We didn't talk about this at the start like we should have. Can I use your name as a source?'
Bosch thought about it but only for a few moments.
'Yeah, you can use it. I don't know what my name's worth anymore but you can use it.'
'Thanks. I'll see you. You're a pal.'
'Yeah, I'm a pal.'
He hung up and closed his eyes. He dozed off but wasn't sure for how long. He was interrupted by the phone. It was Irving and he was angry.
'What did you do?'
'What do you mean?'
'I just got a message from a reporter. She says she's calling because of Marjorie Lowe. Have you talked to reporters about this?' 'I talked to one.'
'What did you tell her?'
'I told her enough so that you won't be able to let this one blow away.'
'Bosch...'
He didn't finish. There was a long silence and then Bosch spoke first.
'You were going to cover it all up, weren't you? Shove it in the trash with her. You see, after everything that's happened, she still doesn't count, does she?'
'You don't know what you're talking about.'
Bosch sat up. Now he was angry. Immediately, he was hit with vertigo. He closed his eyes until it passed.
'Well, then why don't you tell me what I don't know? Okay, Chief? You're the one who doesn't know what you're talking about. I heard what you people put out. That there may be no connection between Conklin and Mittel. What kind of— you think I'm going to sit here for that? And Vaughn. Not even a mention of him. A fucking mechanic in a splatter suit, he throws Conklin out the window and is ready to put me in the dirt. He's the one who did Pounds and he doesn't even rate a mention by you people. So, Chief, why don't you tell me what the fuck I don't know, okay?'
'Bosch, listen to me. Listen to me. Who did Mittel work for?'
'I don't know and I don't care.'
'He was employed by very powerful people. Some of the most powerful in this state, some of the most powerful in the country. And -' 'I don't give a shit!' '— a majority of the city council.' 'So? What are you telling me? The council and the governor and the senators and all of those people, what, are they all involved now, too? You covering their asses, too?'
'Bosch, would you calm down and make sense? Listen to yourself. Of course, I'm not saying that. What I am trying to explain to you is that if you taint Mittel with this, then you taint many very powerful people who associated with him or who used his services. That could come back to haunt this department as well as you and me in immeasurable ways.'
That was it, Bosch saw. Irving the pragmatist had made a choice, probably along with the police chief, to put the department and themselves ahead of the truth. The whole deal stunk like rotting garbage. Bosch felt exhaustion roll over him like a wave. He was drowning in it. He'd had enough of this.
'And by covering it up, you are helping them in immeasurable ways, right? And I'm sure you and the chief have been on the phone all morning letting each of those powerful people know just that. They'll all owe you, they'll all owe the department a big one. That's great, Chief. That's a great deal. I guess it doesn't matter that the truth is nowhere to be found in it.'
'Bosch, I want you to call her back. Call that reporter and tell her that you took this knock on the head and
you-'
'No! I'm not calling anybody back. It's too late. I told
the story.'
'But not the whole story. The whole story is just as
damaging to you, isn't it?'
There it was. Irving knew. He either outright knew or had made a pretty good guess that Bosch had used Pounds's name and was ultimately responsible for his death. That knowledge was now his weapon against
Bosch.
'If I can't contain this,' Irving added, 'I may have to take
action against you.'
'I don't care,' Bosch said quietly. 'You can do whatever
you want to me, but the story is coming out, Chief. The truth.'
'But is it the truth? The whole truth? I doubt it and deep in inside I know you doubt it, too. We'll never know the whole truth.'
A silence followed. Bosch waited for him to say more and when there was only more silence, he hung up. He then disconnected the phone and finally went to sleep.
Bosch awoke at six the next morning with dim memories of his sleep having been interrupted by a horrible dinner and the visits of nurses through the night. His head felt thick. He gently touched the wound and found it not as tender as the day before. He got up and walked around the room a bit. His balance seemed back to normal. In
