hand she unfolded it and took a glance, taking her eyes off Bosch for no more than a millisecond.
“I’m not going to be able to read it. What is it?”
“It’s a no-knock search warrant. I have broken no law by being here. I’m not one of them.”
She stared at him for a silent thirty seconds and then finally smirked.
“You have to be kidding me. What judge would sign such a search warrant? You had zero probable cause.”
“I had your lies and your proximity to two murders. And I had Judge Oscar Ortiz — you remember him?”
“Who is he?”
“Back in 1999 he had the McIntyre case. But you took it away from him when you executed McIntyre. Getting him to sign this search warrant wasn’t hard once I reminded him about the case.”
Anger worked into her face. The muzzle started to come up again.
“All I have to say is one word,” Bosch said. “A one-syllable word.”
“And what?”
“And you’re dead.”
She froze, and slowly her eyes rose from Bosch’s face to the windows over the file cabinets.
“You opened the blinds,” she said.
“Yes.”
Bosch studied the two red laser dots that had played on her face since she had entered the room, one high on her forehead, the other on her chin. Bosch knew that the lasers did not account for bullet drop, but the SWAT sharpshooters on the roof of the house across the street did. The chin dot was the heart shot.
Gables seemed frozen, unable to choose whether to live or die.
“There’s a lot you could tell us,” he said. “We could learn from you. Why don’t you just put the gun down and we can get started.”
He slowly started to lean forward, raising his left hand to take the gun.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
She brought the muzzle up but he didn’t say the word. He didn’t think she’d shoot.
There were three sounds in immediate succession: The breaking of glass as the bullet passed through the window. A sound like an ice cream cone dropping on the sidewalk as the bullet passed through her chest. And then the
A fine mist of blood started to fill the room.
Gables took a step backward and looked down at her chest as her arms dropped to her sides. The gun made a dull sound when it hit the carpet.
She glanced up at Bosch with a confused look. In a strained voice she asked her last question.
“What was the word?”
She then dropped to the floor.
Staying below the level of the file cabinets, Bosch left the desk and came around to her on the floor. He slid the gun out of reach and looked down at her eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do. The bullet had exploded her heart.
“You bastards!” he yelled. “I didn’t say it! I didn’t say the word!”
Gables closed her eyes and Bosch thought she was gone.
“We’re clear!” he said. “Suspect is ten-seven. Repeat, suspect is ten-seven. Weapons, stand down.”
He started to get up but saw that Gables had opened her eyes.
“Nine,” she whispered, blood coming up on her lips.
Bosch leaned down to her.
“What?”
“I killed nine.”
She nodded and then closed her eyes again. He knew that this time she was gone, but he nodded anyway.
LEVERAGE
BY MIKE COOPER
I was counting on that pension.” Joe Beeker looked up from his hands, knuckled together in his lap. “I need the money.”
“We all need money,” said the lawyer. He was younger than Joe, but so was everyone nowadays. He clacked at the silver laptop sitting open on his desk. “Doesn’t mean they have to give it to you. The bankruptcy wiped out their obligations.”
“I worked there thirty-seven years.” And Joe knew he was marked from those decades: scarred fingers; flash burns on his arms; a small, weathered scar right under one eye. “On the line, mostly, and maintenance. Overtime every single week. You could look up my pay stubs.”
“I’m sorry.”
The office was small and undecorated, its window open to the parking lot off Mill Street. Humid summer air coming through the window oppressed the room rather than cooling it.
“I’ll lose the house,” said Joe softly.
“You’ll get Social Security.” The lawyer was trying to be helpful, Joe knew that. The youngster’s tie was still snug at his throat, even if he’d rolled his cuffs back in the heat. He studied the computer screen for a moment. “And it looks like you’ve been at the same address for nearly four decades. Surely the mortgage is paid off by now?”
“We bought in 1972. Right after I got out of the service, with a VA loan. Marjo loved that house.”
“And property taxes are certainly low around here.”
“I had to take another mortgage.” Joe looked away from the lawyer’s disappointed sigh. “When Marjo got the cancer.”
“Oh.” The lawyer’s sigh turned into a cough. “Insurance?”
“It wasn’t enough.” Joe shook his head. “I’m not complaining. She needed the nurse at home all those months. And the hospice. That’s okay.”
“I don’t see anything in the file.”
“She …” Joe felt his voice trail away. “Three weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry,” the lawyer said again. The fourth time since Joe had sat down.
“At least she didn’t have to see me laid off. That would have killed her —” Joe stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”
“Do your children … ?”
“We never had any.” Another old wound.
“Oh.” The lawyer fussed a moment, then changed the subject. “The company’s new owners are rehiring, I’m told.”
“New owners?” For the first time, Joe couldn’t keep his anger stopped up. “New owners? It’s the same bastards, far as I can tell. They bought the company cheap, busted every single contract, sold off the inventory — and now they’re starting up again. Yeah, they’re rehiring. That’s right. You know what they’re paying? Six-fifty-three an hour. That’s only one dollar more than I
“It’s not quite that simple —”
“And you know what? I might have to take it, if I don’t get the pension. I might have to take that fucking slop-hauler’s wage, even though it’s one-fourth what I was making a month ago, because I need to eat. I’m going to lose the house, probably get a boarding room over in Railton, listen to the bikers gunning their engines all night. But I need to fucking eat.”
“I understand how you feel.”
“No, you don’t.” But Joe’s anger drained away. “That’s okay.”
“At least you can get unemployment during the layoff, if you’re not applying for early SSA.”
“They owe me the pension.”
