Authors: Michael Connelly
The other cop pulled him away from the front door. Out in the street, Bosch could see neighbors joining together in little knots or watching from their own porches. Nothing like gunshots in suburbia for getting people together, he thought. The smell of spent gunpowder in the air does it better than a barbecue any day.
The young cop got right up in Bosch’s face. Harry could see that his name plate identified him as D. Sparks.
“Okay, what the fuck’s going on here? If you’re a cop, tell us what’s going on.”
“You two are a couple of heroes, that’s what’s going on.”
“Tell the story, man. I don’t have time for bullshit.”
Bosch could hear approaching sirens now.
“My name’s Bosch. I’m with LAPD. This man you shot is the suspect in the killing of Arno Conklin, the former district attorney of this county, and LAPD Lieutenant Harvey Pounds. I’m sure you’ve heard about these cases.”
“Jim, you hear that?” He turned back to Bosch. “Where’s your badge?”
“Stolen. I can give you a number to call. Assistant Chief Irvin Irving. He’ll tell you about me.”
“Never mind that. What’s he doing here?”
He pointed to Fox.
“He told me he was hiding out. Earlier today I got a call to come to this address and he was here waiting to ambush me. See, I could identify him. He had to take me out.”
The cop looked down at Fox wondering if he should believe such an incredible story.
“You got here right in time,” Bosch said. “He was going to kill me.”
D. Sparks nodded. He was beginning to like the sound of this story. Then concern creased his brow.
“Who called 911?” he asked.
“I did,” Bosch said. “I came here, found the door open and went in. I was calling 911 when he got the jump on me. I just dropped the phone because I knew you people would come.”
“Why call 911 if he hadn’t grabbed you yet?”
“Because of what’s in the back bedroom.”
“What?”
“There’s a woman in the bed. She looks like she’s been dead about a week.”
“Who is she?”
Bosch looked at the young cop’s face.
“I don’t know.”
“
WHY DIDN
’
T YOU
reveal that you knew she was your mother’s killer? Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out. It’s just that there was something about what she wrote and what she did at the end that…I don’t know, I just felt like that was enough. I just wanted to let it go.”
Carmen Hinojos nodded her head as if she understood but Bosch wasn’t sure he did himself.
“I think that’s a good decision, Harry.”
“You do? I don’t think anybody else would think it was a good decision.”
“I’m not talking about on a procedural or criminal justice level. I’m just talking about on a human level. I think you did the right thing. For yourself.”
“I guess…”
“Do you feel good about it?”
“Not really…You were right, you know.”
“I was? About what?”
“About what you said about me finding out who did it. You warned me. Said it might do me more harm than good. Well, that was an understatement…Some mission I gave myself, right?”
“I’m sorry if I was right. But as I said in the last session, the deaths of those men can’t be—”
“I’m not talking about them anymore. I’m talking about something else. You see, I know now that my mother was trying to save me from that place I was at. Like she had promised me that day out by the fence that I told you about. I think that whether she loved Conklin or not, she was thinking of me. She had to get me out and he was the way to do it. So, ultimately, you see, it was because of me that she died.”
“Oh, please, don’t tell yourself that, Harry. That’s ridiculous.”
Bosch knew that the anger in her voice was real.
“If you are going to take that form of logic,” she continued, “you can come up with any reason why she was killed, you can argue that your own birth set circumstances in motion that led to her death. You see how silly that is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s the same argument you made the other day about people not taking responsibility. Well, the inverse of that is people who take too much responsibility. And you are becoming one of them. Let that go, Harry. Let it go. Let someone else take some responsibility for some things. Even if that someone else is dead. Being dead does not absolve them of everything.”
He was cowed by the forcefulness of her admonition. He just looked at her for a long moment. He could tell her outburst would signal a natural break in the session. The discussion of his guilt was done. She had ended it and he had his instructions.
“I’m sorry to have raised my voice.”
“No problem.”
“Harry, what do you hear from the department?”
“Nothing. I’m waiting on Irving.”
“What do you mean?”
“He kept my…culpability out of the paper. Now it’s his move. He’s either going to come at me with IAD—if he can make a case against me impersonating Pounds—or he’s going to let it go. I’m betting he’s going to let it go.”
“Why?”
“The one thing about the LAPD is that it is not into selfflagellation. Know what I mean? This case is very public and if they do something to me, they know there’s always the danger it will get out and it will be one more black eye for the department. Irving sees himself as the protector of the department’s image. He’ll put that ahead of taking me down. Besides, he’ll have leverage on me now. I mean, he thinks he will.”
“You seem to know Irving and the department well.”
“Why?”
“Chief Irving called me this morning and asked me to forward a positive RTD evaluation to his office as soon as possible.”
“He said that? He wants a positive return-to-duty report?”
“Yes, those were his words. Do you think you are ready for that?”
He thought a few moments but didn’t answer the question.
“Has he done that before? Told you how to evaluate somebody?”
“No. It’s a first time and I’m very concerned about it. It undermines my position here if I simply accede to his wishes. It’s quite a dilemma because I don’t want you caught in the middle.”
“What if he didn’t tell you which way to go, what would your evaluation be? Positive or negative?”
She played with a pencil on the desktop for a few moments while considering the question.
“It’s very close, Harry, but I think you need more time.”
“Then don’t do it. Don’t give in to him.”
“That’s quite a change. Only a week ago all you could talk about was getting back to the job.”
“That was a week ago.”
There was a palpable sadness in his voice.
“Stop beating yourself to death with it,” she said. “The past is like a club and you can only hit yourself in the head with it so many times before there is serious and permanent damage. I think you’re at your limit. For what it’s worth, I think you are a good and clean and ultimately kind man. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t ruin what you have, what you are, with this kind of thinking.”
He nodded as if he understood but he had dismissed her words as soon as he heard them.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the last couple of days.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
“Any decisions on anything?”
“Almost. I think I’m going to pull the pin, leave the department.”
She leaned forward and folded her arms on the desk. A serious look creased her brow.
“Harry, what are you talking about? This is not like you. Your job and your life are the same. I think it’s good to have some distance but not total separation. I—” She stopped when she seemed to come upon an idea. “Is this your idea of penance, of making up for what happened?”
“I don’t know…I just…For what I did, something has to be paid. That’s all. Irving’s not going to do anything. I will.”
“Harry, you made a mistake. A serious mistake, yes. But for that you are giving up your career, the one thing that even you readily admit you do well? You’re going to throw it all away?”
He nodded.
“Did you pull the papers yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t do it.”
“Why not? I can’t do this anymore. It’s like I’m walking around handcuffed to a chain of ghosts.”
He shook his head. They were having the same debate that he had been having in his mind for the last two days, since the night at Meredith Roman’s house.
“Give it some time,” Hinojos said. “All I’m saying is, think about it. You’re on paid leave now. Use it. Use the time. I’ll tell Irving he’s not getting an RTD from me yet. Meantime, you just give it some time and think hard on it. Go away somewhere, sit on the beach. But think about it before you turn in your papers.”
Bosch raised his hands in surrender.
“Please, Harry. I want to hear you say it.”
“All right. I’ll do some more thinking.”
“Thank you.”
She let some silence underline his agreement.
“Remember what you said about seeing the coyote on the street last week?” she asked quietly. “About it being the last coyote?”
“I remember.”
“I think I know how you felt. I’d hate to think that I was seeing the coyote for the last time, too.”
FROM THE AIRPORT
Bosch took the freeway to the Armenia exit and then south to Swann. He found that he didn’t even need the rent-a-car map. He went east on Swann into Hyde Park and then down South Boulevard to her place. He could see the bay shimmering in the sun at the end of the street.
At the top of the stairs the door was open but the screen door was closed. Bosch knocked.
“Come in. It’s open.”
It was her. Bosch pushed through the screen into the living room. She wasn’t there but the first thing he noticed was a painting on the wall where before there had been only the nail. It was a portrait of a man in shadows. He was sitting at a table alone. The figure’s elbow was on the table and the hand was up against his cheek, obscuring the face and making the deep set of the eyes the focal point of the painting. Bosch stared at it a moment until she called again.
“Hello? I’m in here.”
He saw the door to her studio was open a half foot. He stepped over and pushed it open. She was there, standing in front of the easel, dark earth-tone oils on the palette in her hand. There was a single errant slash of ocher on her right cheek. She immediately smiled.
“Harry.”
“Hello, Jasmine.”
He moved in closer to her and stepped around the side of the easel. The portrait had only just been started. But she had begun with the eyes. The same eyes in the portrait that hung on the wall in the other room. The same eyes he saw in the mirror.
She hesitantly came closer to him. There was not a glimmer of embarrassment or unease in her face.
“I thought that if I painted you, you would come back.”
She dropped her brush into an old coffee can bolted to the easel and came even closer. She embraced him and they kissed silently. At first it was a gentle reunion, then he put his hand against her back and pulled her tightly against his chest as if she were a bandage that could stop his bleeding. After a while she pulled back, brought her arms up and held his face in her hands.
“Let me see if I got the eyes right.”
She reached up and took off his sunglasses. He smiled. He knew the purple below his eyes was almost gone but they were still redrimmed and shot with swollen capillaries.
“Jesus, you took the red-eye.”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”
“God, put these back on.”
She hooked the glasses back on and laughed.
“It’s not that funny. It hurt.”
“Not that. I got paint on your face.”
“Well, then I’m not alone.”
He traced the slash on her face. They embraced again. Bosch knew they could talk later. For now he just held her and smelled her and looked over her shoulder to the brilliant blue of the bay. He thought of something the old man in the bed had told him. When you find the one that you think fits, then grab on for dear life. Bosch didn’t know if she was the one, but for the moment he held on with everything he had left.
Harry’s life is a mess. His new house has been condemned because of earthquake damage. His girlfriend has left him. He’s drinking too much. And he’s even had to turn in his badge: he attacked his commanding officer and is suspended indefinitely pending a psychiatric evaluation.
At first Bosch resists the LAPD shrink, but finally he recognizes that something is troubling him, a force that may have shaped his entire life. In 1961, when Harry was twelve, his mother was brutally murdered. No one was ever even accused of the crime.
Harry opens up the decades-old file on the case and is irresistibly drawn into a past he has always avoided. It’s clear that the case was fumbled. His mother was a prostitute, and even thirty years later the smell of a cover-up is unmistakable. Someone powerful was able to keep the investigating officers away from key suspects. Even as he confronts his own shame about his mother, Harry relentlessly follows up the old evidence, seeking justice or at least understanding. Out of the broken pieces of the case he discerns a trail that leads upward, toward prominent people who lead public lives high in the Hollywood hills. And as he nears his answer, Harry finds that ancient passions don’t die. They cause new murders even today.
The Last Coyote is that rarest of novels, a moral thriller, a breakneck-paced tale that opens up the heart’s most secret wounds. No one who reads it will remain unchanged or forget the passion of Harry Bosch.
Before he can get back on the beat, Harry has to convince the LAPD psychiatrist—and more importantly, himself—that he’s emotionally up to it.