A Darkness More Than Night - Michael Connelly [33]
“You forgot his last name. What’s his last name?”
“Oh, sorry. It’s Bosch. Like the spark plugs.”
McCaleb sat frozen. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe. He stared at the name on the page, unable to write the last part that Doran had just given him. Finally, he turned his head and looked out of the picnic area to the spot on the sidewalk where he had last seen Harry Bosch walking away.
“Terry, you there?”
He came out of it.
“Yeah.”
“That’s really all I have. And I have to go. We’re starting here.”
“Anything else on Bosch?”
“Not really. And I’m out of time.”
“Okay, Brass. Listen, thanks a lot. I owe you one for this.”
“And I’ll collect one day. Let me know how it all comes out, okay?”
“You got it.”
“And send me a photo of that little girl.”
“I will.”
She hung up and McCaleb slowly closed his phone. He wrote a note at the bottom of the page reminding him to send Brass a photo of his daughter. It was just an exercise in avoiding the name of the painter he had written down.
“Shit,” he whispered.
He sat with his thoughts for a long time. The coincidence of receiving the eerie information just minutes after eating with Harry Bosch was unsettling. He studied his notes for a few more moments but knew they did not contain the immediate information he needed. He finally reopened the phone and called 213 information. A minute later he called the personnel office of the Los Angeles Police Department. A woman answered after nine rings.
“Yes, I’m calling on behalf of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department and I need to contact a particular LAPD officer. Only I don’t know where he works. I only have his name.”
He hoped the woman wouldn’t ask what he meant by on behalf of. There was what seemed to be a long silence and then he heard the sound of typing on a keyboard.
“Last name?”
“Uh, it’s Bosch.”
He spelled it and then looked down at his notes, ready to spell the first name.
“And the first na — never mind, there’s only one. Higher — ronny — mus. Is that it? I can’t pronounce it, I don’t think.”
“Hieronymus. Yes, that’s it.”
He spelled the name and asked if it was a match. It was.
“Well, he’s a detective third grade and he works in Hollywood Division. Do you need that number?”
McCaleb didn’t answer.
“Sir, do you need —”
“No, I have it. Thank you very much.”
He closed the phone, looked at his watch, and then reopened the phone. He called Jaye Winston’s direct number and she picked up right away. He asked if she had gotten anything back from the lab on the examination of the plastic owl.
“Not yet. It’s only been a couple hours and one of them was lunch. I’m going to give it until tomorrow before I start knocking on their door.”
“Do you have time to make a few calls and do me a favor?”
“What calls?”
He told her about the icon search Brass Doran had conducted but left out any mention of Hieronymus Bosch. He said that he wanted to talk with an expert on Northern Renaissance painting but thought the arrangements could be made more quickly and cooperation would be more forthcoming if the request came from an official homicide detective.
“I’ll do it,” Winston said. “Where should I start?”
“I’d try the Getty. I’m in Van Nuys now. If somebody will see me I could be there in a half hour.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You talk to Harry Bosch?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything new?”
“Not really.”
“I didn’t think so. Hang tight. I’ll call you back.”
McCaleb dumped what was left of his lunch into one of the trash barrels and headed back toward the courthouse, where he had left the Cherokee parked on a side street by the state parole offices. As he walked he thought about how he had lied by omission to Winston. He knew he should have told her about the Bosch connection or coincidence, whichever it was. He tried to understand what it was that made him hold it back. He found no answer.
His phone chirped just as he got to the Cherokee. It was Winston.
“You have an appointment at the Getty at two. Ask for Leigh Alasdair Scott. He’s an associate curator of paintings.”
McCaleb got out his notes and wrote the name down,