A Darkness More Than Night - Michael Connelly [98]
He knew her tone. She was leading to something.
“But?”
“But you look tired. And you know they’re going to come after you. This kind of case, if they destroy the cop they destroy the case.”
“O. J. one-oh-one.”
“Right. So are you ready for them?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Just rest up.”
“Easier said than done.”
As they approached the garage Bosch looked over at the parole office and saw a gathering of the staff out front for some kind of presentation. The group was standing below a banner hanging from the roofline that said WELCOME BACK THELMA. A man in a suit was presenting a plaque to a heavyset black woman who was leaning on a cane.
“Oh . . . , that’s that parole agent,” Corazón said. “The one who got shot last year. By that hit man from Vegas?”
“Right, right,” Bosch said, remembering the story. “She came back.”
He noticed that there were no television cameras recording the presentation. A woman got shot in the line of duty and then fought her way back to the job. It apparently wasn’t worth wasting videotape over.
“Welcome back,” he said.
Corazón’s car was on the second floor. It was a two-seat, shining black Mercedes.
“I see the outside work must be going pretty well,” Bosch said.
Corazón nodded.
“In my last contract I got four weeks’ professional leave. I’m making the most of it. Trials, TV, that sort of thing. I did a case on that autopsy show on HBO, too. It airs next month.”
“Teresa, you’re going to be world famous before we know it.”
She smiled and stepped close to him and straightened his tie.
“I know what you think about it, Harry. That’s okay.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think about it. Are you happy?”
She nodded.
“Very.”
“Then I’m happy for you. I better get back in there. I’ll see you, Teresa.”
She suddenly rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. It had been a long time since he had gotten one of those.
“I hope you make it through, Harry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
• • •
Bosch stepped out of the elevator into the hallway and headed toward the Department N courtroom. He saw a line of people cordoned off by the courtroom door: people waiting for a spectator seat to possibly open. A few reporters were milling about the open door of the pressroom but everybody else was at stations, watching the trial.
“Detective Bosch?”
Bosch turned. Standing in a pay-phone alcove was Jack McEvoy, the reporter he had met the day before. He stopped.
“I saw you walk out and I hoped I’d catch you.”
“I have to get back in there.”
“I know. I just wanted to tell you that it is very important that I talk to you about something. The sooner the better.”
“What are you talking about? What’s so important?”
“Well, it’s about you.”
McEvoy stepped out of the alcove so that he was closer to Bosch and did not have to speak as loud.
“What about me?”
“Do you know you are under investigation by the Sheriff’s Department?”
Bosch looked up the hall toward the courtroom door and then back at McEvoy. The reporter was slowly bringing a pad of paper and pen up in his hands. He was ready to take notes.
“Wait a minute.” Bosch put his hand on the notebook. “What are you talking about? What investigation?”
“Edward Gunn, you remember him? He’s dead and you’re their suspect.”
Bosch just stared at him, his mouth coming slightly open.
“I wondered if you wanted to comment on this. You know, defend yourself. I’ll be writing a story for next week’s edition and wanted you to have the chance to tell your —”
“No, no comment. I have to get back.”
Bosch turned and walked a few paces toward the courtroom door but then stopped. He walked back to McEvoy, who was writing in the notebook.
“What are you writing? I didn’t say anything.”
“I know. That’s what I’m writing.”
McEvoy looked up from the notebook to him.
“You said next week,” Bosch said. “When does it come out?”
“New Times is published every Thursday morning.”
“So until when do I have, if I decide to talk to you?”
“About Wednesday lunch. But that will be pressing it. I won’t be able to do much then but drop in some quotes. The time to talk