Suicide Run_ Three Harry Bosch Stories - Michael Connelly [25]
“Then let’s start with who hired you.”
“A lawyer named Robert Suggs. I do a lot of work for him. He’s a divorce lawyer.”
“All right, then, what were you doing?”
“I was watching an individual for another individual, a client of Bob Suggs.”
Bosch nodded that he understood.
“Mr. Turnbull. I think we have made a mistake here but we need to be sure. The individual you were watching, what was his name?”
“I would have to call Suggs before I could reveal that.”
“Was it Douglas Pennington of Brentwood?”
Bosch saw the tell in Turnbull’s eyes. The name was familiar to him.
“I can’t say,” Turnbull said.
“You just did,” Bosch said. “Look, I understand your position. I spent two years working a private ticket myself and I know how that is. But we’re working a homicide here. So let’s find a middle ground where you can help us and help yourself by being done with us. Let’s forget names. We’ll go with individuals. Tell us what you can about the case you were working last night.”
Coffee started dripping into the pot and its smell began to pervade the apartment. It kicked off a craving in Bosch. The charge from his first cup of the day was dead and gone.
“An individual hired my employer to begin the marital dissolution process. Only this individual’s husband doesn’t know about it yet. We’re in what we call the hunting-and-gathering stage. She tells us that she thinks her husband’s got a girlfriend on the side. Once or twice a week he stays out almost all night, telling her he’s playing poker. She’s noticed that the bank account has been dropping eight to ten grand a month with withdrawals he has made.”
“So you were tailing him last night,” Bosch said.
Turnbull nodded
“That’s correct.”
“And it turned out he actually was playing poker.”
“Correct again.”
“How much did he lose?”
“About two grand. He played at a high-stakes table and a woman cleaned him out. In a way, the wife turned out to be right. He gave his money to another woman.”
Turnbull smiled and then snapped his fingers and pointed at Bosch.
“Blitz. I heard the woman who was cleaning up at that table called Blitz. Is she the homicide?”
He turned toward a cabinet but kept his eyes on Bosch. He opened it and pulled out three cups. He set them on the counter next to the coffeemaker.
“Yeah, she’s the one,” Bosch said.
“She left at the same time as my guy and so the cameras in the parking lot gave you the idea that I was tailing her, not him.”
“Something like that.”
Turnbull hit a switch on the brewer and pulled out the glass pot. He poured three cups and asked if anybody wanted sugar or powdered cream. There were no takers.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re cops.”
Bosch drank from the cup he was given and the coffee was strong and hot, just like he wanted it. He relaxed a bit. Turnbull was a dead end as far as being a suspect but he could still be useful as a witness.
“You went out to the parking lot about an hour ahead of your subject,” he said. “How come?”
“Because I was tired of acting like I belonged in there. I had to start playing or I had to get out of there. I don’t play poker. No interest. So I went out and sat on his car.”
“See anything unusual out there?”
“No, just people coming and going.”
“What about the woman when she came out? Did you see her?”
“I saw her. My guy had already come out and he was sitting in his car smoking and trying to cool down after dropping all that money. So then she came out with a security guy. I thought that was a good move. She was probably carrying a lot of dough after the way she was playing. She was cleaning everybody out. Not just my guy.”
Bosch nodded.
“Then what?”
“Then nothing. I was watching because my guy was in his car and thought maybe if there was something going on, I was going to see it right there. But she got in her car and left. Then my guy left and I followed him.”
“Nothing else with her in the parking lot.”
“Not in the parking lot, no.”
“Meaning…?”
“Well, I don’t know if it means anything at all. But I was on the job once, a long, long time ago, and I know you