Suicide Run_ Three Harry Bosch Stories - Michael Connelly [30]
Blitzstein looked at Bosch for a long moment, his eyes going through a slow burn from cold to hot.
“Fuck you, Detective Bosch. I want a lawyer.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong except for you trying to fuck me in the ass. I want a goddamn phone and I want to call a lawyer.”
Bosch leaned back in his seat.
“You know once you say that we’re done, I can’t talk to you and I can’t help you. You sure you want—”
“Help me? Yeah, help me into a prison cell for something I didn’t do. Fuck you. Get me the phone. We’re done here.”
Bosch drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and then nodded.
“All right, we’ll do it your way. I’ll go get you the phone.”
He slowly got up, giving Blitzstein a last chance to change his mind, and then left the room when he didn’t.
Gunn met him in the hallway.
“Well, you got close,” she said. “You convinced me—or rather, he convinced me—but I still don’t think we have enough to charge him.”
“Maybe not. Has my partner called?”
“Oh, shit! Your phone! Where is it? I… I think I left it out there on your desk when we got the coffee.”
They walked out to the squad room and Bosch grabbed his phone. He’d missed three calls from Ferras while he was in the interview room with Blitzstein. He quickly called back.
“Harry, where you been?”
“In an interview. You got something?”
“Jackpot, man. We got it all.”
“Tell me.”
“You were right. The driver-side door has a secret compartment. The armrest unsnaps from the door and opens up. The latch was hidden behind the speaker grille in the door.”
“What did you find?”
“We found the money, the gun, a workout shirt and gloves. It’s all there. The gun’s got a suppressor on it, too. A homemade job. There was also a bracelet in the compartment she must’ve put in there. It’s from when she won a qualifying tournament for the World Series of Poker in oh-four.”
Bosch looked at Gunn. He was annoyed. It was all information he could’ve used before Blitzstein shut things down and called for a lawyer. He turned away and went back to Ferras.
“Did you run the gun yet?”
“Yeah, just did. It’s a dead end. It was reported stolen nine months ago by the original owner in Long Beach. A gun dealer named Kermit Lodge. Said it was stolen off a table at a gun show in Pomona.”
Bosch knew it wasn’t a dead end. If they found a link between the gun’s original owner and Blitzstein, then the dead end could become an integral piece of evidence. But that was for later. He asked Ferras about the workout shirt and the gloves.
“It’s a long-sleeved plastic pullover. You know, for like sweating and losing weight.”
“And the gloves?”
“Just your basic work gloves. They look new. There’s blowback on the shirt and the gloves. The thing is, Harry, the shooter knew about the secret compartment. He shot her then dumped the gun, the shirt and the gloves in the compartment. The husband, Harry. He shot her, hid everything in the compartment and then started calling for help.”
“Yeah, now we just have to prove it. He just lawyered up.”
Ferras didn’t respond and in the silence Bosch thought of something. One last thing to attempt.
“What kind of work gloves are they? Leather, plastic, cotton?”
“Cotton.”
Bosch felt a small spark of hope. The gloves and the shirt had been worn by the killer so that he would avoid getting blowback—blood, brains and gunshot residue—on his body. But blowback came in all sizes—including microscopic—and cotton was porous.
“Okay, I want you to leave the scene,” Bosch said. “Go down to Long Beach and pick up the gun dealer. Bring him up here to RHD.”
“Pick him up for what?”
“Just tell him he reported the theft of a weapon and that we’ve recovered it and need him to come downtown to identify it. Keep him in the dark. Just get him down here.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
“Good.”
Bosch closed the phone.
“What