The Drop - Michael Connelly [111]
“Hey, partner?” he said. “Go out to the car and get your computer. I want to write up a search warrant right now.”
“Harry, I already checked on my phone, there’s no Wi-Fi here. How’re we going to send it in?”
“Partner, just go get the computer. We’ll worry about Wi-Fi after you write it up. And close the door when you leave.”
“Okay, partner. I’ll go get the laptop.”
Message received.
Bosch never took his eyes off Hardy’s. He saw them register the situation, that he was about to be left alone with Bosch, and the beginning of fear entered their shiny coldness. As soon as he heard the front door close, Bosch pulled his Glock and pushed the muzzle into the flesh under Hardy’s chin.
“Guess what, asshole, we’re going to end this right here. Because you’re right, we don’t have enough. And I’m not letting you run free another fucking day.”
He violently yanked Hardy off the wall and spun him to the floor. Hardy crashed into the side table, knocking the ashtray and water glass onto the rug, and landed on his back. Bosch dropped down on him, straddling his torso.
“The way this will work is, we didn’t know it was you, you see? We thought it was your father all along and when my partner went out to the car you jumped me. There was a struggle for the gun and—guess what?—you didn’t win.”
Bosch held the gun up sideways, displaying it in front of Hardy’s face.
“There will be two shots. The one I’m about to put through your black fucking heart, and then after I take off the cuffs, I’ll wrap your dead hands around my Glock and cap one into the wall. That way we both get gunshot residue and everybody’s cool with it.”
Bosch leaned down and positioned the gun with the barrel at an upward angle to Hardy’s chest.
“Yeah, I think like this,” he said.
“Wait!” Hardy yelled. “You can’t do this!”
In his eyes Bosch saw true terror.
“This is for Lily Price and Clayton Pell and everybody else you killed and hurt and destroyed.”
“Please.”
“Please? Is that what Lily said to you? Did she say please?”
Bosch changed the angle of the gun slightly and leaned farther down, his chest now only six inches from Hardy’s.
“Okay, I admit it. Venice Beach, nineteen eighty-nine. I’ll tell you everything. Just take me in and set it up. I’ll tell you about my father, too. I drowned him in the bathtub.”
Bosch shook his head.
“You’ll tell me what I want to hear just to get out of here alive. But it’s no good, Hardy. It’s too late. We’re past that. Even if you truly confessed, it wouldn’t hold up. Coerced confession. You know that.”
Bosch pulled back the slide on the Glock to chamber a round.
“I don’t want a bullshit confession. I want evidence. I want your stash.”
“What stash?”
“You keep stuff. All you guys keep stuff. Pictures, souvenirs. You want to save yourself, Hardy, tell me where the stash is.”
He waited. Hardy said nothing. Bosch put the muzzle down against his chest and angled the gun again.
“All right, all right,” Hardy said desperately. “Next door. Everything’s next door. My father owned both places. I have it set up with a phony name on the deed. You go look. You’ll find everything you need.”
Bosch stared down at him for a long moment.
“If you’re lying, you’re dying.”
He withdrew the gun and holstered it. He started to get up.
“How do I get in?”
“The keys are on the counter in the kitchen.”
The odd smile returned to Hardy’s face. A moment ago he was desperate to save his own life, now he was smiling. Bosch realized it was a look of pride.
“Go check it out,” Hardy urged. “You’re going to be famous, Bosch. You caught the goddamn record holder.”
“Yeah? How many?”
“Thirty-seven. I planted thirty-seven crosses.”
Bosch had guessed that there were going to be numbers, but not that high. He wondered if Hardy was inflating his kills as part of one last manipulation. Say anything, give anything, just to get out the door alive. All he had to do was survive this moment and he could slip into the next transformation, from unknown and uncharted killer to figure of public fascination and fear.