The Drop - Michael Connelly [73]
“Nice,” Mason said. “That your number on the badge?”
He pointed to the notebook.
“Yeah.”
“Where do you get something like that?”
“Hong Kong. Did you know that your friend George Irving was repping a taxi company that was hoping to take the franchise away from Black and White? Did you know that the DUIs you put on the company’s record were going to help George succeed?”
“Like I said, not at the time. Not last summer.”
Mason rubbed his palms up and down his thighs. They were now moving toward something that was uncomfortable for him.
“So at some point you did come to know this?”
He nodded but didn’t speak.
“When?” Bosch prompted.
“Uh, that would have been about six weeks ago.”
“Tell me.”
“One night I pulled over a taxi. Saw the guy roll a stop sign and pulled him over. It was a Black and White, and right away the guy starts giving me shit about collusion and all this and I’m thinking, Yeah, yeah, yeah, just touch your nose with your forefinger, asshole. But then he says, ‘You and Irving Junior are doing this to us’ and I’m like, What the hell? So I get in his face and tell him to tell me exactly what he means by that. And that’s when I found out my friend Georgie was repping another cab company putting the move on Black and White.”
Bosch leaned forward, closer to Mason, and put his elbows on his knees. They were getting to the center of it now.
“What did you do?”
“I confronted him. I went to George and gave him every way out, but at the end of the day, there was no way out. I felt he and his father had used me and I told him that. I told him we weren’t friends anymore and that was the last time I saw him.”
Bosch nodded.
“And this is why you think he killed himself.”
Mason scoffed.
“No, man. If he used me like that, then I wasn’t really that important in his life. I think he killed himself for other reasons. I think Chad leaving was a big thing . . . and maybe there were other things. The family had secrets, you know what I mean?”
Mason didn’t know about McQuillen or the marks on George Irving’s back. Bosch decided that this wasn’t the time for him to find out.
“Okay, Mason, you have anything else for me?”
Mason shook his head.
“You didn’t confront the councilman about all of this, did you?”
“Not yet.”
Bosch thought about that.
“You going to the funeral tomorrow?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Tomorrow morning, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll guess I’ll decide then. We were friends a long time. Things just sort of went wrong at the end.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you there. You can go now. I appreciate you telling the story.”
“Yeah.”
Mason stood up and headed toward the back hallway, his head down. Bosch watched him go and wondered about the vagaries of relationships and investigations. He had come to the division expecting to confront a cop who was bent, who had crossed the line. Instead, he now viewed Mason as another victim of Irvin Irving.
And at the top of the list of Irving’s victims was his own son. Mason might not have to worry about confronting the councilman. Bosch might get there first.
25
George Irving’s Thursday morning funeral was crowded. But it was hard for Bosch to tell if all the people were there to mourn the loss of George Irving or to buttress their ties to his father, the city councilman. Many of the city’s political elite were there, along with the command staff of the police department. Even Councilman Irving’s opponent in the upcoming election—the guy who didn’t have a chance—was present. It was as if a truce in politics had been called so respect could be shown for the dead.
Bosch stood on the periphery of the graveside gathering and watched the parade of who’s who make their way to Irvin Irving and the rest of the dead man’s family to offer condolences. It was Bosch’s first look at Chad Irving, the third generation of the family. He clearly favored his mother in his looks.