The Drop - Michael Connelly [76]
“Hannah.”
“Hello, Harry. How are you?”
“I just left a funeral.”
“What? Whose?”
“Somebody I never met. It was work. How are things at the center?”
“They’re fine. I’m on a break.”
“Good.”
He waited. He knew she wasn’t calling just to pass the time.
“I was wondering if you’ve been thinking about last night.”
The reality was that Bosch had been consumed by the Irving case since he had confronted Robert Mason the night before.
“Of course,” he said. “That was pretty wonderful for me.”
“It was wonderful for me, too, but I didn’t mean that. I meant about what I told you. Before.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“About Shawn. My son.”
This felt jagged and awkward. He wasn’t sure what she wanted.
“Well . . . I don’t know, Hannah, what am I supposed to be thinking about?”
“Never mind, Harry. I need to go.”
“Wait, Hannah. Come on, you called me, remember? Don’t go and don’t get upset. Just tell me, what am I supposed to be thinking about with your son?”
Bosch felt something gripping his insides. He had to consider that for her the night before might have been some sort of means to a hopeful end that was about her son and not them. To Bosch, her son was lost. When Shawn was twenty years old he had drugged a girl and raped her—a sad and terrible story. He pleaded guilty and went to prison. That was five years ago and Hannah had dedicated her life since then to trying to understand where the impulse in him had come from. Was it genetic, was it nature, was it nurture? It was a form of prison in itself for Hannah, and Bosch had felt sympathy as she told him the ugly story.
But now he wasn’t sure what she wanted from him besides his sympathy. Was he supposed to say her son’s crime was not her fault? Or that her son wasn’t evil? Or was she hoping for some sort of concrete help in terms of her son’s incarceration? Bosch didn’t know because she hadn’t said.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want it to ruin anything, that’s all.”
That eased things for him a small bit.
“Then don’t let it, Hannah. Just let things happen. We’ve only known each other a few days. We like to be with each other but maybe we moved too quickly. Let’s just let things happen and don’t bring this other stuff into it. Not yet.”
“But I have to. He’s my son. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live with what he did and to think about him up there?”
The grip inside tightened again and he understood that he had made a mistake with this woman. His loneliness and his own need for connection had led him down the wrong path. He had waited so long and now had chosen so wrong.
“Hannah,” he said. “I’m in the middle of stuff here. Can we talk about all of this later?”
“Whatever.”
It was said as an invective. She might as well have said Fuck you, Bosch. The message was the same. But he acted like he had not received it.
“Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I’m clear. Good-bye, Hannah.”
“Good-bye, Harry.”
Bosch disconnected and fought the urge to throw the phone out the car window. His thinking that Hannah Stone could be the one he brought into the life he shared with his daughter had been a fool’s dream. He had moved too quickly. He had dreamed too quickly.
He shoved the phone into his coat pocket and buried his thoughts about Hannah Stone and failed romance as deep as George Irving had just been put in the ground.
26
Bosch entered the empty cubicle and immediately saw the stack of large envelopes on Chu’s desk. He put his briefcase down on his own desk but then went over to Chu’s and spread the envelopes across his blotter. Chu had received the statements and other records from George Irving’s credit cards. Going back and checking all credit-card purchases was an important component of a thorough death investigation. Their findings would become part of the victim’s financial profile.
The bottom envelope was the thinnest and was from the crime lab.