The Overlook - Michael Connelly [38]
Ferras nodded as though he was taking the advice to heart. But then he spoke from somewhere else.
“I still don’t think we should have lied to them about the witness. He might be very valuable to them. Something he told us might fit with something they know about already. What’s the harm in telling them where he is? Maybe they take a shot at him and get something we didn’t. Who knows?”
Bosch emphatically shook his head.
“No fucking way. Not yet. The wit is ours and we don’t give him up. We trade him for access and information or we keep him for ourselves.”
The waitress brought their plates and looked from the salt spilled on the table to Ferras and then Bosch.
“I know he’s young, Harry, but can’t you teach him some manners?”
“I’m trying, Peggy. But these young people don’t want to learn.”
“I hear you.”
She left the table and Bosch immediately dug into his food, holding a fork in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. He was starved and had a feeling they’d be on the move soon. When they would next have time for a meal was anybody’s guess.
He was halfway through his eggs when he saw four men in dark suits walk in with unmistakable federal purpose in their strides. Wordlessly, they split into twos and started walking through the restaurant.
There were less than a dozen diners in the place, most of them strippers and their boyfriend pimps heading home from four o’clock clubs, Hollywood night crawlers fueling the engine before putting it to sleep. Bosch calmly continued to eat and watched the men in suits stop at each table, show credentials and ask for IDs. Ferras was too busy splashing hot sauce on his eggs to notice what was happening. Bosch got his attention and nodded toward the agents.
Most of the people scattered among the tables were too tired or buzzed to do anything but comply with the demands to show identification. One young woman with a Z shaved into the side of her head started giving one pair of agents some lip but she was a woman and they were looking for a man, so they ignored her and waited patiently for her boyfriend with the matching Z to show some ID.
Finally, a pair of agents came to the table in the corner. Their creds identified them as FBI agents Ronald Lundy and John Parkyn. They ignored Bosch because he was too old and asked Ferras for his ID.
“Who are you looking for?” Bosch asked.
“That’s government business, sir. We just need to check some IDs.”
Ferras opened his badge wallet. On one side it had his photo and police ID and on the other side his detective’s badge. It seemed to freeze the two agents.
“It’s funny,” Bosch said. “If you’re looking at IDs that means you have a name. But I never gave Agent Brenner the witness’s name. Makes me wonder. You guys over there in Tactical Intelligence don’t happen to have a bug in our computer or maybe our squad room, do you?”
Lundy, the one obviously in charge of the pickup detail, looked squarely at Bosch. His eyes were as gray as gravel.
“And you are?” he asked.
“You want to see my ID, too? I haven’t passed for a twenty-year-old in a long time, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”
He pulled out his badge wallet and handed it to Lundy unopened. The agent opened it and examined the contents very closely. He took his time.
“Hieronymus Bosch,” he said, reading the name on the ID. “Wasn’t there some sick creep of a painter named that? Or have I got it confused with one of the bottom-feeders I’ve read about in the overnights.”
Bosch smiled back at him.
“Some people consider the painter a master of the Renaissance period,” he said.
Lundy dropped the badge wallet on Bosch’s plate. Bosch hadn’t finished his eggs yet but luckily the yolks were overcooked.
“I don’t know what the game is here, Bosch. Where’s Jesse Mitford?”
Bosch picked up his badge wallet and used his napkin to clean egg debris off it. He took his time, put the wallet away and then he looked back up at Lundy.
“Who’s Jesse Mitford?”
Lundy leaned down and put both hands on the table.
“You know damn well who he is