The Overlook - Michael Connelly [39]
Bosch nodded as though he understood the situation perfectly.
“We can talk about Mitford and everything else at the meeting at ten. Right after I interview Kent’s partner and his wife.”
Lundy smiled in a way that carried no friendliness or humor.
“You know something, pal? You’re going to need a Renaissance period yourself when this is all over.”
Bosch smiled again.
“See you at the meeting, Agent Lundy. In the meantime, we’re eating. Can you go bother somebody else?”
Bosch picked up his knife and started spreading strawberry jam from a little plastic container on his last piece of toast.
Lundy straightened up and pointed at Bosch’s chest.
“You better be careful, Bosch.”
With that he turned and headed toward the door. He signaled to the other team of agents and pointed toward the exit. Bosch watched them go.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said.
ELEVEN
THE SUN WAS STILL BELOW the ridgeline but dawn had a full grip on the sky. In daylight the Mulholland overlook showed no sign of the violence of the night before. Even the debris usually left behind at a crime scene—rubber gloves, coffee cups and yellow tape—had somehow been cleaned up or maybe had blown away. It was as if Stanley Kent had not been shot to death, his body never left on the promontory with the jetliner view of the city below. Bosch had investigated hundreds of murders during his time with the badge. He never got over how quickly the city seemed to heal itself—at least outwardly—and move on. To act as though nothing had ever happened.
Bosch kicked at the soft, orange ground and watched the dirt drop over the edge into the brush below. He made a decision and headed back toward the car. Ferras watched him go.
“What are you going to do?” Ferras asked.
“I’m going in. If you’re coming, get in the car.”
Ferras hesitated and then trotted after Bosch. They got back in the Crown Vic and drove over to Arrowhead Drive. Bosch knew that the feds had Alicia Kent but he still had the key ring from her husband’s Porsche.
The fed car they had spotted when they had driven by ten minutes earlier was still parked in front of the Kent house. Bosch pulled into the driveway, got out and headed with purpose to the front door. He ignored the car in the street, even when he heard its door open. He managed to find the right key and get it into the lock before they were hit with a voice from behind.
“FBI. Hold it right there.”
Bosch put his hand on the knob.
“Do not open that door.”
Bosch turned and looked at the man approaching on the front walkway. He knew that whoever was assigned to watch the house would be the lowest man on the Tactical Intelligence totem pole, a screwup or an agent with baggage. He knew he could use this to his advantage.
“LAPD Homicide Special,” he said. “We’re just going to finish up in here.”
“No, you’re not,” the agent said. “The bureau has taken over jurisdiction of this investigation and will be handling everything from here on out.”
“Sorry, man, I didn’t get the memo,” Bosch said. “If you’ll excuse us.”
He turned back to the door.
“Do not open that door,” the agent said again. “This is a national security investigation now. You can check with your superiors.”
Bosch shook his head.
“You may have superiors. I have supervisors.”
“Whatever. You’re not going into that house.”
“Harry,” Ferras said. “Maybe we—”
Bosch waved a hand and cut him off. He turned back to the agent.
“Let me see some ID,” he said.
The agent put an exasperated look on his face and dug out his creds. He flipped them open and held them out. Bosch was ready. He grabbed the agent by the wrist and pivoted. The agent’s body came forward and past him and Bosch used a forearm to press him face first against the door. He pulled his hand—still clutching his credentials—behind his back.
The agent started struggling and protesting but it was too late. Bosch leaned his shoulder into him to keep him against the door and slipped his free hand under the man’s jacket. He found and jerked the handcuffs off the agent’s belt and started cuffing