Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [70]
Bosch reached across the table and demonstrated, using both hands to grab an imaginary set of lapels on a jacket Goshen wasn’t wearing.
“Remember that? Tell me I’m wasting my time now. Remember, Goshen? You did it, you grabbed him like that. Now who is bullshitting who?”
Goshen shook his head but Bosch knew he had scored. The pale blues were looking inward at the memory.
“Kind’ve a freaky thing. Processed leather like that holds the amino acids from the prints. That’s what the tech tells me. We got some nice ones. Enough to take to the DA or the grand jury. Enough for me to come out here. Enough for us to come right into your fucking house and hook you up.”
He hesitated a moment until Goshen was looking at him.
“And now this gun turns up in your house. I guess we’ll just have to wait on the ballistics if you don’t want to talk anymore. But I’ve got a hunch about it. I like my chances.”
Goshen slammed two open palms down on the steel table. It made a sound like a shot and echo.
“This is a setup. You people put —”
Iverson burst through the door, his gun out and aimed at Goshen. He jerked the weapon up like a TV cop.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Bosch said. “Lucky here is just a little mad, is all. Give us a few more minutes.”
Iverson went back out without a word.
“Nice play, but that’s all it was,” Goshen said. “Where’s my phone call?”
Bosch leaned back across the table.
“You can make the call now. But you make the call and it’s over right here. Because that won’t be your lawyer. That will be Joey’s lawyer. He’ll be here to represent you, but we both know the one he’ll be watching out for is Joey Marks.”
Bosch stood up.
“I guess then we’ll just have to settle for you. We’ll go the distance on you.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have me, you prick. Fingerprints? You need more than that. That gun’s a plant and everybody’s going to know it.”
“Yeah, you keep saying it. I’ll know what I need to know from ballistics by tomorrow morning.”
It was hard for Bosch to tell if that had registered because Goshen didn’t give it much time to.
“I’ve got a fuckin’ alibi! You can’t pin this on me, man!”
“Yeah? What’s your fuckin’ alibi? How do you even know when he got hit?”
“You asked me about Friday night, right? That’s the night.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Goshen sat silent and motionless for a half minute. Bosch could see the eyes going to work. Goshen knew he had crossed one line with what he had said. Bosch guessed he was considering how far he should cross. Bosch pulled the chair out and sat back down.
“I got an alibi, so I’m in the clear.”
“You’re not in the clear till we say you are. What’s your story?”
“No. I’m gonna tell my lawyer what it is.”
“You’re hurting yourself, Goshen. You’ve got nothing to lose telling me.”
“Except my freedom, right?”
“I could go out, verify your story. Maybe then I’d start listening to your story about the gun being planted.”
“Yeah, right, that’s like puttin’ the inmates in charge of the prison. Talk to my lawyer, Bosch. Now get me a fucking phone.”
Bosch stood up and signaled for him to put his arms behind his back. He did so and Bosch cuffed him again, then left the room.
After Bosch filled them in on how Goshen had won round one, Felton told Iverson to take a phone into the interview room and allow the suspect to call his lawyer.
“I guess we’ll let him stew,” Felton said when he and Bosch were alone. “See how he likes his first taste of incarceration.”
“He told me he did three years down in Mexico.”
“He tells that to a lot of people he’s trying to impress. Like the tattoos. When we were backgrounding him after he showed up a couple years ago, we never found anything about a Mexican prison and as far as we know, he’s never ridden a Harley, let alone with any motorcycle gang. I think a night in county might soften him up. Maybe by round two we’ll have the ballistics back.”
Bosch said he had to use a phone to call his CO to check on what the plan was for the gun.
“Just pick an empty desk out there,” Felton said. “Make yourself at home. Listen, I’ll tell you how this most likely will go and