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By Root 382 0

Edgar and Rider gravitated toward his spot at the homicide table so that they could immediately get the comparison results. It was a make-or-break point in the investigation and they all knew it. Bosch asked for Lester Poole, the gun tech assigned the case. They had worked together before. Poole was a gnomish man whose whole life revolved around guns, though as a civilian employee of the department he did not carry one himself. But there was no one more expert at the gun shop than he. He was a curious man in that he would not acknowledge anyone who called him Les. He insisted on being called Lester or even just Poole, never the diminutive of Lester. Once he confided to Bosch that this was because he feared that if he became known as Les Poole, it would only be a matter of time before some smartass cops started calling him Cess Poole. It was his intention never to let that happen.

“Lester, it’s Harry,” Bosch said when the tech picked up. “You’re the man this morning. What have you got for me?”

“I’ve got good and bad news for you, Harry.”

“Give me the bad first.”

“Just finished with your case. Haven’t written the report yet but this is what I can tell you. The gun has been wiped clean of prints and is not traceable. Your doer used acid on the serial and I couldn’t bring it up with any of my magic tricks. So that’s that.”

“And the good?”

“I can tell you that you’ve got yourself a match between the weapon and the bullets extracted from your victim. It’s a definite match.”

Bosch looked up at Edgar and Rider and gave the thumbs-up sign. They exchanged a high five and then Bosch watched as Rider gave Lieutenant Billets the thumbs-up through the glass of her office. Bosch then saw Billets pick up her phone. Bosch presumed she was calling Gregson at the DA’s office.

Poole told Bosch that the report would be finished by noon and shipped through intradepartmental courier. Bosch thanked him and hung up. He stood up smiling and then walked with Edgar and Rider into the lieutenant’s office. Billets spent another minute on the phone and Bosch could tell she was talking to Gregson. She then hung up.

“That’s a very happy man there,” she said.

“He should be,” Edgar said.

“All right, so now what?” Billets asked.

“We go over there and drag that desert dirtbag’s ass back here,” Edgar said.

“Yes, that’s what Gregson said. He’s going to go over to babysit the hearing. It’s tomorrow morning, right?”

“Supposed to be,” Bosch said. “I’m thinking of heading over there today. There are a couple loose ends I want to square away, maybe take another shot at finding the girlfriend, and then I want to make the arrangements so we can get out of there with him as soon as the judge says go.”

“Fine,” Billets said. Then to Edgar and Rider, she asked, “Did you two decide who is going with Harry?”

“Me,” Edgar said. “Kiz is more plugged in on the financial stuff. I’ll go with Harry to get this sucker.”

“Okay, fine. Anything else?”

Bosch told them about the gun being untraceable, but this didn’t seem to dent the euphoria engendered by the ballistics match. The case was looking more and more like a slam dunk.

They left the office after a few more self-congratulatory statements and Bosch went back to his phone. He dialed Felton’s office at Metro. The captain picked up right away.

“Felton, it’s Bosch in L.A.”

“Bosch, what’s up?”

“Thought you might want to know. The gun checks out. It fired the bullets that killed Tony Aliso.”

Felton whistled into the phone.

“Damn, that’s nice and neat. Lucky ain’t going to feel so lucky when he hears about that.”

“Well, I’m coming out in a little while to tell him.”

“Good. When you going to be here?”

“Haven’t set it up yet. What about the extradition hearing? We still on for tomorrow morning?”

“Absolutely, as far as I know. I’ll have somebody double-check to make sure. His lawyer might be trying to make waves but that won’t work. This added piece of evidence will help, too.”

Bosch told him that Gregson would be coming out in the morning to aid the local prosecutor if needed.

“That’s probably a wasted trip