The Last Coyote Part 6

Conklin McKittrick & Eno Meredith Roman Johnny Fox He drew a line through Meredith Roman's name and studied those left on it. He knew that the way he had ordered the names was not the same order in which he would attempt to interview them. He knew that before he could approach Conklin, or even McKittrick and Eno, he needed more information.

He took his phone book out of his coat pocket and his portable from his briefcase. He dialed the Department of Motor Vehicles law enforcement line in Sacramento and identified himself to the clerk as Lieutenant Harvey Pounds. He gave Pounds's serial number and asked for a license check on Johnny Fox. After checking his notebook, he gave the appropriate date of birth. As he did this he ran the numbers and figured that Fox was now sixty-one years old.

As he continued to wait he smiled because Pounds would have some explaining to do in about a month. The department had recently begun to audit use of the DMV trace service. Because the Daily News Daily News had reported that cops all over the department were secretly doing the traces for friendly reporters and private detectives with liberal expense accounts, the new chief had cracked down by requiring all calls and computer link-ups to DMV to be doc.u.mented on the newly implemented DMVT form, which required attribution of traces to a specific case or purpose. The forms were sent to Parker Center and then audited against the list of traces provided each month by the DMV. When the lieutenant's name showed up on the DMV list in the next audit and there was no corresponding DMVT form, he'd get a call from the auditors. had reported that cops all over the department were secretly doing the traces for friendly reporters and private detectives with liberal expense accounts, the new chief had cracked down by requiring all calls and computer link-ups to DMV to be doc.u.mented on the newly implemented DMVT form, which required attribution of traces to a specific case or purpose. The forms were sent to Parker Center and then audited against the list of traces provided each month by the DMV. When the lieutenant's name showed up on the DMV list in the next audit and there was no corresponding DMVT form, he'd get a call from the auditors.

Bosch had gotten the lieutenant's serial number off his ID card one day when Pounds had left it clipped to his jacket on the coatrack outside his office. He'd written it down in his phone book on a hunch that one day it would come in handy.

The DMV clerk finally came back on the line and said there was no driver's license presently issued to a Johnny Fox with the birth date Bosch had provided.

"Anything close?"

"No, honey."

"That's Lieutenant, miss," Bosch said sternly. "Lieutenant Pounds."

"That's Ms., Lieutenant. Ms. Sharp."

"And I bet you are. Tell me, Ms. Sharp, how far back does that computer run go?"

"Seven years. Anything else?"

"How do I check the years before that?"

"You don't. If you want a hand records search you drop us a letter, Loo-ten-ANT. It will take ten to fourteen days. In your case, count on the fourteen. Anything else?"

"No, but I don't like your demeanor."

"That makes us even. Good-bye."

Bosch laughed out loud after flipping the phone closed. He was sure now that trace wouldn't get lost in the process. Ms. Sharpe would see to that. The name Pounds would probably be on the top of the list when it came in to Parker Center. He dialed Edgar's number on the homicide table next and caught him before he had left the bureau for the day.

"Harry, what's up?"

"You busy?"

"No. Nothing new."

"Can you run a name for me? I already did DMV but I need somebody to do the computer."

"Uh..."

"Look, can you or can't you? If you're worried about Pounds, then-"

"Hey, Harry, cool it. What's wrong with you, man? I didn't say I couldn't do it. Just give me the name."

Bosch couldn't understand why Edgar's att.i.tude enraged him. He took a breath and tried to calm down.

"The name's John Fox. Johnny Fox."

"s.h.i.+t, there's going to be a hundred John Foxes. You got a DOB?"

"Yeah, I got a DOB."

Bosch checked his notebook again and gave it to him.

"What'd he do to you? Say, how you doing?"

"Funny. I'll tell you later. You going to run it?"

"Yes, I said I'll do it."

"Okay, you got my portable number. If you can't get through, leave me a message at home."

"When I can get to it, Harry."

"What, you said nothing's happening."

"Nothing is, but I'm working, man. I can't be running around doing s.h.i.+t for you all the time."

Bosch was stunned into a short moment of silence.

"Hey, Jerry, f.u.c.k you, I'll do it myself."

"Look, Harry, I'm not saying I'm-"

"No, I mean it. Never mind. I don't want to compromise you with your new partner or your fearless leader. I mean after all, that's what it's about, isn't it? So don't give me this s.h.i.+t about working. You're not working. You're about to go out the door for home and you know it. Or wait a minute, maybe it's drinks with Burnsie again tonight."

"Harry-"

"Take care, man."

Bosch flipped the phone closed and sat there letting the anger work out of him like heat from the grill of a radiator. The phone rang while it was still in his hand and he immediately felt better. He flipped it open.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" he said. "Forget it."

There was a long silence.

"h.e.l.lo?"

It was a woman's voice. Bosch felt immediately embarra.s.sed.

"Yes?"

"Detective Bosch?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, I thought it was someone else."

"Like who?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Dr. Hinojos."

"Oh." Bosch closed his eyes and the anger came back. "What can I do for you?"

"I was just calling to remind you that we have a session tomorrow. Three-thirty. You will be there?"

"I don't have a choice, remember? And you don't have to call to remind me about our sessions. Believe it or not, I have an appointment calendar, a watch, an alarm clock, all of that stuff now."

He immediately thought he had gone over the top with the sarcasm.

"Sounds like I caught you at a bad time. I'll let-"

"You did."

"-you go. See you tomorrow, Detective Bosch."

"Good-bye."

He snapped the phone closed again and dropped it on the seat. He started the car. He took Ocean Park out to Bundy and then up toward the 10. As he approached the freeway overpa.s.s he saw the eastbound cars on top weren't moving and the on ramp was jammed with cars waiting to wait.

"f.u.c.k it," he said out loud.

He went by the freeway ramp without turning and then under the overpa.s.s. He took Bundy up to Wils.h.i.+re and then headed west into downtown Santa Monica. It took him fifteen minutes to find street parking near the Third Street Promenade. He had been avoiding multilevel parking garages since the quake and didn't want to start using them now.

What a walking contradiction, Bosch thought as he prowled for a parking spot along the curb. You live in a condemned house the inspectors claim is ready to slide down the hill but you won't go into a parking garage. He finally found a spot across from the p.o.r.no theater about a block from the Promenade.

Bosch spent the rush hours walking up and down the three-block stretch of outdoor restaurants, movie theaters and shops. He went into the King George on Santa Monica, which he knew was a hangout for some of the detectives out of West L.A. Division, but didn't see anybody he knew. After that, he ate pizza from a to-go joint and people-watched. He saw a street performer juggling five butcher knives at once. And he thought he might know something about how the man felt.

He sat on a bench and watched the droves of people pa.s.s him by. The only ones who stopped and paid attention to him were the homeless, and soon he had no change or dollar bills left to give them. Bosch felt alone. He thought about Katherine Register and what she had said about the past. She had said she was strong but he knew that comfort and strength could come from sadness. That was what she had.

He thought about what she had done five years ago. Her husband dead, she had taken stock of her life and found the hole in her memories. The pain. She had sent him the card in hopes he might do something then. And it had almost worked. He had pulled the murder book from the archives but hadn't had the strength, or maybe it was the weakness, to look at it.

After it got dark he walked down Broadway to Mr. B's, found a stool at the bar and ordered a draft with a Jack Daniels depth charge. There was a quintet playing on the small stage in the back, the lead on tenor saxophone. They were finis.h.i.+ng up "Do Nothing Till You Hear from Me" and Bosch got the idea he had come in at the end of a long set. The sax was draggy. It wasn't a clean sound.

Disappointed, he looked away from the group and took a large swallow of beer. He checked his watch and knew he'd have clear driving if he left now. But he stayed. He picked the shot up and dropped it into the mug and drank deeply from the brutal mix. The group moved into "What a Wonderful World." No one in the band stepped up to sing the words but, of course, n.o.body could touch Louis Armstrong's vocals if they tried. It was okay, though. Bosch knew the words.

I see trees of green Red roses, too I see them bloom For me and you And I think to myself What a wonderful world The song made him feel lonely and sad but that was okay. Loneliness had been the trash can fire he huddled around for most of his life. He was just getting used to it again. It had been that way for him before Sylvia and it could be that way again. It would just take time and the pain of letting her go.

In the three months since she had left, there had been the one postcard and nothing else. Her absence had fractured the sense of continuity in his life. Before her, his job had always been the iron rails, as dependable as the sunset over the Pacific. But with her he had attempted to switch tracks, the bravest jump he had ever made. But somehow he had failed. It wasn't enough to keep her and she was gone. And now he felt he had run clear off the tracks. Inside, he felt as fragmented as his city. Broken, it seemed at times, at every level.

He heard a female voice from nearby singing the words of the song. He turned to see a young woman a few stools away, her eyes closed as she sang very softly. She sang only to herself but Bosch could hear.

I see skies of blue And clouds of white The bright blessed day The dark sacred night And I think to myself What a wonderful world She wore a short white skirt, a T-s.h.i.+rt and a brightly colored vest. Bosch guessed she wasn't older than twenty-five and he liked the idea that she even knew the song. She sat straight, her legs crossed. Her back swayed with the music of the saxophone. Her face was framed by brown hair and was turned upward, her lips slightly apart, almost angelic. Bosch thought she was quite beautiful, so totally lost in the majesty of the music. Clean or not, the sound took her away and he admired her for letting it. He knew that what he saw in her face was what a man would see if he made love to her. She had what other cops called a getaway face. So beautiful it would always be a s.h.i.+eld. No matter what she did or what was done to her, her face would be her ticket. It would open doors in front of her, close them behind her. It would let her get away.

The song ended and she opened her eyes and clapped. No one else had applauded until she began. Then everyone in the bar, Bosch included, joined in. Such was the power of the getaway face. Bosch turned and flagged the bartender for another shot and beer. When it was down in front of him he took a glance over at the woman, but she was gone. He turned and checked the bar's door and saw it closing. He'd missed her.

Chapter Eight.

ON THE WAY home he worked his way up to Sunset and took that all the way into the city. Traffic was spa.r.s.e. He had stayed out later than he had planned. He smoked and listened to the all-news channel on the radio. There was a report about Grant High finally reopening in the Valley. It was where Sylvia had taught. Before going to Venice. home he worked his way up to Sunset and took that all the way into the city. Traffic was spa.r.s.e. He had stayed out later than he had planned. He smoked and listened to the all-news channel on the radio. There was a report about Grant High finally reopening in the Valley. It was where Sylvia had taught. Before going to Venice.

Bosch was tired and guessed that he probably wouldn't pa.s.s a breath test if stopped. He dropped his speed to below the limit as Sunset cut through Beverly Hills. He knew the cops in BH wouldn't cut him a break and that would be all he'd need on top of the involuntary stress leave.

He turned left at Laurel Canyon and took the winding road up the hill. At Mulholland he was about to turn right on red when he checked the traffic from the left and froze. He saw a coyote step out of the brush of the arroyo to the left of the roadway and take a tentative look around the intersection. There were no other cars. Only Bosch saw this.

The animal was thin and ragged, worn by the struggle to sustain itself in the urban hills. The mist rising from the arroyo caught the reflection of the street lights and cast the coyote in almost a dim blue light. And it seemed to study Bosch's car for a moment, its eyes catching the reflection of the stoplight and glowing. For just a moment Bosch believed that the coyote might be looking directly at him. Then the animal turned and moved back into the blue mist.

A car came up behind him and honked. Bosch had the green light. He waved and made the turn onto Mulholland. But then he pulled to the side. He put the car in park and got out.

It was a cool evening and he felt a chill as he walked across the intersection to the spot where he had seen the blue coyote. He wasn't sure what he was doing but he wasn't afraid. He just wanted to see the animal again. He stopped at the edge of the dropoff and looked down into the darkness below. The blue mist was all around him now. A car pa.s.sed behind him and when the noise receded he listened and looked intently. But there was nothing.

The coyote was gone. He walked back to his car and drove on Mulholland to Woodrow Wilson Drive to home.

Later, as he lay in his bed after more drinks and with the light still on, he smoked the last cigarette of the night and stared up at the ceiling. He'd left the light on but his thoughts were of the dark, sacred night. And the blue coyote. And the woman with the getaway face. Soon all of those thoughts disappeared with him into the dark.

Chapter Nine.

BOSCH GOT LITTLE sleep and was up before the sun. The last cigarette of the night before had nearly been his last for all time. He had fallen asleep with it between his fingers, only to be jolted awake by the searing pain of the burn. He dressed the wounds on two fingers and tried to return to sleep, but it wouldn't take him. His fingers throbbed and all he could think of was how many times he had investigated the deaths of hapless drunks who had fallen asleep and self-immolated. All he could think of was what Carmen Hinojos would have to say about such a stunt. How was that for a symptom of self-destruction? sleep and was up before the sun. The last cigarette of the night before had nearly been his last for all time. He had fallen asleep with it between his fingers, only to be jolted awake by the searing pain of the burn. He dressed the wounds on two fingers and tried to return to sleep, but it wouldn't take him. His fingers throbbed and all he could think of was how many times he had investigated the deaths of hapless drunks who had fallen asleep and self-immolated. All he could think of was what Carmen Hinojos would have to say about such a stunt. How was that for a symptom of self-destruction?

Finally, as dawn's light began to leak into the room he gave up on sleep and got up. While coffee brewed in the kitchen he went into the bathroom and rebandaged the burns on his fingers. As he taped the fresh gauze on, he glanced at himself in the mirror and saw the deep lines under his eyes.

"s.h.i.+t," he said to himself. "What's going on?"

He had black coffee on the back deck while watching the silent city come awake. There was a crisp chill in the air and the earthy smell of eucalyptus was rising from the tall trees down in the pa.s.s. The marine fog layer had filled the pa.s.s and the hills were just mysterious silhouettes in the mist. He watched the morning begin for nearly an hour, fascinated by the show he had from his deck.

It wasn't until he went back inside for a second cup that he noticed the red light flas.h.i.+ng on his phone machine. He had two messages that had probably been left the day before and that he hadn't noticed after coming in last night. He pressed the play b.u.t.ton.

"Bosch, this is Lieutenant Pounds calling on Tuesday at three thirty-five. I have to inform you that while you are on leave and until your, uh, status with the department is decided, you will be required to return your vehicle to the Hollywood Division garage. I have here that it is a four-year-old Chevrolet Caprice, tag number one-adam-adam-three-four-zero-two. Please make arrangements immediately to have the car turned in and checked out. This order is per Standard Practices Manual Standard Practices Manual citation three dash thirteen. Violation could result in suspension and/or dismissal. Again, this is an order from Lieutenant Pounds, now three thirty-six on Tuesday. If there is any part of this message that you do not understand, feel free to contact me at the office." citation three dash thirteen. Violation could result in suspension and/or dismissal. Again, this is an order from Lieutenant Pounds, now three thirty-six on Tuesday. If there is any part of this message that you do not understand, feel free to contact me at the office."

The machine reported the message had actually been left at 4 P.M. Tuesday, probably right before Pounds had gone home for the day. f.u.c.k him, Bosch thought. The car's a piece of s.h.i.+t anyway. He can have it.

The second message was from Edgar.

"Harry, you there? It's Edgar...Okay, listen, let's forget about today, okay? I mean it. Let's just say I was a p.r.i.c.k and you were a p.r.i.c.k and we're both p.r.i.c.ks and forget it. Whether it turns out you are my partner or you were my partner, I owe you a lot, man. And if I ever act like I forgot that, hit me alongside the head like you did today. Now, to the bad news. I checked everything on this Johnny Fox. I got exactly nothing, man. That's from the NCIC, DOJ, DPP, Corrections, National Warrants, everything. I ran the works on him. Looks like this guy is clean, if he's alive. You say he doesn't even have a DL so that makes me think maybe you got a phony name there or maybe this guy ain't among the living. So, that's that. I don't know what you're up to but if you want anything else, give a call...Oh, and hang in there, buddy. I'm ten-seven after this so you can reach me at home if-"

The message cut off. Edgar had run out of time. Bosch rewound the tape and poured his coffee. Back on the deck he mulled over the whereabouts of Johnny Fox. When he had gotten nothing on the DMV trace, Bosch had a.s.sumed Fox might be in prison, where driver's licenses weren't issued or needed. But Edgar had not found him there nor had he found his name on any national computer that tracks criminals. Now Bosch guessed that Johnny Fox had either gone straight or, as Edgar had suggested, was dead. If Bosch was betting, he'd take the latter. Men like Johnny Fox didn't go straight.