“Okay, take out whatever it is you need to show me with your right hand. Slowly, Detective, slowly.”
“You got it.”
Bosch reached in and with great deliberation pulled out the folded document. He handed it across the desk to her.
“Just put it down and then lean away.”
He followed her instructions. She waited for him to move back and then picked up the document. With one hand she unfolded it and took a glance, taking her eyes off Bosch for no more than a millisecond.
“I’m not going to be able to read it. What is it?”
“It’s a no-knock search warrant. I have broken no law by being here. I’m not one of them.”
She stared at him for a silent thirty seconds and then finally smirked.
“You have to be kidding me. What judge would sign such a search warrant? You had zero probable cause.”
“I had your lies and your proximity to two murders. And I had Judge Oscar Ortiz-you remember him?”
“Who is he?”
“Back in 1999 he had the McIntyre case. But you took it away from him when you executed McIntyre. Getting him to sign this search warrant wasn’t hard once I reminded him about the case.”
Anger worked into her face. The muzzle started to come up again.
“All I have to say is one word,” Bosch said. “A one-syllable word.”
“And what?”
“And you’re dead.”
She froze, and slowly her eyes rose from Bosch’s face to the windows over the file cabinets.
“You opened the blinds,” she said.
“Yes.”
Bosch studied the two red laser dots that had played on her face since she had entered the room, one high on her forehead, the other on her chin. Bosch knew that the lasers did not account for bullet drop, but the SWAT sharpshooters on the roof of the house across the street did. The chin dot was the heart shot.
Gables seemed frozen, unable to choose whether to live or die.
“There’s a lot you could tell us,” he said. “We could learn from you. Why don’t you just put the gun down and we can get started.”
He slowly started to lean forward, raising his left hand to take the gun.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
She brought the muzzle up but he didn’t say the word. He didn’t think she’d shoot.
There were three sounds in immediate succession. The breaking of glass as the bullet passed through the window. A sound like an ice cream cone dropping on the sidewalk as the bullet passed through her chest. And then the thock of the slug hitting the door frame behind her.
A fine mist of blood started to fill the room.
Gables took a step backward and looked down at her chest as her arms dropped to her sides. The gun made a dull sound when it hit the carpet.
She glanced up at Bosch with a confused look. In a strained voice she asked her last question.
“What was the word?”
She then dropped to the floor.
Staying below the level of the file cabinets, Bosch left the desk and came around to her on the floor. He slid the gun out of reach and looked down at her eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do. The bullet had exploded her heart.
“You bastards!” he yelled. “I didn’t say it! I didn’t say the word!”
Gables closed her eyes and Bosch thought she was gone.
“We’re clear!” he said. “Suspect is ten-seven. Repeat, suspect is ten-seven. Weapons, stand down.”
He started to get up but saw that Gables had opened her eyes.
“Nine,” she whispered, blood coming up on her lips.
Bosch leaned down to her.
“What?”
“I killed nine.”
She nodded and then closed her eyes again. He knew that this time she was gone, but he nodded anyway.
Misprision of Felony by O’Neil De Noux
FROM Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
DETECTIVE JOSEPH SAVARY counted nineteen people on Felicity Street. Four older men sat on folding chairs outside Ojubi’s Barbershop, two women swept the sidewalk beyond the shop, two others hosed off their stoops while chatting with each other, three boys rode around on bicycles, four girls hovered between a parked blue Chevy and a dark green Pontiac, two young men leaned against the outer wall of the laundromat, another two sat on the loading dock of the long-abandoned warehouse and pretended they weren’t watching the plainclothesman. Savary tapped down his black sunglasses and gleeked the men on the loading dock. No reaction.
Savary had left his suit coat in his unmarked gray Chevy Impala. He was glad he wore a white shirt today, as the sweat wouldn’t show. He loosened his sky-blue tie and rested a hand atop the grip of the nine-millimeter Glock 17 semiautomatic resting in its Kydex holster on his left hip, next to the gold star-and-crescent NOPD badge clipped to his belt. He stood stiffly in front of the boarded-up door of Jeanfreau’s Grocery and glanced at his watch. Two P.M. exactly. Same time, same day-a Wednesday-as two months ago. On that Wednesday, a lone black male put a bullet into the forehead of Jack Hudson, the owner of Jeanfreau’s. Grainy black-and-white video showed a young, thin African-American male in a white T-shirt and low-riding jeans, pulling out a forty-caliber semiautomatic, pointing it at the gray-haired old man. The weapon was tilted on its side, gangster-style, waving in the right hand of the shooter. Jack Hudson, a man who’d bragged he was part Zulu and once shook Martin Luther King’s hand, exchanged words with the gunman, touched his chin, and the big pistol went off, snapping Hudson’s head back. The shooter went around, had to kick Hudson out of the way to empty the cash register, stuffing cash in his pockets, snatching two candy bars on his way out. Looked like Milky Way bars, maybe Snickers.
Savary fitted his sunglasses back up and stepped over to Ojubi’s Barbershop. The four men outside, all over fifty, stopped talking. The barber, in a white smock and black pants, stood and stretched.
“Afternoon,” Savary said.
The barber nodded.
“Back again, huh?” The barber was Willie Ellzey, who lived on Terpsichore Street but stayed with his woman on Eurphrosine, as he’d explained. Savary looked at the only man he hadn’t spoken to on his four previous canvasses, twice in the morning, twice in the evening.
“I’m Joe Savary,” he told the skinny man with blue-black skin as dark as Savary’s. “I’m working on-”
“Jeanfreau.” The man didn’t look up. “We know.”
“What’s your name?”
A pair of bloodshot eyes met his and the man said, “Joe Clay. You wanna see my ID?” The voice was harsh, challenging.
“That would be nice.” Savary pulled out his notebook as the man reached around for his wallet, took out his driver’s license. Savary copied down the details.
“You come around here often, Mr. Clay?”
Savary got the same answers he’d been getting since he took over the case. No one saw anything or heard anything. No matter that Jack Hudson was a neighbor, had run the neighborhood grocery store since old man Jeanfreau died in 1968. It was as obvious as the nose on the detective’s face. A local boy did this, but no one was giving him up to the police. It didn’t even matter if Savary was raised three blocks away on Erato Street. The day he started the police academy was the day he’d left the neighborhood-permanently.
He moved to the women. He’d spoken to some of them before, the two young men by the laundromat as well. One was the son of a fireman and was actually civil to Savary, the other barely mumbled responses. The two sitting on the dilapidated warehouse loading dock who pretended they weren’t watching Savary would not even look at him as he stepped up.
“Police,” he said to the taller of the two. Both were maybe twenty, both in white T-shirts and those long shorts with the crotch below the knees. “What’s your name?”
Nothing.
“Stand up.”