Bosch still hadn’t spoken. He wasn’t sure he could. He felt like he was floating on a layer of air. He had trouble concentrating on Edgar’s words. What did he mean about points? And why was he at Martin Luther King-Drew Medical Center near Watts? Last he remembered, he had been in Beverly Hills. In the tunnel. UCLA Med Center or Cedars would have been closer.
“Anyway,” Edgar was saying, “I’m just trying to let you know what’s going on as much as possible before the silks get here and try to fuck you over. Rourke is dead. Lewis is dead. Clarke is bad, he’s on the machine, and I heard they were just keeping him going for parts. As soon as they line up people that need ’em, they’ll pull the plug. How’d you like to end up with that asshole’s heart or eyeball or something? Anyway, like I said, you should come out of this all right. Either way, with that arm, you can get your eighty percent, no questions asked. Line of duty. You’re a made man.”
He smiled at Bosch, who just looked at him blankly. Harry’s throat was dry and cracked when he finally tried to speak.
“MLK?”
It came out a little weak but okay. Edgar poured a cup of water from a pitcher on the bedside table and handed it to him. Bosch unbuckled the restraints, sat himself up to drink it and immediately felt a wave of nausea hit him. Edgar didn’t notice.
“It’s a gun-and-knife club, man. This is where they take the gangbangers after the drive-bys. No better place to go with a gunshot in the county, leastwise those yuppie doctors over at UCLA. They train military doctors here. So they’ll be ready for war casualties. They brought you in on a chopper.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s a little after seven, Sunday morning. You lost a day.”
Then Bosch remembered Eleanor. Was she the one in the tunnel at the end? What had happened? Edgar seemed to read him. Everybody had been doing that lately.
“Your lady partner is fine. She and you are in the spotlight, man, heroes.”
Heroes. Bosch thought about that. After a while, Edgar said, “I gotta book on out of here. If they know I talked to you first, I’ll get shipped out to Newton.”
Bosch nodded. Most cops wouldn’t mind Newton Division. Nonstop action in Shootin’ Newton. But not Jerry Edgar, real estate agent.
“Who’s coming?”
“Usual crew, I guess. IAD, Officer Involved Shooting team, the FBI is in on the act. Bev Hills, too. I think everybody’s still figurin’ out what the fuck happened down there. And they only got you and Wish to tell ’em. They probly want to make sure you two have the same story. That’s why I’m saying, tell ’em you don’t remember dick. You’re shot, man. You are an injured officer. Line of duty. It’s your right not to remember what happened.”
“What do you know about what happened?”
“The department isn’t saying shit. No scut going around on this at all. When I heard it went down I went out to the scene and Pounds was already there. He saw me and ordered me back. Fuckin’ Ninety-eight, he wouldn’t say shit. So I only know what’s in the press. The usual load of bullshit. TV last night didn’t know shit. TheTimes this morning doesn’t have much, either. The department and the bureau, they look like they joined up to make everybody a valiant soldier.”
“Everybody?”
“Yeah. Rourke, Lewis, Clarke-they all went down in the line of duty.”
“Wish said that stuff?”
“No. She’s not in the story. I mean, she isn’t quoted. I ’spect they’re keeping her kind of under wraps till the investigation is over.”
“What’s the official line?”
“TheTimes says the department says Lewis and Clarke and you were part of the FBI surveillance at that vault. Now I know that’s a lie ’cause you’d never let those clowns near one of your operations. Besides, they’re IAD. I think theTimes knows something about it stinks, too. That Bremmer guy you know was calling me yesterday, seeing what I heard. But I didn’t talk. My name gets in the paper on this and I’ll get worse than Newton. If there is such a place.”
“Yeah,” Bosch said. He looked away from his old partner and became immediately depressed. It seemed to make his arm throb all the harder.
“Look, Harry,” Edgar said after a half minute. “I better get out of here. I don’t know when they’ll be coming, but they will be, man. You take care and do like I told you. Amnesia. Then take the eighty percent line-of-duty disability and fuck ’em.”
Edgar pointed a finger to his temple and nodded his head. Harry nodded absently and then Edgar left. Bosch could see a uniformed officer sitting on a chair outside the door.
After a while Bosch picked up the phone that was attached to the railing alongside his bed. He couldn’t get a dial tone, so he pushed the nurse call button and a few minutes later a nurse came in and told him the phone was shut off, as per LAPD orders. He asked for a newspaper and she shook her head. Same thing.
He became even more depressed. He knew that both LAPD and the FBI faced huge public relations problems with what had happened, but he couldn’t see how it could be covered up. Too many agencies. Too many people. They could never keep a lid on it. Could they be stupid enough to try?
He loosened the strap across his chest and tried to sit all the way up. It made him dizzy, and his arm screamed to be left alone. He felt nausea overtake him and reached for a stainless steel pan on the bed table. The feeling subsided. But it jogged loose a memory of being in the tunnel with Rourke the morning before. He began remembering pieces of Rourke’s conversation. He tried to fit the new information with what he had already known. Then he wondered about the diamonds-the cache from the WestLand job-and whether they had been found. Where? As much as he had grown to admire the engineering of the caper, he could not bring himself to admire its maker. Rourke.
Bosch felt fatigue overcome him like a cloud crossing the sun. He dropped back against the pillow. And the last thing he thought of before dozing off was what Rourke had said in the tunnel. The part about getting a larger share because Meadows, Franklin and Delgado were dead. It was then, as he slid into the black jungle hole that Meadows had jumped into before, that Bosch realized the full meaning of what Rourke had said.
The man in the visitor’s chair wore an $800 pinstripe suit, gold cuff links and an onyx pinky ring. But it was no disguise.
“IAD, right?” Bosch said and yawned. “Wake up from a dream to a nightmare.”
The man started. He hadn’t seen Bosch open his eyes. He stood up and left the hospital room without saying a word. Bosch yawned again and looked around for a clock. There was none. He loosened the chest belt again and tried to sit up. This time he was much better. No dizziness. No sickness. He looked over at the floral arrangements on the windowsill and the bureau. He thought that their number might have grown while he was asleep. He wondered if any of them were from Eleanor. Had she come by to see him? They probably wouldn’t let her.
In another minute, Pinstripe came back in, carrying a tape recorder and leading a procession that included four other suits. One was Lieutenant Bill Haley, head of the LAPD Officer Involved Shooting squad, and one was Deputy Chief Irvin Irving, head of IAD. Bosch figured the other two for FBI men.
“If I’d known I had so many suits waiting for me, I would have set an alarm,” Bosch said. “But they didn’t give me an alarm clock, or a phone that works or a TV or a newspaper.”
“Bosch, you know who I am,” Irving said and threw a hand toward the others. “And you know Haley. This is Agent Stone and this is Agent Folsom, FBI.”
Irving looked at Pinstripe and nodded toward the bed table. The man stepped forward and placed the recorder on the table, put a finger on the record button and looked back at Irving. Bosch looked at him and said, “You don’t rate an introduction?”