“I’ll walk you out,” Lorna said.
I saw her throw a look and nod at Cisco so that he would stay behind. We walked out to the reception area. I knew what Lorna was going to say but I let her say it.
“Mickey, are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“Absolutely.”
“This wasn’t the plan. You were going to come back slowly, remember? Take a couple cases and build from there. Instead, you’re taking on an entire practice.”
“I’m not practicing.”
“Look, be serious.”
“I am. And I’m ready. Don’t you see that this is better than the plan? The Elliot case not only brings in all that money but it’s going to be like having a billboard on top of the CCB that says I’M BACK in big neon letters!”
“Yeah, that’s great. And the Elliot case alone is going to put so much pressure on you that…”
She didn’t finish but she didn’t have to.
“Lorna, I’m done with all of that. I’m fine, I’m over it and I’m ready for this. I thought you’d be happy about this. We’ve got money coming in for the first time in a year.”
“I don’t care about that. I want to make sure you are okay.”
“I’m more than okay. I’m excited. I feel like in one day I’ve suddenly got my mojo back. Don’t drag me down. Okay?”
She stared at me and I stared back and finally a reluctant smile peeked through her stern expression.
“All right,” she said. “Then, go get ’em.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
Eight
Despite the assurances I had given Lorna, thoughts about all the cases and all the setup work that needed to be done played in my mind as I walked down the hallway to the bridge that linked the office building with the garage. I had forgotten that I had parked on the fifth level and ended up walking up three ramps before I found the Lincoln. I popped the trunk and put the thick stack of files I was carrying into my bag.
The bag was a hybrid I had picked up at a store called Suitcase City while I was plotting my comeback. It was a backpack with straps I could put over my shoulders on the days I was strong. It also had a handle so I could carry it like a briefcase if I wanted. And it had two wheels and a telescoping handle so I could just roll it behind me on the days I was weak.
Lately, the strong days far outnumbered the weak and I probably could have gotten by with the traditional lawyer’s leather briefcase. But I liked the bag and was going to keep using it. It had a logo on it – a mountain ridgeline with the words “Suitcase City” printed across it like the Hollywood sign. Above it, skylights swept the horizon, completing the dream image of desire and hope. I think that logo was the real reason I liked the bag. Because I knew Suitcase City wasn’t a store. It was a place. It was Los Angeles.
Los Angeles was the kind of place where everybody was from somewhere else and nobody really dropped anchor. It was a transient place. People drawn by the dream, people running from the nightmare. Twelve million people and all of them ready to make a break for it if necessary. Figuratively, literally, metaphorically – any way you want to look at it – everybody in L.A. keeps a bag packed. Just in case.
As I closed the trunk, I was startled to see a man standing between my car and the one parked next to it. The open trunk lid had blocked my view of his approach. He was a stranger to me but I could tell he knew who I was. Bosch’s warning about Vincent’s killer shot through my mind and the fight-or-flight instinct gripped me.
“Mr. Haller, can I talk to you?”
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing sneaking around people’s cars?”
“I wasn’t sneaking around. I saw you and cut between the other cars, that’s all. I work for the Times and was wondering if I could talk to you about Jerry Vincent.”
I shook my head and blew out my breath.
“You scared the shit out of me. Don’t you know he got killed in this garage by somebody who came up to his car?”
“Look, I’m sorry. I was just-”
“Forget it. I don’t know anything about the case and I have to get to court.”
“But you’re taking over his cases, aren’t you?”
Signaling him out of the way, I moved to the door of my car.
“Who told you that?”
“Our court reporter got a copy of the order from Judge Holder. Why did Mr. Vincent pick you? Were you two good friends or something?”
I opened the door.
“Look, what’s your name?”
“Jack McEvoy. I work the police beat.”
“Good for you, Jack. But I can’t talk about this right now. You want to give me a card, I’ll call you when I can talk.”
He made no move to give me a card or to indicate he’d understood what I said. He just asked another question.
“Has the judge put a gag order on you?”
“No, she hasn’t put out a gag order. I can’t talk to you because I don’t know anything, okay? When I have something to say, I’ll say it.”
“Well, could you tell me why you are taking over Vincent’s cases?”
“You already know the answer to that. I was appointed by the judge. I have to get to court now.”
I ducked into the car but left the door open as I turned the key. McEvoy put his elbow on the roof and leaned in to continue to try to talk me into an interview.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got to go, so could you stand back so I can close my door and back this tank up?”
“I was hoping we could make a deal,” he said quickly.
“Deal? What deal? What are you talking about?”
“You know, information. I’ve got the police department wired and you’ve got the courthouse wired. It would be a two-way street. You tell me what you’re hearing and I’ll tell you what I’m hearing. I have a feeling this is going to be a big case. I need any information I can get.”
I turned and looked up at him for a moment.
“But won’t the information you’d be giving me just end up in the paper the next day? I could just wait and read it.”
“Not all of it will be in there. Some stuff you can’t print, even if you know it’s true.”
He looked at me as though he were passing on a great piece of wisdom.
“I have a feeling you’ll be hearing things before I do,” I said.
“I’ll take my chances. Deal?”
“You got a card?”
This time he took a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. I held it between my fingers and draped my hand over the steering wheel. I held the card up and looked at it again. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a line on inside information on the case.
“Okay, deal.”
I signaled him away again and pulled the door closed, then started the car. He was still there. I lowered the window.
“What?” I asked.
“Just remember, I don’t want to see your name in the other papers or on the TV saying stuff I don’t have.”
“Don’t worry. I know how it works.”
“Good.”
I dropped it into reverse but thought of something and kept my foot on the brake.
“Let me ask you a question. How tight are you with Bosch, the lead investigator on the case?”
“I know him, but nobody’s really tight with him. Not even his own partner.”
“What’s his story?”
“I don’t know. I never asked.”
“Well, is he any good at it?”
“At clearing cases? Yes, he’s very good. I think he’s considered one of the best.”
I nodded and thought about Bosch. The man on a mission.
“Watch your toes.”
I backed the Lincoln out. McEvoy called out to me just as I put the car in drive.
“Hey, Haller, love the plate.”
I waved a hand out the window as I drove down the ramp. I tried to remember which of my Lincolns I was driving and what the plate said. I have a fleet of three Town Cars left over from my days when I carried a full case load. But I had been using the cars so infrequently in the last year that I had put all three into a rotation to keep the engines in tune and the dust out of the pipes. Part of my comeback strategy, I guess. The cars were exact duplicates, except for the license plates, and I wasn’t sure which one I was driving.