The Last Coyote

She looked away from her hands and to the fireplace. She stared at the cold, blackened logs left from an old fire the way some people stare mesmerized by a burning fire.

'It was a man named Arno Conklin. He was a very important man in the -'

'I know who he was.'

'You do?'

'His name came up in the records. But not that way. How could you not tell the cops this?'

She turned and looked at him sharply.

'Don't you look at me that way. I told you I was scared. I'd been threatened. And they wouldn't have done anything with it anyway. They were bought and paid for by Conklin. They wouldn't go near him on just the word of a ... call girl who didn't see anything but knew a name. I had to think of myself. Your mother was dead, Harry. There was nothing I could do about it.'

He could see the sharp edges of anger in her eyes. He knew it was directed at him but more toward herself. She could list all her reasons out loud but inside Bosch thought she paid a price every day for not having done the right thing.

'You think Conklin did it?'

'I don't know. All I know is that she'd been with him before and there was never anything violent. I don't know the answer to that.'

'Any idea now who called you?'

'No, none.'

'Conklin?'

'I don't know. I didn't know his voice anyway.'

'Did you ever see them together, my mother and him?'

'Once, at a dance at the Masonic. I think it was the night they met. Johnny Fox introduced them. I don't think Arno knew ... anything about her. At least, then.'

'Could it have been Fox who called you?'

'No. I would've recognized his voice.'

Bosch thought a moment.

'Did you ever see Fox again after that morning?'

'No. I avoided him for a week. It was easy because I think he was hiding from the cops. But after that I was gone. Whoever called me, he put the fear of God in me. I left town for Long Beach the day the cops said they were done with me. Packed one suitcase and took the bus ... I remember, your mother had some of my clothes in her apartment. Things that she had borrowed. I didn't even bother to try to get them. I just took what I had and left.'

Bosch was silent. He had nothing else to ask.

'I think about those days a lot, you know,' Katherine said. 'We were in the gutter, your mother and I, but we were good friends and we had fun in spite of it all.'

'You know, all my memories ... you're in a lot of them. You were always there with her.'

'We had a lot of laughs in spite of everything,' she said wistfully. 'And you, you were the highlight of it all. You know, when they took you away from her, it nearly killed her right then ... She never stopped trying to get you back, Harry. I hope you know that. She loved you. I loved you.'

'Yes, I know that.'

'But after you were gone, she wasn't the same. Sometimes I think what happened to her was sort of inevitable. Sometimes I think it was like she had been heading toward that alley for a long time beforehand.'

Bosch stood up, looking at the sorrow in her eyes.

'I better go. I'll let you know what happens.'

'I'd like that. I'd like to stay in touch.'

'I'd like that, too.'

He headed toward the door knowing that they wouldn't stay in touch. Time had eroded the bond between them. They were strangers who shared the same

story. On the outside step he turned and looked back at her.

'The Christmas card you sent. You wanted me to look into this back then, didn't you?'

She brought out the faraway smile again.

'I don't know. My husband had just died and I was taking stock, you know? I thought about her. And you. I'm proud of how I turned out, Little Harry. So I think about what there could have been for her and you. I'm still mad. Whoever did this should ...'

She didn't finish but Bosch nodded.

'Good-bye, Harry.'

'You know, my mother, she had a good friend.'

'I hope so.'

Back in his car Bosch took his notebook out and looked at the list.

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 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 documented 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. Sharp 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 attitude enraged him. He took a breath and tried to calm down.

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

'Shit, 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.'