Part 1 (2/2)
”Yes. How bad was your house hit?”
”Depends on who you ask. The city inspectors say it's totaled and I can't even go inside. I think it's fine. Just needs some work. They know me by name at Home Depot now. And I've had contractors do some of it. It'll be done soon and I'll appeal the red tag. I've got a lawyer.”
”You're living there still?”
He nodded.
”Now that's denial, Detective Bosch. I don't think you should be doing that.”
”I don't think you have any say about what I do outside my job with the department.”
She raised her hands in a hands-off manner.
”Well, while I don't condone it, I suppose it serves its purpose. I think it's good that you have something to keep you occupied. Though I'd much rather it be a sport or a hobby or maybe plans for a trip out of town, I think it's important to keep busy, to keep your mind off the incident.”
Bosch smirked.
”What?”
”I don't know. Everybody keeps calling it the incident. It kind've reminds me of how people called it the Vietnam conflict, not the war.”
”Then what would you call what happened?”
”I don't know. But incident...it sounds like...I don't know. Antiseptic. Listen, Doctor, let's go back a minute. I don't want to take a trip out of town, okay? My job is in homicide. It's what I do. And I'd really like to get back to it. I might be able to do some good, you know.”
”If the department lets you.”
”If you do. You know it's going to be up to you.”
”Perhaps. Do you notice that you speak of your job as if it's a mission of some sort?”
”That's about right. Like the Holy Grail.”
He said it with sarcasm. This was getting intolerable and it was only the first session.
”Is it? Do you believe your mission in life is to solve murders, to put bad people in jail?”
He used the shoulder hike to say he didn't know. He stood up and walked to the window and looked down on Hill Street. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Every time he had been down here they were crowded. He noticed a couple of Caucasian women walking along. They stood out in the sea of Asian faces like raisins in rice. They pa.s.sed the window of a Chinese butcher shop and Bosch saw a row of smoked ducks hanging whole, by their necks.
Farther up the road he saw the Hollywood Freeway overpa.s.s, the dark windows of the old sheriff's jail and the Criminal Courts building behind it. To the left of that he could see the City Hall tower. Black construction tarps hung around the top floors. It looked like some kind of mourning gesture but he knew the tarps were to hold debris from falling while earthquake repairs were made. Looking past City Hall, Bosch could see the Gla.s.s House. Parker Center, police headquarters.
”Tell me what your mission is,” Hinojos said quietly from behind him. ”I'd like to hear you put it in words.”
He sat back down and tried to think of a way to explain himself but finally just shook his head.
”I can't.”
”Well, I want you to think about that. Your mission. What is it really? Think about that.”
”What's your mission, Doctor?”
”That's not our concern here.”
”Of course it is.”
”Look, Detective, this is the only personal question I will answer. These dialogues are not to be about me. They are about you. My mission, I believe, is to help the men and women of this department. That's the narrow focus. And by doing that, on a grander scale I help the community, I help the people of this city. The better the cops are that we have out on the street, the better we all are. The safer we all are. Okay?”
”That's fine. When I think about my mission, do you want me to shorten it to a couple sentences like that and rehea.r.s.e it to the point that it sounds like I'm reading out of the dictionary?”
”Mr.-uh, Detective Bosch, if you want to be cute and contentious the whole time, we are not going to get anywhere, which means you are not going to get back to your job anytime soon. Is that what you're looking for here?”
He raised his hands in surrender. She looked down at the yellow legal pad on the desk. With her eyes off him, he was able to study her. Carmen Hinojos had tiny brown hands she kept on the desk in front of her. No rings on either hand. She held an expensive-looking pen in her right hand. Bosch always thought expensive pens were used by people overly concerned with image. But maybe he was wrong about her. She wore her dark brown hair tied back. She wore gla.s.ses with thin tortoisesh.e.l.l frames. She should have had braces when she was a kid but didn't. She looked up from the pad and their eyes locked.
”I am told this inci-this...situation coincided with or was close to the time of the dissolving of a romantic relations.h.i.+p.”
”Told by who?”
”It's in the background material given to me. The sources of this material are not important.”
”Well, they are important because you've got bad sources. It had nothing to do with what happened. The dissolving, as you call it, was almost three months ago.”
”The pain of these things can last much longer than that. I know this is personal and may be difficult but I think we should talk about this. The reason is that it will help give me a basis for your emotional state at the time the a.s.sault took place. Is that a problem?”
Bosch waved her on with his hand.
”How long did this relations.h.i.+p last?”
”About a year.”
”Marriage?”
”No.”
”Was it talked about?”
”No, not really. Never out in the open.”
”Did you live together?”
”Sometimes. We both kept our places.”
”Is the separation final?”
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