Part 43 (2/2)

He put the newspaper aside, leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes. He went over the sequence of events once more and in doing so finally realized the problem that gnawed at him was not in the paper but in what Mittel had said to him. Bosch tried to recall the words exchanged between them on the manicured lawn behind the rich man's house. What had really been said there? What had Mittel admitted to?

Bosch knew that at that moment on the lawn, Mittel was in a position of seeming invulnerability. He had Bosch captured, wounded and doomed before him. His attack dog, Vaughn, stood ready with a gun to Bosch's back. In that situation, Bosch believed there would be no reason for a man of Mittel's ego to hold back. And, in fact, he had not held back. He had boasted of his scheme to control Conklin and others. He had freely, though indirectly, admitted that he had caused the deaths of Conklin and Pounds. But despite those admissions, he had not done the same when it came to the killing of Marjorie Lowe.

Through the fragmented images of that night, Bosch tried to recall the exact words said and couldn't quite get to them. His visual recollection was good. He had Mittel standing in front of the blanket of lights. But the words weren't there. Mittel's mouth moved but Bosch couldn't get the words. Then, finally, after working at it for a while, it came to him. He had it. Opportunity. Mittel had called her death an opportunity. Was that an acknowledgement of culpability? Was he saying he killed her or had her killed? Or was he simply admitting that her death presented an opportunity for him to take advantage of?

Bosch didn't know and not knowing felt like a heavy weight in his chest. He tried to put it out of his mind and eventually started drifting off toward sleep. The sounds of the city outside, even the sirens, were comforting. He was at the threshold of unconsciousness, almost there, when he suddenly opened his eyes.

”The prints,” he said out loud.

Thirty minutes later he was shaved, showered and in fresh clothes heading downtown. He had his sungla.s.ses on and he checked himself in the mirror. His battered eyes were hidden. He licked his fingers and pressed his curly hair down to better cover the shaved spot and the st.i.tches in his scalp.

At County-USC Medical Center, he drove through the back lot to the parking slots nearest the rear garage bays of the Los Angeles County medical examiner's office. He walked in through one of the open garage doors and waved to the security guard, who knew him by sight and nodded back. Investigators weren't supposed to go in the back way but Bosch had been doing it for years. He wasn't going to stop until someone made a federal case out of it. The minimum-wage guard was an unlikely candidate to do that.

He went up to the investigators' lounge on the second floor, hoping not only that there would be someone there he knew but, more important, someone Bosch hadn't alienated over the years.

He swung the door open and immediately was. .h.i.t with the smell of fresh coffee. But the room was bad news. Only Larry Sakai was in the room, sitting at a table with newspapers spread across it. He was a coroner's investigator Bosch had never really liked and the feeling was mutual.

”Harry Bosch,” Sakai said after looking up from the newspaper he held in his hands. ”Speak of the devil, I'm reading about you here. Says here you're in the hospital.”

”Nah, I'm here, Sakai. See me? Where's Hounch.e.l.l and Lynch? Either of them around?”

Hounch.e.l.l and Lynch were two investigators who Bosch knew would do him a favor without having to think about it too long. They were good people.

”Nah, they're out baggin' and taggin'. Busy morning. Guess things are picking up again.”

Bosch had heard a rumor through the grapevine that while removing victims from one of the collapsed apartment buildings after the earthquake, Sakai had gone in with his own camera and taken photos of people dead in their beds-the ceilings crushed down on top of them. He then sold the prints to the tabloid newspapers under a false name. That was the kind of guy he was.

”Anybody else around?”

”No, Bosch, jus' me. Whaddaya want?”

”Nothing.”

Bosch turned back to the door, then hesitated. He needed to make the print comparison and didn't want to wait. He looked back at Sakai.

”Look, Sakai, I need a favor. You want to help me out? I'll owe you one.”

Sakai leaned forward in his chair. Bosch could see just the point of a toothpick poking out between his lips.

”I don't know, Bosch, having you owe me one is like having the old wh.o.r.e with AIDS say she'll give me a free one if I pay for the first.”

Sakai laughed at the comparison he had created.

”Okay, fine.”

Bosch turned and pushed through the door, keeping his anger in check. He was two steps down the hall when he heard Sakai call him back. Just as he had hoped. He took a deep breath and went back into the lounge.

”Bosch, c'mon, I didn't say I wouldn't help you out. Look, I read your story here and I feel for what you're going through, okay?”

Yeah, right, Bosch thought but didn't say.

”Okay,” he said.

”What do you need?”

”I need to get a set of prints off one of the customers in the cooler.”

”Which one?”

”Mittel.”

Sakai nodded toward the paper, which he had thrown back onto the table.

”That Mittel, huh?”

”Only one I know of.”

Sakai was quiet while he considered the request.

”You know, we make prints available to investigating officers a.s.signed to homicides.”

”Cut the c.r.a.p, Sakai. You know I know that and you know, if you read the paper, that I'm not the IO. But I still need the prints. You going to get them for me or am I just wasting my time here?”

Sakai stood up. Bosch knew that Sakai knew that if he backed down now after making the overture, then Bosch would gain a superior position in the netherworld of male interaction and in all their dealings that would follow. If Sakai followed through and got the prints, then the advantage would obviously go to him.

”Cool your jets, Bosch. I'm gonna get the prints. Why don't you get yourself a cup of coffee and sit down? Just put a quarter in the box.”

Bosch hated the idea of being beholden to Sakai for anything but he knew this was worth it. The prints were the one way he knew to end the case. Or tear it open again.

Bosch had a cup of coffee and in fifteen minutes the coroner's investigator was back. He was still waving the card so the ink would dry. He handed it to Bosch and went to the counter to get another cup of coffee.

”This is from Gordon Mittel, right?”

”Right. That's what it said on the toe tag. And, man, he got busted up pretty good in that fall.”

”Glad to hear it.”

”You know, it sounds to me like that story in the newspaper ain't as solid as you LAPD guys claim if you're sneaking around here gettin' the guy's prints.”

”It's solid, Sakai, don't worry about it. And I better not get any calls from any reporters about me picking up prints. Or I'll be back.”

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