The Night Fire (Harry Bosch #22) - Michael Connelly Page 0,128

vases and stuffed animals and cards.

“The Black Widow’s in the wind,” he said. “But at least they know who they’re looking for. They got a print off one of the cartridges in the gun she left and IDed her—they think. Turns out the FBI’s been looking for her for a while for some wet work she did in Miami.”

“They have her name?”

“Catarina Cava.”

“What’s that, Italian?”

“No, Cuban, actually.”

“How did she get hooked up with Batman?”

“You forget, I’m not part of the club anymore. People from your department aren’t telling me jack. What I know I got from a fed who interviewed me and is part of the task force they’re putting together on this. The bureau, Vegas Metro, LAPD. He told me Butino and his people picked up on her when they had a piece of work that was mutually beneficial. Then she became his go-to. Which in turn brought her to the attention of Michaelson & Mitchell.”

“They have Michaelson?”

“Yeah, they grabbed him at Van Nuys Airport. He was about to take a private jet to Grand Cayman. Now he’s trying to deal his way out, laying everything off on Manley. Of course, Manley’s dead and his computer was purged before he went off the roof. But I told them what Cava told me: that Michaelson set up the hit on Manley and me.”

“Well, I hope they put Michaelson away for a hundred years.”

“It’s a dance. He’ll eventually realize he has to reveal all if he wants any shot at a break.”

“Does your FBI source have any idea about what Manley’s hold was on Michaelson? Like why they didn’t get rid of him sooner?”

“They just assume he knew too much. They believe they’re going to find other cases where Michaelson used Cava. Judge Montgomery wasn’t the first hit. In fact, that may have been a rogue operation—Manley making use of their in-house hitter without Michaelson’s approval. But what was he going to do? Fire him? He knew too much. Michaelson was probably going to wait for Herstadt to be convicted, the case to die down a little bit, and then he would make his move on Manley.”

“But you came along and sped it all up.”

“Something like that.”

Bosch absentmindedly picked up a stuffed dog that had been sent to Ballard with a get-well-soon card.

“That’s from my friend Selma Robinson,” Ballard said. “The deputy D.A. on the Hilton case.”

“Nice,” Bosch said.

He put the dog back. Ballard looked at the crowded table. It seemed odd to receive bouquets and get-well cards after being slashed with an assassin’s blade—there was no specialty card for that from Hallmark. But the table and just about every other horizontal surface in the room seemed to be covered with flowers, cards, stuffed animals, or something else from well-wishers, most of them fellow cops. It was an odd contradiction to receive so much attention and so many get-wells from a department she thought had turned its back on her long ago. The doctor told her that more than thirty cops had showed up the night of her surgery to donate blood for her. He gave her a list of names. Many were from the late show but most were complete strangers to her. When she read the names, a tear had gone down her cheek.

Bosch seemed to understand the currents that were going through her. He gave her a moment before asking, “So, Olivas been by?”

“Yes, actually,” Ballard said. “This morning. Probably felt he had to.”

“He’s had a good week.”

“Damn right. First he gets credit on the Hilton case. Now all of this. He’s going to clear Montgomery, Banks, and Manley. The guy’s going four for four.”

“That’s a hell of an average. All because of you.”

“And you.”

“Maybe it’ll get you off the late show.”

“No, I don’t want that. I’d still never work for him. Olivas. And if not RHD, where am I going to go? Besides, after midnight is when it all happens in this town. I like the dark hours. As soon as they let me, I’m going back.”

Bosch smiled and nodded. He had known that would be her answer.

“What about you?” Ballard asked. “What are you going to do now?”

“Today’s my day for visiting,” Bosch said. “I’m going to go see Margaret Thompson next.”

Ballard nodded.

“Are you going to tell her about John Hilton?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “Not sure she needs to know all that.”

“Maybe she already does.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it. I don’t think she would have called me in the first place if she’d