The concrete blonde - By Michael Connelly Page 0,148
about this … this interrogation.”
“This is no interrogation, Doctor. Believe me, if we interrogate you, you'll know it.”
He nodded to Edgar, who slipped out the door to go find the Jag. When they were alone, Bosch pulled a high-backed chair away from the wall and sat down in front of the desk to wait.
“What happened to the suspect you were following, Harry?”
“We did.”
“What's that supposed to—”
“Never mind.”
They sat in silence for nearly five minutes until Edgar stuck his head in the door and signaled Bosch to come out.
“Checks out, Harry. I talked to the girl and her story is the same. There also were credit card receipts in the car. They checked into the MGM Saturday at three. There was a gas receipt in Victorville, had the time on it. Nine o'clock in the morning Saturday. Victorville's what an hour away. Looks like they were on the road when Chandler got it. Besides, the girl says they also spent Friday night together at his house in the hills. We can do some more checking but I think he's being legit with us.”
“Well … ,” Bosch said, not completing the thought. “Why don't you go up and spread the word that he looks clear. I want to take him up to look around, if he still wants to.”
“Will do.”
Bosch went back into the study. He sat in the chair that was in front of the desk. Locke studied him.
“Well?”
“She's too scared, Locke. She isn't going along. She's telling us the truth.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Locke yelled.
Now Bosch studied him. The surprise on his face, the utter fright, was too genuine. Bosch was sure now. He was sorry, yet felt some perverse feeling of power, having run Locke through the scam.
“You're clear, Dr. Locke. Just had to be sure. I guess the criminal only comes back to the scene of the crime in movies.”
Locke took a deep breath and looked down into his lap. Bosch thought he looked like a driver who had just pulled to the side of the road to collect himself after missing a head-on collision with a truck by a matter of inches.
“Goddammit, Bosch, for a minute there, I had bad dreams, you know?”
Bosch nodded. He knew about bad dreams.
“Edgar's going up to smooth the way. He's going to ask the lieutenant if you can go up and give a read on the scene. If you still want to.”
“Excellent,” he said, but there wasn't much excitement left in him.
They sat in silence after that. Bosch took out his cigarettes and found the pack empty. But he put the pack back in his pocket so as not to leave false evidence in the trash can.
He didn't feel like talking to Locke anymore. Instead, he looked past him and out the window at the activity on the street. The media pack had dispersed after the briefing. Now some of the TV reporters were taping their reports with the “death house” behind them. Bosch could see Bremmer interviewing the neighbors across the street and writing feverishly in his notebook.
Edgar came in then and said, “We're ready for him upstairs.”
Staring out the window, Bosch said, “Jerry, can you take him up? I just thought of something I need to do.”
Locke stood up and looked at the two detectives.
“Fuck you,” he said, “Both of you. Fuck you… . There, I just had to say that. Now, let's forget about it and go to work.”
He crossed the room to Edgar. Bosch stopped him at the door.
“Dr. Locke?”
He turned back to Bosch.
“When we catch this guy, he'll want to gloat, won't he?”
Locke thought for a while and said, “Yes, he'll be very pleased with himself, his accomplishments. That might be the hardest part for him, keeping quiet when he knows he should. He'll want to gloat.”
They left then and Bosch looked out the window for a few more minutes before getting up.
Some of the reporters who knew who he was pressed against the yellow tape and began shouting questions as he came out. He ducked under the tape and said he could make no comment and that Chief Irving was coming out soon. That seemed to mollify them temporarily and he started walking down the street to his car.
He knew Bremmer was the master of the anti-pack. He always let the pack move in and do their thing, then he came in after, by himself, to get what he wanted. Bosch wasn't mistaken. Bremmer showed up at the car.