The Burning Room

Maddie was at the table in the dining room, seated at the spot where Bosch usually sat to do his work. She had her laptop open and looked like she was composing some sort of school report.

“Hey, kid, what’s for dinner?” he asked.

He bent down and kissed the top of her head.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s your turn.”

“No, last night would have been your turn and it carries over because you did the Meals on Wheels thing.”

“No, that’s not how it works. Too complicated. You just gotta know which days are yours, and Monday is yours.”

Bosch knew she was right because the point had been argued before. But he had been unnerved by the long-distance confrontation with the man he believed was Charles Broussard. Bosch had been the first to turn away and go back to his car.

“Well, then, I don’t have anything,” he said. “Who do you want to call or where do you want me to go for pickup?”

“Poquito Más?”

“Fine with me. You want the usual?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Poquito Más was literally right below their house at the bottom of the hill. With a good throw, Bosch could have hit the roof of the restaurant with a rock from his back deck. Sometimes from the same spot he could even smell the flavors of the Mexican restaurant down below. But getting there was another matter. Bosch had to follow Woodrow Wilson down the hill in a circuitous path and then take Cahuenga Boulevard nearly a mile up to the restaurant. It was one of the strange contradictions of the city. No matter how close something looked, it was still far away.

While he was waiting for his order to be put together, he got a call from Captain Crowder.

“You know a parks ranger named Bender?”

Bosch frowned and shook his head.

“Just met him tonight.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t like the encounter.”

“You’re kidding me, right? I’ve been beefed by Dudley Do-Right?”

“Tomorrow I need you to write up a memorandum of your side of the conversation.”

“Whatever.”

“Did you really make fun of the guy’s hat?”

“Yes, Captain, I guess I sort of did.”

“Harry, Harry, Harry…come on, you know those guys have no sense of humor.”

“Live and learn, Captain.”

“What were you doing there, anyway?”

“Just taking in the view.”

“Well…I don’t think this is going anywhere but get me that memo, okay?”

“Will do.”

“Anything new on Merced since we talked?”

Bosch wasn’t ready to put the name Broussard out there with command staff yet. So he stayed away from that.

“We recovered the weapon,” he said.

“What!” Crowder exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were gone by the time we got back. I was going to update you in the morning.”

“Where was it?”

“Hidden in a dead guy’s house.”

“You mean our shooter is dead?”

“It’s looking that way.”

“This is sort of great. It means no trial. We can wrap this thing up with a big pink bow this week.”

“Not quite, Captain. If this guy was the shooter, someone put him up to it. That’s who we want.”

The woman behind the counter called out Bosch’s number. His takeout dinner was ready.

“Do we know who that is?” Crowder asked.

“We’re working on it,” Bosch said. “I’ll know more tomorrow.”

Bosch had the sense that Crowder wanted additional information but Harry knew he was a direct conduit to the tenth floor of the PAB. Bosch couldn’t afford to let Broussard’s name start circulating on the floor that was more about politics than police. Crowder relented.

“Okay, Harry,” he said. “Tomorrow. I want to know what you know.”

“You got it, Captain,” Bosch said.

He hung up and grabbed the bag of food off the counter.