Angels Flight

forward and began opening drawers in the desk.
    “Bottom left,” Bosch said from memory of his inventory of the desk.
    She opened the drawer and removed the box of tissues. She placed it on her lap, took one tissue and dabbed at her cheeks and eyes. She began to speak.
    “It’s funny how things change so quickly…”
    A long silence went by.
    “I knew Howard superficially for a number of years. When I was practicing law. It was strictly professional, mostly ‘How are you’s in the hallways of the federal building. Then when I was appointed inspector general, I knew it was important that I knew the critics of the police department as well as I knew the department. I arranged to meet Howard. We met right here – him sitting right here… It went from there. Yes, I loved him…”
    This confession brought more tears and she pulled out several tissues to take care of them.
    “How long were you two… together?” Bosch asked.
    “About six months. But he loved his wife. He wasn’t going to leave her.”
    Her face was dry now. She returned the tissue box to its drawer and it seemed as though the clouds that had crossed her face moments before were gone. Bosch could see she had changed. She leaned forward and looked at him. She was all business.
    “I’ll make a deal with you, Detective Bosch. But only with you. Despite everything… I think if you give me your word then I can trust you.”
    “Thank you. What is your deal?”
    “I will only talk to you. In return I want you to protect me. And by that I mean keep the source of your information confidential. You don’t have to worry, nothing I tell you would be admitted in court anyway. You can keep everything I tell you in background. It may help you, it may not.”
    Bosch thought about this for a moment.
    “I should be treating you as a suspect, not a source.”
    “But you know in your gut that it wasn’t me.”
    He nodded.
    “It wasn’t a woman’s murder,” he said. “It’s got male written all over it.”
    “It’s got cop written on it, too, doesn’t it?”
    “Maybe. That’s what I’m going to find out – if I could just get to the case and not have to worry about the community and Parker Center politics and everything else.”
    “Then do we have an agreement?”
    “Before making any agreement like that I have to know something first. Elias had a source inside Parker. Somebody with high access. Somebody who could get him unsustained IAD files. I need – ”
    “It wasn’t me. Believe me, I may have crossed a line when I began a relationship with him. That was my heart, not my head. But I didn’t cross the line you are talking about. Never in a hundred years. Contrary to what most of your fellow officers think, my goal is to save and improve the department. Not destroy it.”
    Bosch looked at her blankly. She took it as disbelief.
    “How would I get him files? I am public enemy number one in that department. If I went in to get files, or even just made a request for them, the word would spread around that building and out into the ranks faster than an earthquake wave.”
    Bosch studied her defiant face. He knew she was right. She wouldn’t make much of a deep cover source. He nodded.
    “Then we have an agreement?” she asked.
    “Yes. With one asterisk.”
    “And what is that?”
    “If you lie one time to me and I find out about it, all bets are off.”
    “That is more than acceptable to me. But we can’t talk now. I want to finish the files so that you and your people can pursue all leads. Now you know why I want this case solved not only for the sake of the city but for myself. What do you say we meet later? When the files are done.”
    “Fine with me.”
    As Bosch crossed Broadway fifteen minutes later he could see the garage doors of the Grand Central Market had been rolled up. It was years since he had been in the market, maybe decades. He decided to cut through it to Hill Street and the Angels Flight terminus.
    The market was a huge conglomeration of food booths, produce stalls and butcher shops. Vendors sold cheap trinkets and candy from Mexico. And though the doors had just opened and there were more sellers readying for the day than buyers inside, the overwhelming smell of oil and fried food already hung heavy in the air. As he made his way through Bosch picked up pieces of conversations, delivered in staccato snippets of Spanish. He saw a butcher carefully placing the skinned heads of goats on ice in his refrigerated