Echo Park

shooting, only this time it was the feds doing the questioning and his part was peripheral because he had not fired a weapon. When he was finished he walked over to a
mariscos
truck that was parked at the curb and open for business to the crowd of onlookers outside the yellow tape. He ordered a shrimp taco and a Dr Pepper and took them over to one of the nearby federal cruisers. He was leaning on the front fender eating his lunch when Rachel Walling approached.
    “Turns out Anthony Garland had a concealed-weapon permit,” she said. “His security job required it.”
    She leaned casually on the fender next to him. Bosch nodded.
    “I guess we should’ve checked,” he said.
    He took his last bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin and then balled it up in the aluminum foil the taco came in.
    “I remembered your story,” she said.
    “What story?” he asked.
    “The one you told me about Garland rousting those kids in the oil field.”
    “What about it?”
    “You said he drew down on them.”
    “That’s right.”
    She didn’t say anything. She looked out at the lake. Bosch shook his head like he wasn’t sure what was going on. She finally spoke.
    “You knew about the permit and you knew Anthony would be carrying, didn’t you?”
    It was a question but she meant it as a statement.
    “Rachel, what are you saying?”
    “I’m saying you knew. You knew from way back that Anthony carried a gun. You knew what could happen today.”
    Bosch spread his hands wide.
    “Look, that thing with the kids was twelve years ago. How would I know that he would have a gun today?”
    She got off the fender and turned to face him.
    “How many times did you talk to Anthony over the years? How many times did you shake him down?”
    Bosch squeezed the ball of aluminum foil tighter in his fist.
    “Look, I never—”
    “Are you telling me that in all those times you never once came up with a gun? That you didn’t check permits? That you didn’t know that there was a very high probability that he would bring a gun—and his uncontrolled rage—to a meeting like this? If we had known this guy carried a gun, we would never have set this thing up in the first place.”
    Bosch smiled unpleasantly and shook his head in a disbelieving sort of way.
    “What was it you said about mumbo-jumbo conspiracies the other day? Marilyn didn’t overdose; the Kennedys had her killed. Bosch knew Anthony would bring a gun to the meeting and would start shooting? Rachel, it all sounds like—”
    “And what about what
you
said about being a true detective?”
    She stared pointedly at him.
    “Rachel, listen to me. There was no way anybody could have predicted this. There was no—”
    “Predicted, hoped, accidentaly set in motion—what’s the difference? You remember what you said to Pratt the other night by the pool?”
    “I said a lot of things to him.”
    Her voice took on a tone of sadness.
    “You told him about the choices we all make.”
    She pointed across the grass at the boathouse.
    “And, well, Harry, I guess this is the dog you chose to feed. I hope you’re happy with it. And I hope it fits in perfectly well with the way of the true detective.”
    She turned and walked back toward the boathouse and the knot of investigators crowding the crime scene.
    Bosch let her go. For a long time he didn’t move. Her words had gone through him like the sounds of a roller coaster. Low rumbling and high shrieks. He squeezed the ball of aluminum foil in his hand and shot it toward a trash can sitting next to the
mariscos
truck.
    He missed by a mile.

39

    KIZ RIDER CAME THROUGH the double doors in a wheelchair. She found it embarrassing but that was the hospital rule. Bosch was waiting for her with a smile and a bouquet of flowers he had bought from a vendor at the freeway exit near the hospital. As soon as she was allowed by the nurse, she got up and out of the chair. She tentatively hugged Bosch as though she felt fragile, and thanked him for coming to take her home.
    “I’m right out front,” he said.
    With his arm across her back he walked her out to the waiting Mustang. He helped her get in, then put a bag of cards and gifts she had received into the trunk and came around to the driver’s side.
    “You want to go anywhere first?” he asked once he was in the car.
    “No, just home. I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed.”
    “I hear you.”
    He started the car and pulled out, heading back to the freeway. They drove silently. When he