The Black Echo

had just successfully circumvented the elaborate security obstacles by playing on Grant’s greed and pitching a story with a Bel Air address.
    “And now into the vault,” Grant said, holding his hand out like a congenial host.
    The vault was larger than Bosch had envisioned. It was not wide but it extended far back into the J. C. Stock Building. There were safe-deposit boxes along both side walls and in a steel structure running down the center of the vault. The two began walking down the aisle to the left as Grant explained that the center boxes were for larger storage needs. Bosch could see that the doors were much larger than those on the side walls. Some were big enough to walk through. Grant saw Bosch staring at these and smiled.
    “Furs,” he said. “Minks. We do very good business storing expensive furs, gowns, what have you. The ladies of Beverly Hills keep them here in the off season. Tremendous insurance savings, not to mention the peace of mind.”
    Bosch tuned out the sales pitch and watched as Tran walked into the vault, trailed by Avery. Tran still had the briefcase, and Bosch noticed a thin band of polished steel on his wrist. He was handcuffed to the briefcase. Bosch’s adrenaline kicked in at a higher notch. Avery stepped up to an open box door marked 237 and slid the deposit box in. He closed the door and used a key in one of the two locks on the door. Tran stepped up and put his own key in the other lock and turned it. He then nodded to Avery and both men walked out, Tran never having looked at Bosch.
    Once Tran was gone, Bosch announced that he had seen enough of the vault and headed out also. He walked to the double-plated glass and looked out on Wilshire Boulevard and watched Tran, flanked by the two massive guards, making his way to the parking garage where the Mercedes was parked. No one followed them. Bosch looked around but didn’t see Eleanor.
    “Is something wrong, Mr. Pounds?” Grant said from behind him.
    “Yes,” Bosch said. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out his badge wallet. He held it up over his shoulder so Grant could see it from behind. “You better get me the manager of this place. And don’t call me Mr. Pounds anymore.”

    ***

    Lewis stood at a pay phone in front of a twenty-four-hour diner called Darling’s. He was around the corner and about a block from Beverly Hills Safe & Lock. It had been more than a minute since Officer Mary Grosso had answered the call and said she would get Deputy Chief Irving on the line. Lewis was thinking that if the man wanted hourly updates-by landline, no less-then the least he could do was take the damn call promptly. He switched the phone to his other ear and dug in his coat pocket for something to pick his teeth with. His wrist was sore where it chafed against the pocket. But thinking about being handcuffed by Bosch only made him angry, so he tried to concentrate on the investigation. He had no idea what was going on, what Bosch and the FBI woman were up to. But Irving was convinced there was a caper on, and so was Clarke. If so, Lewis promised himself at the pay phone, he would be the one who would squeeze the cuffs on Bosch’s wrists.
    An old tramp with scary eyes and white hair shuffled up to the pay phone next to the one Lewis was at and checked the change slot. It was empty. He reached a finger toward the slot of the phone Lewis was using, but the IAD detective batted it away.
    “Anything there, it’s mine, pop,” Lewis said.
    Undeterred, the tramp said, “You got a quarter so I can get something to eat?”
    “Fuck off,” Lewis said.
    “What?” a voice said.
    “What?” Lewis said, and then realized the voice had come from the phone. It was Irving. “Oh, not you, sir. I didn’t realize you were-uh, I was talking, uh, I’m having a problem here with someone. I-”
    “You speak like that with a citizen?”
    Lewis reached a hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. He handed it to the white-haired man and shooed him away.
    “Detective Lewis, are you there?”
    “Yes, Chief. Sorry. I’ve taken care of the situation now. I wanted to report. There has been an important development.”
    He hoped this last would draw Irving’s attention away from the earlier indiscretion.
    Irving said, “Tell me what you have. Do you still have Bosch in sight?”
    Lewis exhaled sharply, relieved.
    “Yes,” he said, “Detective Clarke is continuing surveillance while I make this report.”
    “All