The Black Echo

nice. I gave him one thousand dollars. He did not come back for it.”
    He held out his left hand to display the oversized gold ring, which seemed even larger on his small finger.
    “The guy who pawned the bracelet, you remember him as well?” Bosch asked.
    Obinna looked puzzled. Bosch decided that watching his eyebrows was like watching two caterpillars charging each other. He took one of the Polaroids of Meadows out of his pocket and handed it to the pawnbroker. He studied it closely.
    “The man is dead,” Obinna said after a moment. The caterpillars seemed to quiver with fear. “The man looks dead.”
    “I don’t need your help for that,” Bosch said. “I want to know if he pawned the bracelet.”
    Obinna handed the photo back. He said, “I think yes.”
    “He ever come in here and pawn anything else, before or after the bracelet?”
    “No. I think I’d remember him. I’ll say no.”
    “I need to take this,” Bosch said, holding up the Polaroid of the bracelet. “If you need it back, give me a call.”
    He put one of his business cards on the cash register. The card was one of the cheap kind, with his name and phone number handwritten on a line. As he walked to the front door, crossing under a row of banjos, Bosch looked at his watch. He turned to Obinna, who was looking through the box of Polaroids again.
    “Mr. Obinna, the watch officer, he said to tell you that if the detectives didn’t get here in a half hour, you should go home and they will be by in the morning.”
    Obinna looked at him without saying a word. The caterpillars charged and collided. Bosch looked up and saw himself in the polished brass elbow of a saxophone that hung overhead. A tenor. Then he turned and walked out the door, heading to the com center to pick up the tape.

    ***

    The watch sergeant in the com center beneath City Hall let Bosch record the 911 call off one of the big reel-to-reels that never stop rolling and recording the cries of the city. The voice of the emergency operator was female and black. The caller was male and white. The caller sounded like a boy.
    “Nine one one emergency. What are you reporting?”
    “Uh, uh-”
    “Can I help you? What are you reporting?”
    “Uh, yeah, I’m reporting you have a dead guy in a pipe.”
    “You said you are reporting a dead body?”
    “Yeah, that’s right.”
    “What do you mean a pipe, sir?”
    “He is in a pipe up by the dam.”
    “What dam is that?”
    “Uh, you know, where they got the water reservoir and everything, the Hollywood sign.”
    “Is that the Mulholland Dam, sir? Above Hollywood?”
    “Yeah, that’s it. You got it. Mulholland. I couldn’t remember the name.”
    “Where is the body?”
    “They have a big old pipe up there. You know, the one that people sleep in. The dead guy is in the pipe. He’s there.”
    “Do you know this person?”
    “No, man, no way.”
    “Is he sleeping?”
    “Shit, no.” The boy laughed nervously. “He’s dead.”
    “How are you sure?”
    “I’m sure. I’m just telling you. If you don’t want to-”
    “What is your name, sir?”
    “What is this? What do you need my name for? I just saw it. I didn’t do it.”
    “How am I to know this is a legitimate call?”
    “Check the pipe, you’ll know. I don’t know what else to tell you. What’s my name got to do with anything?”
    “For our records, sir. Can you give me your name?”
    “Uh, no.”
    “Sir, will you stay there until an officer arrives?”
    “No, I’m already gone. I’m not there, man. I’m down-”
    “I know, sir. I have a readout here that says you are at a pay phone on Gower near Hollywood Boulevard. Will you wait for the officer?”
    “How-? Never mind, I gotta go now. You check it out. The body is there. A dead guy.”
    “Sir, we would like to talk-”
    The line was disconnected. Bosch put the cassette tape in his pocket and headed out of the com center the way he had come in.

    ***

    It had been ten months since Harry Bosch had been on the third floor at Parker Center. He had worked in RHD-the Robbery-Homicide Division-for almost ten years, but never came back after his suspension and transfer from the Homicide Special squad to Hollywood detectives. On the day he got the word, his desk was cleared by two goons from Internal Affairs named Lewis and Clarke. They dumped his stuff on the homicide table at Hollywood Station, then left a message on his phone tape at home saying that’s where he could find it. Now, ten months