The Black Echo

got it. I’m writing it down. See? What’s the big deal? Bosch is probly in there knocking off a piece. A nice federal piece. Maybe when we call we find out they rented a room.”
    Lewis watched to make sure Clarke wrote down the number on the surveillance log.
    “And maybe we don’t,” Lewis said. “They just met and, anyway, I doubt he’d be so stupid. They’ve got to be in there looking for somebody. A wit maybe.”
    “But there was nothing about any witness in the murder book.”
    “He held it back. That’s Bosch. That’s how he works.”
    Clarke didn’t say anything. Lewis looked back down the street to the Chateau. He then noticed that the kid was gone. There was no sign of the motorbike.

    ***

    Bosch waited a minute to give Eleanor Wish time to get behind the Chateau to watch the sliding door on the back of room 7. He bent and held his ear to the door and thought he heard a rustling sound and an occasional word mumbled. There was someone in the room. When it was time, he knocked heavily on the door. He heard the sound of movement-fast steps on carpet-from the other side of the door, but no one answered. He knocked again and waited, then heard a girl’s voice.
    “Who is it?”
    “Police,” Bosch said. “We want to talk to Sharkey.”
    “He’s not here.”
    “Then I guess we want to talk to you.”
    “I don’t know where he is.”
    “Open the door, please.”
    He heard more noise, like someone banging into furniture. But nobody opened the door. Then he heard a rolling sound, a glass door sliding open. He put the key in the doorknob and opened the door in time to catch a glimpse of a man going through the back doorway and jumping off the porch to the ground. It wasn’t Sharkey. He heard Wish’s voice outside, ordering the man to stop.
    Bosch took a quick inventory of the room. An entrance hall with closet to the left, bathroom to the right, both empty except for some clothes on the closet floor. Two large double beds pushed up against opposite walls, a dresser with a mirror on the wall above it, a yellow-brown carpet worn flat on the pathways around the beds and to the bathroom. The girl, blond-haired, small, maybe seventeen years old, sat on the front edge of one of the beds with a sheet around her. Bosch could see the outline of a nipple pressing out against the dingy, once-white cloth. The room smelled like cheap perfume and sweat.
    “Bosch, you all right in there?” Wish called from outside. He could not see her because of a sheet hung like a curtain over the sliding door.
    “Okay. You?”
    “Okay. What have we got?”
    Bosch walked to the sliding door and looked out. Wish stood behind a man who had his arms extended and his hands on the motel’s back wall. He was about thirty, with the sallow skin of a man who just did a month in county lockup. His pants were open in the front. His plaid shirt was buttoned incorrectly. And he stared straight down to the ground with the bugeyed look of a man who had no explanation but needed one badly. Bosch was momentarily struck by the man’s apparent decision to button his shirt before his pants.
    “He’s clean,” she said. “Looks a little winded, though.”
    “Looks like soliciting sex with a minor if you want to spend the time with it. Otherwise kick him loose.”
    He turned to the girl on the bed.
    “No bullshit, how old are you and what did he pay? I’m not here to bust you.”
    She thought it over a moment. Bosch never took his eyes off hers.
    “Almost seventeen,” she said in a bored monotone. “He didn’t pay me anything. He said he would, but he didn’t get to that yet.”
    “Who’s in charge of your crew, Sharkey? Didn’t he ever tell you to get the money first?”
    “Sharkey ain’t always around. And how’d you get his name?”
    “Heard it around. Where is he today?”
    “I tol’ you, I don’t know.”
    The plaid-shirted man came into the room through the front door followed by Wish. His hands were cuffed behind him.
    “I am going to book him. I want to. This is sick. She looks-”
    “She told me she was eighteen,” Plaid Shirt said.
    Bosch walked up to him and pulled open his shirt with a finger. There was a blue eagle with its wings spreading across his chest. In its talons it carried a dagger and a Nazi swastika. Beneath that it said One Nation. Bosch knew that meant the Aryan Nation, the white supremacist prison gang. He let the shirt fall back into place.
    “Hey, how long you been out?” he