The Drop

booked into the nearby Metropolitan Detention Center, where he knew Hardy was being held. Anyone arrested in downtown by the LAPD would be booked into the MDC, as opposed to any of the other city and county jails that served as regional booking locations.
    Bosch disconnected the call, then went to the recent call list on his phone and picked the number of the MDC watch office. It was the number he had called earlier to check on Hardy’s schedule.
    “What is it, Harry?” Chu asked.
    “Trouble,” Bosch said.
    His call was answered.
    “Metro Detention, Sergeant Carlyle, can I put you on—”
    “No, don’t put me on hold. This is Bosch, LAPD, we spoke a little while ago.”
    “Bosch, we’re kind of busy at the moment. I need—”
    “Listen, I think there is going to be an attempt on Chilton Hardy’s life. The guy I called about.”
    “He’s already gone, Bosch.”
    “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
    “We put him on the sheriff’s bus. He’s headed to the courthouse for arraignment.”
    “Who else is on the bus? Can you check a name? Clayton Pell. That’s Paul-Edward-Lincoln-Lincoln.”
    “Hold on.”
    Bosch looked at Chu and was about to update him when the watch sergeant came back on the line, unmistakable urgency in his voice.
    “Pell is on the bus with Hardy. Who is this guy, and why weren’t we informed that these two had an issue?”
    “We can talk about all of that later. Where’s the bus?”
    “How would we know? It just left.”
    “Do you know the route? Which way does it go?”
    “Uh . . . I think it’s San Pedro to First and then up to Spring. The garage is on the south side of the courthouse.”
    “Okay, get on the phone to the sheriff’s office, tell them what they’ve got and stop the bus. Keep Pell away from Hardy.”
    “If it’s not too late.”
    Bosch disconnected without reply. He turned and started back toward the PAB.
    “Harry, what’s happening?” Chu called out as he followed.
    “Pell and Hardy are on the jail bus. We have to stop it.”
    Bosch pulled his badge off his belt and held it up as he stepped into the intersection of Spring and First. He raised his hands to stop traffic and moved diagonally across the intersection. Chu followed.
    Once they were safely across, Bosch ran to a row of three black-and-whites parked in front of the PAB plaza. A uniformed cop was leaning against the front fender of the first car and busy looking at his phone. Bosch slapped his hand on the roof as he ran up. He was still holding his badge out.
    “Hey! Need your car. We’ve got an emergency.”
    Bosch opened the front passenger door and jumped in. Chu got in the back.
    The uniform jumped off the fender but didn’t go toward the driver’s side door.
    “Can’t, man, we’re waiting on the chief. He’s got a homeowner’s mee—”
    “Fuck the chief,” Bosch said.
    He saw that the officer had left the keys in the ignition and the car running. He raised his legs out of the foot well and slid into the driver’s seat, moving around the shotgun rack and the mobile computer terminal.
    “Hey, wait a minute!” the cop yelled.
    Bosch dropped the car into drive and bolted away from the curb. He reached up to hit the siren and lights and then sped down First. He went three blocks in ten seconds and then took a wide left turn onto San Pedro, keeping as much speed as he could hold on the curve.
    “There!” Chu yelled.
    A sheriff’s bus was lumbering down the street and coming toward them. Bosch realized the driver hadn’t gotten the message relayed from Carlyle at MDC. He pinned the accelerator and moved on a direct line toward the bus.
    “Harry?” Chu called out from the back. “What are you doing? That’s a bus!”
    At the last moment, Bosch hit the brakes and yanked the wheel left, bringing the car into a sideways skid and stopping it in the direct path of the bus. The bus lurched into a skid as well and came to a stop four feet from Chu’s door.
    Bosch jumped out and moved toward the front door of the bus, holding his badge high. He hammered the heel of his palm hard on the steel door.
    “LAPD! Open up. This is an emergency.”
    The door was cranked open and Bosch was looking at the business end of a shotgun held by a uniformed sheriff’s deputy. Behind him, the driver—also a uniformed deputy—held his sidearm aimed at Bosch as well.
    “Let’s see some ID to go with that badge.”
    “Call your dispatch. MDC put through a stop order.”
    He threw his ID case