The Drop

truth, I’m not going to be too worried about the small stuff. That’s the best I can do right now.”
    “I guess I’ll just have to take you at your word on that, Bosch.”
    “You have my word. Can we start?”
    “We already did. And my answer is, I didn’t throw George Irving from the balcony at the Chateau Marmont. George Irving threw himself off the balcony.”
    Bosch leaned back and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
    “Come on, McQuillen, how do you expect me to believe that? How do you expect anybody to believe that?”
    “I don’t expect anything from you. I’m just telling you, I didn’t do it. You have the whole story wrong. You have a set of preconceived ideas, probably mixed around with a little bit of circumstantial evidence and you put it all together and come up with I killed the guy. But I didn’t and you can’t prove I did.”
    “You hope I can’t prove it.”
    “No, hope’s got nothing to do with it. I know you can’t prove it because I didn’t do it.”
    “Let’s start at the beginning. You hate Irvin Irving for what he did to you twenty-five years ago. He hung you out to dry, destroyed your career, if not your life.”
    “‘Hate’ is a difficult word. Sure, I’ve hated him in the past but it’s been a long time.”
    “What about Sunday night? Did you hate him then?”
    “I wasn’t thinking about him then.”
    “That’s right. You were thinking about his son, George. The guy trying to take away your job this time. Did you hate George on Sunday night?”
    McQuillen shook his head.
    “I’m not going to answer that. I don’t have to. But no matter what I thought about him, I didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”
    “What makes you so sure of that?”
    “Because he told me he was going to.”
    Bosch was ready for just about anything he thought McQuillen could parry with. But he wasn’t ready for that.
    “He told you that.”
    “That’s right.”
    “When did he tell you that?”
    “Sunday night. In his room. That’s what he was there for. He said he was going to jump. I got out of there before he did.”
    Bosch paused again, mindful that McQuillen had had several days to prepare for this moment. He could have concocted an elaborate story that would cover all the facts. But in the file in front of him Bosch still had the photograph of the wound on George Irving’s shoulder blade. It was a game changer. McQuillen wouldn’t be able to explain it away.
    “Why don’t you tell me your story and how you came to have this conversation with George Irving. And don’t leave anything out. I want the details.”
    McQuillen took in a big breath and then slowly exhaled.
    “You realize the risk I’m taking here? Talking to you? I don’t know what you have or think you have. I could tell you the God’s honest truth and you could twist it and use it to fuck me over. And I don’t even have a lawyer in the room.”
    “It’s your call, Mark. You want to talk, then talk. You want a lawyer, we get you a lawyer and all talk ends. Everything ends and we play it that way. You were a cop and you’re smart enough to know how this really works. You know there’s only one way for you to get out of here and get home tonight. You gotta talk your way out.”
    Bosch made a gesture with his hand, as though he was passing the choice to him. McQuillen nodded. He knew it was now or never. A lawyer would tell him to sit tight and keep quiet, let the police put up or shut up in the courtroom. Never give them something they don’t already have. And it was good advice but not always. Some things have to be said.
    “I was in that room with him,” he said. “Sunday night. Actually, Monday morning. I went up there to see him. I was angry. I wanted . . . I’m not sure what I wanted. I didn’t want to lose my life again and I wanted to . . . scare him, I guess. Confront him. But—”
    He pointed emphatically at Bosch.
    “—he was alive when I left that room.”
    Bosch realized that he now had enough on tape to arrest McQuillen and hold him on a murder charge. He had just admitted to being with the victim in the place from which Irving had been dropped. But Bosch showed no excitement. There was more to get here.
    “Let’s go back,” he said. “Tell me how you knew George Irving was even in the hotel and where.”
    McQuillen shrugged like the question was for a dummy.
    “You know that,” he said. “Hooch Rollins told me. He dropped a fare there Sunday night and happened to