The Drop

I told her if she ran the story, I would go to her boss and say that she was trading sex for information. I figure even over there that’s gotta be an ethical violation. She might not lose her job but she’d be tainted. She knows they’d start looking at her differently.”
    “You handled it like a real gentleman, Chu. Where are the credit-card records?”
    “Here. What’s going on?”
    Chu handed over the file containing the purchase records he had received from the credit-card companies.
    “I’m taking all of this home.”
    “What about McQuillen? Are we booking him?”
    “No. He’s gone.”
    “You kicked him?”
    “That’s right.”
    “What about the warrant on the watch? I’m about to print it out.”
    “We won’t need it. He admitted he choked Irving out.”
    “He admitted it and you cut him loose? Are you—”
    “Listen, Chu, I don’t have time to walk you through it. Go watch the tape if you have an issue with what I’m doing. No, better yet, I want you to go out to the Standard on the Sunset Strip. You know where that is?”
    “Yeah, but why am I going there?”
    “Go to their twenty-four-hour restaurant and get their disc from the camera over the counter for Sunday night into Monday morning.”
    “Okay, what’s on it?”
    “Should be McQuillen’s alibi. Call me when you confirm it.”
    Bosch put all the loose reports in his briefcase and then carried the murder book separately because the binder was too thick for the case. He started to walk out of the cubicle.
    “What are you going to do?” Chu called after him.
    Bosch turned and looked back at him.
    “Start over.”
    He resumed his movement toward the squad room exit. He stopped at the lieutenant’s status board and put his magnet in the out slot. When he turned to the door, Chu was standing there.
    “You’re not going to do this to me,” he said.
    “You did it to yourself. You made a choice. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
    “I made a mistake. And I told you—no, I promised you—that I would make up for it.”
    Bosch reached out and gently moved him by the arm to the side so he could open the door. He went out into the hallway without another word to Chu.
    On his way home Bosch drove into East Hollywood and stopped behind the El Matador truck on Western. He remembered Chu’s comment about the incongruity of Western Avenue being in East Hollywood. Only in L.A., he thought as he got out.
    There was no one in line at the truck because it was still early. The taquero was just setting up for the night. Bosch had him put enough carne asada for four tacos into a to-go cup and asked him to roll the flour tortillas up in foil. He added sides of guacamole, rice and salsa and the man put it all in a bag for transport. While Bosch was waiting he sent a text to his daughter telling her he was coming home with dinner because he would be too busy working to cook something. She answered that that was okay because she was starved.
    Twenty minutes later he walked through the front door of his home to find his daughter reading a book and playing music in the living room. He stood there frozen in the entranceway, taco bag in one hand, briefcase in the other, murder book under his arm.
    “What?” she said.
    “You’re listening to Art Pepper?”
    “Yeah. I think it’s good music to read by.”
    He smiled and went into the kitchen.
    “What do you want to drink?”
    “I have water already.”
    Bosch made a plate of tacos for her with all the sides and took it out to her. He came back into the kitchen and ate his tacos, fully loaded, while leaning over the sink. When he was finished, he bent down to the faucet and chased it with water right out of the pipe. Wiping his face with a paper towel, he went out to work at the dining room table.
    “How was school?” he asked while opening his briefcase. “Did you skip lunch again?”
    “School was a drag like always. I skipped lunch to study for the algebra quiz.”
    “How’d you do?”
    “I probably flunked.”
    He knew she was exaggerating. She was a good student. She hated algebra because she could not perceive a life where it would become useful. Especially when at the moment she wanted to be a cop—or so she said.
    “I’m sure you did fine. Are you reading that for IR? What is it?”
    She held the book up so he could see it. It was The Stand by Stephen King.
    “It’s my optional choice.”
    “Pretty thick for a school read.”
    “It’s really good. Are you