The Last Coyote

and drove it down to the house. Gowdy had finished with the latches and both doors now had locks on them. The inspector was out at his car using the front hood as a desk. He was writing on a clipboard and Bosch guessed he was moving slowly so as to make sure Bosch left the property. Bosch started loading his pile of belongings into the Mustang. He didn’t know where he was going to take himself.
    He put the thought of his homelessness aside and began thinking about Keisha Russell. He wondered if she would be able to stop the story so late in the game. It had probably taken on a life of its own. Like a monster in the newspaper’s computer. And she, its Dr. Frankenstein, would likely have little power over stopping it.
    When he had everything in the Mustang, he waved a salute to Gowdy, got in and drove down the hill. Down at Cahuenga he didn’t know which way to turn because he still didn’t know where he should go. To the right was Hollywood. To the left was the Valley. Then he remembered the Mark Twain. In Hollywood, only a few blocks from the station on Wilcox, the Mark Twain was an old residence hotel with efficiencies that were generally clean and neat-a lot more so than the surrounding neighborhood. Bosch knew this because he had stashed witnesses there on occasion. He also knew that there were a couple of units that were two-room efficiencies with private baths. He decided he would go for one of them and turned right. The phone rang almost as soon as he had made the decision. It was Keisha Russell.
    “You owe me big time, Bosch. I killed it.”
    He felt relief and annoyance at the same time. It was typical thinking for a reporter.
    “What are you talking about?” he countered. “You owe me big time for saving your ass.”
    “Well, we’ll see about that. I’m still going to check this out tomorrow. If it falls the way you said, I’m going to Irving to complain about Brockman. I’ll burn him.”
    “You just did.”
    Realizing she had just confirmed Brockman as the source, she laughed uneasily.
    “What did your editor say?”
    “He thinks I’m an idiot. But I told him there’s other news in the world.”
    “Good line.”
    “Yeah, I’m going to keep that one in my computer. So what’s going on? And what’s happening with those clips I got you?”
    “The clips are still percolating. I can’t really talk about anything yet.”
    “Figures. I don’t know why I keep helping you, Bosch, but here goes. Remember you asked about Monte Kim, the guy who wrote that first clip I gave you?”
    “Yeah. Monte Kim.”
    “I asked about him around here and one of the old rewrite guys told me he’s still alive. Turns out that after he left the Times he worked for the DA’s office for a while. I don’t know what he’s doing now but I got his number and his address. He’s in the Valley.”
    “Can you give it to me?”
    “I guess so, since it was in the phonebook.”
    “Damn, I never thought of that.”
    “You might be a good detective, Bosch, but you wouldn’t make much of a reporter.”
    She gave him the number and address, said she’d be in touch and hung up. Bosch put the phone down on the seat and thought about this latest piece of information as he drove into Hollywood. Monte Kim had worked for the district attorney. Bosch had a pretty good idea which one that would be.

Chapter Thirty-seven
    THE MAN BEHIND the front desk at the Mark Twain didn’t seem to recognize Bosch, though Harry was reasonably sure he was the same man he had dealt with before while renting rooms for witnesses. The counterman was tall and thin and had the hunched-over shoulders of someone carrying a heavy burden. He looked like he’d been behind the desk since Eisenhower.
    “You remember me? From down the street?”
    “Yeah, I remember. I didn’t say anything ’cause I didn’t know if this was an undercover job or not.”
    “No. No undercover. I wanted to know if you have one of the big rooms in the back open. One with a phone.”
    “You want one?”
    “That’s why I’m asking.”
    “Who you going to put in there this time? I don’t want no gangbangers again. Last time, they-”
    “No, no gangbangers. Only me. I want the room.”
    “You want the room?”
    “That’s right. And I won’t paint on the walls. How much?”
    The desk man seemed nonplussed by the fact that Bosch wanted to stay there himself. He finally recovered and told Bosch he had his choice: thirty dollars a day, two hundred a week or five