The Last Coyote

have been recognizable. Conklin was smoking and had his hand up to his face. His arm blocked off half of Bosch’s mother’s face. It almost looked as if she was peeking around a corner at the camera.
    Bosch turned the photo over and there was a stamp on the back that said TIMES PHOTO BY BORIS LUGAVERE. It was dated March 17, 1961, seven months before his mother’s death.
    “Did you ever show this to Conklin or Mittel?” Bosch finally asked.
    “Yeah. When I made my case for head spokesman. I gave Gordon a copy. He saw that it was proof the candidate knew Fox.”
    Mittel must also have seen that it was proof that the candidate knew a murder victim, Bosch realized. Kim didn’t know what he had. But no wonder he got the head spokesman’s job. You’re lucky you’re alive, he thought but didn’t say.
    “Did Mittel know it was only a copy?”
    “Oh yeah, I made that clear. I wasn’t stupid.”
    “Did Conklin ever mention it to you?”
    “Not to me. But I assume Mittel told him about it. Remember, I said he had to get back to me about the job I wanted. Who would he have to clear it with, he was campaign manager? So he must’ve talked to Conklin.”
    “I’m going to keep this.”
    Bosch held up the photo.
    “I’ve got the other.”
    “Have you stayed in touch with Arno Conklin over the years?”
    “No. I haven’t spoken to him in, I don’t know, twenty years.”
    “I want you to call him now and I-”
    “I don’t even know where he is.”
    “I do. I want you to call him and tell him you want to see him tonight. Tell him it has to be tonight. Tell him it’s about Johnny Fox and Marjorie Lowe. Tell him not to tell anyone you are coming.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    “Sure you can. Where’s your phone? I’ll help you.”
    “No, I mean, I can’t go see him tonight. You can’t make-”
    “You’re not going to see him tonight, Monte. I’m going to be you. Now where’s your phone?”

Chapter Thirty-nine
    AT PARK LA BREA LIFECARE, Bosch parked in a visitor’s space in the front lot and got out of the Mustang. The place looked dark; few windows in the upper stories had lights on behind them. He checked his watch-it was only nine-fifty-and moved toward the glass doors of the lobby.
    He felt a slight pull in his throat as he made the walk. Deep down he had known as soon as he finished reading the murder book that his sights were set on Conklin and that it would come to this. He was about to confront the man he believed had killed his mother and then used his position and the people he surrounded himself with to walk away from it. To Bosch, Conklin was the symbol of all that he never had in his life. Power, home, contentment. It didn’t matter how many people had told him on the trail that Conklin was a good man. Bosch knew the secret behind the good man. His rage grew with each step he took.
    Inside the door a uniformed guard sat behind a desk working on a crossword puzzle torn from the Times Sunday Magazine. Maybe he had been working on it since then. He looked up at Bosch as if he was expecting him.
    “Monte Kim,” Bosch said. “One of the residents is expecting me. Arno Conklin.”
    “Yeah, he called down.” The guard consulted a clipboard, then turned it around and handed the pen to Bosch. “Been a long time since he’s had any visitors. Sign here, please. He’s up in nine-oh-seven.”
    Bosch signed and dropped the pen on the clipboard.
    “It’s kind of late,” the guard said. “Visitation is usually over by nine.”
    “What’s that mean? You want me to leave? Fine.” He held his briefcase up. “Mr. Conklin can just roll his wheelchair down to my office tomorrow to pick this stuff up. I’m the one making a special trip here, buddy. For him. Let me up or not, I don’t care. He cares.”
    “Whoah, whoah, whoah, hold on there, partner. I was just saying it was late and you didn’t let me finish. I’m going to let you go up. No problem. Mr. Conklin specifically requested it and this ain’t no prison. I’m just saying all the visitors are gone, okay? People are sleeping. Just keep it down, is all. No reason to blow a gasket.”
    “Nine-oh-seven, you said?”
    “That’s right. I’ll call him and tell him you’re on your way up.”
    “Thanks.”
    Bosch moved past the guard toward the elevators without apology. He was forgotten as soon as he was out of Bosch’s sight. Only one thing, one person, occupied his mind now.
    The elevator moved about as quickly as the