The Last Coyote

to do.
    “Where did you meet her?”
    “Oh…I met her at a dance. She was introduced and, of course, she was younger than me so I didn’t think there would be any interest from her. But I was wrong…We danced. We dated. And I fell in love.”
    “You didn’t know about her past?”
    “At the time, no. But she told me eventually. By then I didn’t care.”
    “What about Fox?”
    “Yes, he was the liaison. He introduced us. I didn’t know who he was, either. He said he was a business man. You see, for him, it was a business move. Introduce the girl to the prosecutor, sit back and see what happens. I never paid her and she never asked me for money. All the while we fell in love, Fox must have been weighing his options.”
    Bosch wondered if he should take the photo from Monte Kim out of his case and show it to Conklin, but he decided not to tempt the old man’s memory with the reality of a photo. Conklin spoke while Bosch was still thinking about it.
    “I’m very tired now and you never answered my question.”
    “What question?”
    “Did you come here to kill me?”
    Bosch looked at his face and his useless hands and realized he felt the stirring of sympathy.
    “I didn’t know what I was going to do. I just knew I was coming.”
    “You want to know about her?”
    “My mother?”
    “Yes.”
    Bosch thought about the question. His own memories of his mother were dim and fading farther all the time. And he had few recollections about her that came from others.
    “What was she like?” he said.
    Conklin thought for a moment.
    “She is hard for me to describe. I felt a great attraction to her…that crooked smile…I knew she had secrets. I suppose all people do. But hers ran deep. And despite all of that, she was full of life. And, you see, I didn’t think I was at the time we met. That’s what she gave to me.”
    He drank from the glass of water again, emptying it. Bosch offered to get more but Conklin waved off the offer.
    “I had been with other women and they wanted to show me off like a trophy,” he said. “Your mother wasn’t like that. She’d rather stay at home or take a picnic basket to Griffith Park than go to the clubs on the Sunset Strip.”
    “How did you find out about…what she did?”
    “She told me. The night she told me about you. She said she needed to tell me the truth because she needed my help. I have to admit…the shock was…I initially thought of myself. You know, protecting myself. But I admired her courage in telling me and I was in love by then. I couldn’t turn away.”
    “How did Mittel know?”
    “I told him. I regret it to this day.”
    “If she…If she was as you described her, why did she do what she did? I’ve never…understood.”
    “I haven’t, either. As I told you, she had her secrets. She didn’t tell me them all.”
    Bosch looked away from him and out the window. The view was to the north. He could see the lights of the Hollywood Hills glimmering in the mist from the canyons.
    “She used to tell me that you were a tough little egg,” Conklin said from behind him. His voice was almost hoarse now. It was probably more talking than he had done in months. “She once told me that she knew it didn’t matter what happened to her because you were tough enough to make it through.”
    Bosch said nothing. He just looked through the window.
    “Was she right?” the old man asked.
    Bosch’s eyes followed the crestline of the hills directly north. Somewhere up there the lights glowed from Mittel’s spaceship. He was up there somewhere waiting for Bosch. He looked back at Conklin, who was still waiting for an answer.
    “I think maybe the jury’s still out.”

Chapter Forty
    BOSCH LEANED AGAINST the stainless steel wall of the elevator as it descended. He realized how different his feelings were from those that he held while the elevator had been carrying him up. He had ridden up with hatred pounding in his chest like a cat in a burlap bag. He didn’t even know the man he carried it for. Now he looked upon that man as a pitiful character, a half of a man who lay with his frail hands folded on the blanket, waiting, maybe hoping, for death to come and end his private misery.
    Bosch believed Conklin. There was something about his story and his pain that seemed too genuine to be dismissed as an act. Conklin was far beyond posing. He was facing his grave. He had called himself a coward and a puppet and Bosch could think of nothing much harsher that a