The Last Coyote

talking about.”
    Bosch sat up. Now he was angry. Immediately, he was hit with vertigo. He closed his eyes until it passed.
    “Well, then why don’t you tell me what I don’t know? Okay, Chief? You’re the one who doesn’t know what you’re talking about. I heard what you people put out. That there may be no connection between Conklin and Mittel. What kind of-you think I’m going to sit here for that? And Vaughn. Not even a mention of him. A fucking mechanic in a splatter suit, he throws Conklin out the window and is ready to put me in the dirt. He’s the one who did Pounds and he doesn’t even rate a mention by you people. So, Chief, why don’t you tell me what the fuck I don’t know, okay?”
    “Bosch, listen to me. Listen to me. Who did Mittel work for?”
    “I don’t know and I don’t care.”
    “He was employed by very powerful people. Some of the most powerful in this state, some of the most powerful in the country. And-”
    “I don’t give a shit!”
    “-a majority of the city council.”
    “So? What are you telling me? The council and the governor and the senators and all of those people, what, are they all involved now, too? You covering their asses, too?”
    “Bosch, would you calm down and make sense? Listen to yourself. Of course, I’m not saying that. What I am trying to explain to you is that if you taint Mittel with this, then you taint many very powerful people who associated with him or who used his services. That could come back to haunt this department as well as you and me in immeasurable ways.”
    That was it, Bosch saw. Irving the pragmatist had made a choice, probably along with the police chief, to put the department and themselves ahead of the truth. The whole deal stunk like rotting garbage. Bosch felt exhaustion roll over him like a wave. He was drowning in it. He’d had enough of this.
    “And by covering it up, you are helping them in immeasurable ways, right? And I’m sure you and the chief have been on the phone all morning letting each of those powerful people know just that. They’ll all owe you, they’ll all owe the department a big one. That’s great, Chief. That’s a great deal. I guess it doesn’t matter that the truth is nowhere to be found in it.”
    “Bosch, I want you to call her back. Call that reporter and tell her that you took this knock on the head and you-”
    “No! I’m not calling anybody back. It’s too late. I told the story.”
    “But not the whole story. The whole story is just as damaging to you, isn’t it?”
    There it was. Irving knew. He either outright knew or had made a pretty good guess that Bosch had used Pounds’s name and was ultimately responsible for his death. That knowledge was now his weapon against Bosch.
    “If I can’t contain this,” Irving added, “I may have to take action against you.”
    “I don’t care,” Bosch said quietly. “You can do whatever you want to me, but the story is coming out, Chief. The truth.”
    “But is it the truth? The whole truth? I doubt it and deep in inside I know you doubt it, too. We’ll never know the whole truth.”
    A silence followed. Bosch waited for him to say more and when there was only more silence, he hung up. He then disconnected the phone and finally went to sleep.

Chapter Forty-five
    BOSCH AWOKE AT six the next morning with dim memories of his sleep having been interrupted by a horrible dinner and the visits of nurses through the night. His head felt thick. He gently touched the wound and found it not as tender as the day before. He got up and walked around the room a bit. His balance seemed back to normal. In the bathroom mirror his eyes were still a colorful mess but the dilation of the pupils had evened out. It was time to go, he knew. He got dressed and left the room, briefcase in hand and carrying his ruined jacket over his arm.
    At the nurses’ station he pushed the elevator button and waited. He noticed one of the nurses behind the counter eyeing him. She apparently didn’t readily recognize him, especially with his street clothes on.
    “Excuse me, can I help you?”
    “No, I’m fine.”
    “Are you a patient?”
    “I was. I’m leaving. Room four-nineteen. Bosch.”
    “Wait a moment, sir. What are you doing?”
    “I’m leaving. Going home.”
    “What?”
    “Just send me the bill.”
    The elevator doors opened and he stepped in.
    “You can’t do that,” the nurse called. “Let me get the doctor.”
    Bosch raised his hand and waved