The Last Coyote

both still on the payroll. The clerk checked the roll and told him no such officers were currently on the force.
    He decided he would have to put on his Harvey Pounds pose after that. He dialed the DMV in Sacramento, gave the lieutenant’s name and asked for Ms. Sharp again. By the tone she inflected in the single word “Hello” after picking up the phone, Bosch had no doubt that she remembered him.
    “Is this Ms. Sharp?”
    “That’s who you asked for, isn’t it?”
    “I did, indeed.”
    “Then it’s Ms. Sharp. What can I do for you?”
    “Well, I wanted to mend our fences, so to speak. I have a few more names I need driver’s license addresses for and I thought that directly working with you would expedite the matter and perhaps repair our working relationship.”
    “Honey, we don’t have a working relationship. Hold the line, please.”
    She punched the button before he could say anything. The line was dead for so long that he began to believe his scam to burn Pounds wasn’t worth it. Finally, a different clerk picked up and said Ms. Sharp had instructed her to help. Bosch gave her Pounds’s serial number and then the names Gordon Mittel, Arno Conklin, Claude Eno and Jake McKittrick. He said he needed the home addresses on their licenses.
    He was put on hold again. During the time he waited he held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and fried an egg over easy in a pan on the stove. He made a sandwich out of it with two slices of white toast and cold salsa from a jar he kept in the refrigerator. He ate the dripping sandwich while leaning over the sink. He had just wiped his mouth and poured himself a second cup of coffee when the clerk finally picked back up.
    “Sorry it took so long.”
    “No problem.”
    He then remembered he was Pounds and wished he hadn’t said that.
    The clerk explained that she had no addresses or license information on Eno or McKittrick, then gave him addresses for Conklin and Mittel. Goff had been right. Conklin lived in Park La Brea. Mittel lived above Hollywood on Hercules Drive in a development called Mount Olympus.
    Bosch was too preoccupied at that point to continue the Pounds charade. He thanked the clerk without further confrontation and hung up. He thought about what his next move should be. Eno and McKittrick were either dead or out of state. He knew he could get their addresses through the department’s personnel office but that might take all day. He picked up the phone again and called Robbery-Homicide, asking for Detective Leroy Ruben. Ruben had put nearly forty years in on the department, half of it in RHD. He might know something about Eno and McKittrick. He might also know Bosch was on stress leave.
    “Ruben, can I help you?”
    “Leroy, it’s Harry Bosch. What do you know?”
    “Not much, Harry. Enjoying the good life?”
    Right away he was telling Bosch he knew of his situation. Bosch knew now that his only alternative was to be straight with him. To a point.
    “It ain’t bad. But I’m not sleeping late every day.”
    “No? What’re you getting up for?”
    “I’m kind’ve freelancing on an old case, Leroy. That’s why I called. I want to try to track down a couple of old dicks. Thought maybe you’d know of them. They were out of Hollywood.”
    “Who are they?”
    “Claude Eno and Jake McKittrick. Remember them?”
    “Eno and McKittrick. No…I mean, yeah, I think I remember McKittrick. He checked out…it must’ve been ten, fifteen years ago. He went back to Florida, I think. Yeah, Florida. He was here in RHD for a year or so. At the end there. The other one, Eno, I don’t remember any Eno.”
    “Well, it was worth a try. I’ll see what I can find in Florida. Thanks, Leroy.”
    “Hey, Harry, what gives anyway?”
    “It’s just an old case I had in my desk. It’s giving me something to do while I see what happens.”
    “Any word?”
    “Not yet. They got me talking to the shrink. If I can talk my way past her, I’ll get back to the table. We’ll see.”
    “Okay, well, good luck. You know, me and some of the boys here, when we heard that story we laughed our asses off. We heard about that guy Pounds. He’s an asshole. You done good, kid.”
    “Well, let’s hope I didn’t do so good that I lost my job.”
    “Ah, you’ll be all right. They send you to Chinatown a few times, brush you off and send you back into the ring. You’ll be okay.”
    “Thanks, Leroy.”
    After hanging up, Bosch got dressed for the day, putting