The Last Coyote

have work to do, Detective. If you want me to send the letter, give me the names. If not, that’s your decision.”
    He nodded that he understood and brought his briefcase up from the floor to his lap. He saw her jump when he angrily unsnapped the locks. He opened it and took out his phone. He flipped it open and dialed his home number, then waited for the machine to pick up.
    Mona looked annoyed.
    “What are you doing?”
    He held his hand up for silence.
    “Yes, can you transfer me to Whitey Springer?” he said to his tape.
    He watched her reaction while acting like he wasn’t. He could tell, she knew the name. Springer was the City Hall columnist for the Times. His specialty was writing about the small bureaucratic nightmares, the little guy against the system. Bureaucrats could largely create these nightmares with impunity, thanks to civil service protections, but politicians read Springer’s column and they wielded tremendous power when it came to patronage jobs, transfers and demotions at City Hall. A bureaucrat vilified in print by Springer might be safe in his or her job but there likely would never be advancement, and there was nothing stopping a city council member from calling for an audit on an office or a council observer to sit in the corner. The word to the wise was to stay out of Springer’s column. Everybody knew that, including Mona.
    “Yeah, I can hold,” Bosch said into the phone. Then to Mona, he said, “He’s gonna love this one. He’s got a guy trying to solve a murder, the victim’s family waiting for thirty-three years to know who killed her, and some bureaucrat sitting in her office sucking on a quart of fruit punch isn’t giving him the addresses he needs just to talk to the other cops who worked the case. I’m not a newspaper man but I think that’s a column. He’ll love it. What do you think?”
    He smiled and watched her face flush almost as red as her fruit punch. He knew it was going to work.
    “Okay, hang up the phone,” she said.
    “What? Why?”
    “HANG UP! Hang up and I’ll get the information.”
    Bosch flipped the phone closed.
    “Give me the names.”
    He gave her the names and she got up angrily and silently to leave the room. She could barely fit around the desk but made the maneuver like a ballerina, the pattern instilled in her body’s memory by repeated practice.
    “How long will this take?” he asked.
    “As long as it takes,” she answered, regaining some of her bureaucratic bluster at the door.
    “No, Mona, you got ten minutes. That’s all. After that, you better not come back ’cause Whitey’s gonna be sitting here waiting for you.”
    She stopped and looked at him. He winked.
    After she left he got up and went around the side of the desk. He pushed it about two inches closer to the opposite wall, narrowing her path back to her chair.
    She was back in seven minutes, carrying a piece of paper. But Bosch could see it was trouble. She had a triumphant look on her face. He thought of that woman who had been tried a while back for cutting off her husband’s penis. Maybe it was the same face she had when she ran out the door with it.
    “Well, Detective Borsch, you’ve got a little problem.”
    “What is it?”
    She started around the desk and immediately rammed her thick thigh into its Formica-topped corner. It looked more embarrassing than painful. She had to flail her arms for balance and the impact of the collision shook the desk and knocked her container over. The red liquid began leaking out of the straw onto the blotter.
    “Shit!”
    She quickly moved the rest of the way around the desk and righted the container. Before sitting down she looked at the desk, suspicious that it had been moved.
    “Are you all right?” Bosch asked. “What is the problem with the addresses?”
    She ignored his first question, forgot her embarrassment and looked at Bosch and smiled. She sat down. She spoke as she opened a desk drawer and took out a wad of napkins stolen from the cafeteria.
    “Well, the problem is you won’t be talking to former detective Claude Eno anytime soon. At least, I don’t think you will.”
    “He’s dead.”
    She started wiping up the spill.
    “Yes. The checks go to his widow.”
    “What about McKittrick?”
    “Now McKittrick is a possibility. I have his address here. He’s over in Venice.”
    “ Venice? So what’s the problem with that?”
    “That’s Venice, Florida.”
    She smiled, delighted with herself.
    “