The Last Coyote

well.
    Bosch looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen. It was forty-five minutes until the daily command meeting at Hollywood Station. He had plenty of time.

Chapter Twenty
    BOSCH PULLED INTO the rear parking lot of the station at five minutes after ten. He was sure that Pounds, who was punctual about everything he did, would already have gone down the front hall to the captain’s office with the overnight logs. The meeting was held every morning and included the station’s CO, patrol captain, watch lieutenant and detective commander, who was Pounds. They were routine affairs and never lasted longer than twenty minutes. The members of the station’s command staff simply drank coffee and went through the overnight reports and ongoing problems, complaints or investigations of particular note.
    Bosch went in the back door by the drunk tank and then up the hallway to the detective bureau. It had been a busy morning. There were already four men handcuffed to benches in the hallway. One of them, a drug hype Bosch had seen in the station before and used as an unreliable informant on occasion, asked Bosch for a smoke. It was illegal to smoke in any city-owned building. Bosch lit a cigarette anyway and put it in the man’s mouth because both his needle-scarred arms were cuffed behind his back.
    “What is it this time, Harley?” Bosch asked.
    “Shit, a guy leaves his g’rage open, he’s asking me to come in. Isn’t that right?”
    “Tell that one to the judge.”
    As Bosch walked away one of the other lockdowns yelled at him from down the hallway.
    “What about me, man? I need a smoke.”
    “I’m out,” Bosch said.
    “Fuck you, man.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
    He came into the detective bureau through the rear door. The first thing he did was confirm that Pounds’s glass office was empty. He was at the command meeting. Then he checked the coatrack up at the front and saw he was in business. As he walked down the aisle formed by the separation of the investigation tables, he exchanged nods with a few of the other detectives.
    Edgar was at the homicide table sitting across from his new partner, who was in Bosch’s old chair. Edgar heard one of the “Hi, Harry” greetings and turned around.
    “Harry, wassup?”
    “Hey, man, just came in to get a couple things. Hang on a sec, it’s hot outside.”
    Bosch walked to the front of the bureau, where old Henry of the Nod Squad sat at the desk behind the counter. He was working on a crossword puzzle and Bosch could see several erasure marks had turned the grid gray.
    “Henry, howzit hanging? You getting anywhere with that?”
    “Detective Bosch.”
    Bosch slipped his sport coat off and hung it on a hook on the rack next to a jacket with a gray cross-hatch pattern. It was on a hanger and Bosch knew it belonged to Pounds. As he put his coat on the hook with his back to Henry and the rest of the bureau, he snaked his left hand inside the other coat, felt for the interior pocket and then pulled out Pounds’s badge wallet. He knew it would be there. Pounds was a creature of habit and Bosch had seen the badge wallet in the suit coat once before. He put the wallet into his pants pocket and turned around as Henry continued talking. Bosch had only a momentary tinge of hesitation at the seriousness of what he was doing. Taking another cop’s badge was a crime, but Bosch looked at Pounds as being the reason he did not have his own badge. In the inventory of his morality, what Pounds had done to him was equally wrong.
    “If you want to see the lieutenant, he’s down the hall at a meeting,” Henry said.
    “No, I don’t want to see the lieutenant, Henry. In fact, don’t even tell him I was here. I don’t want his blood pressure to go up, you know. I’m just going to get a few things and get out of here, okay?”
    “That’s a deal. I don’t want him cranky, either.”
    Bosch didn’t have to worry about anyone else in the bureau telling Pounds he had been in. He gave Henry a friendly clasp on the shoulder as he walked behind him, sealing the agreement. He went back to the homicide table and as he approached, Burns began to rise from Bosch’s old spot.
    “You need to get in here, Harry?” he asked.
    Bosch thought he could detect nervous energy in the other man’s voice. He understood his predicament and wasn’t going to make it a difficult time for him.
    “Yeah, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I figured I’d get my personal stuff out of there so