The Last Coyote

place?”
    “Yes-uh, well, did you say it was three bedrooms? That’s really too big for what I’m looking for.”
    “Yes, three. But it said that in the newspaper ad, too.”
    Luckily, Bosch knew he probably couldn’t get any redder than he already was.
    “Oh,” he said. “I must’ve missed that. Uh, thanks for the tour, though. It’s a very nice place.”
    He moved quickly through the living room toward the door. As he opened it he looked back at her. She spoke before he could say anything.
    “Something tells me it’s a good story.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Whatever it is you’re doing. If you ever feel like telling it, the number’s in the paper. But you already know that.”
    Bosch nodded. He was speechless. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

Chapter Twenty-three
    BY THE TIME he drove back to where he had seen the Town Car, his face had returned to its normal color but he still felt embarrassed about being cornered by the woman. He tried to dismiss it and concentrate on the task at hand. He parked and went to the first-floor door that was nearest the Town Car and knocked. Eventually, an old woman opened the door and stared at him with frightened eyes. One hand clasped the handle of a small two-wheeled cart that carried an oxygen bottle. Two clear plastic tubes snaked over her ears and across both cheeks to her nose.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said quickly. “I was looking for the McKittricks.”
    She raised a frail hand, formed a fist with the thumb out and jerked it up toward the ceiling. Her eyes went up that way, too.
    “Upstairs?”
    She nodded. He thanked her and headed for the stairs.
    The woman who had picked up the red envelope answered the next door he knocked on and Bosch exhaled as if he had spent a lifetime looking for her. It almost felt that way.
    “Mrs. McKittrick?”
    “Yes?”
    Bosch pulled out his badge case and flipped it open. He held the wallet so that his first two fingers crossed most of the badge, obscuring the LIEUTENANT.
    “My name’s Harry Bosch. I’m a detective with the LAPD. I was wondering if your husband was here. I’d like to talk to him.”
    An immediate concern clouded her face.
    “LAPD? He hasn’t been out there in twenty years.”
    “It’s about an old case. I was sent out to ask him about it.”
    “Well, you could’ve called.”
    “We didn’t have a number. Is he here?”
    “No, he’s down with the boat. He’s going fishing.”
    “Where’s that? Maybe I can catch him.”
    “Well, he doesn’t like surprises.”
    “I guess it will be a surprise whether you tell him or I tell him. Doesn’t make any difference to me. I just have to talk to him, Mrs. McKittrick.”
    Maybe she was used to the no-debate tone that cops can put into their voice. She gave in.
    “You walk around the building here and go straight back past the next three buildings. Go left, you’ll see the docks after that.”
    “Where’s his boat?”
    “It’s slip six. It says Trophy in big letters on the side. You can’t miss it. He hasn’t left yet because I’m supposed to bring his lunch down.”
    “Thanks.”
    He had started away from the door to the side of the building when she called after him.
    “Detective Bosch? Are you going to be a while? Should I make you a sandwich, too?”
    “I don’t know how long I’ll be but that would be nice of you.”
    As he headed toward the docks, he realized that the woman named Jasmine had never offered him the lemonade she had promised.

Chapter Twenty-four
    IT TOOK BOSCH fifteen minutes to find the little inlet where the docks were. After that, McKittrick was easy enough to spot. There were maybe forty boats in slips but only one of them was occupied. A man with a deep tan set off by his white hair stood in the stern bending over the outboard engine. Bosch studied him as he got closer but saw nothing recognizable about the man. He did not fit with the image Bosch had in his mind’s eye of the man who had pulled him from the pool so long ago.
    The cover was off the boat engine and the man was doing something with a screwdriver. He wore khaki shorts and a white golf shirt that was too old and stained for golf but was fine for boating. The boat was about twenty feet long, Bosch guessed, and had a small cabin near the bow, where the helm was. There were fishing rods erected in holders along the sides of the boat, two rods per side.
    Bosch stopped on the dock at the bow of the boat on purpose. He