Vol Ii Part 31 (1/2)
”I didn't.”
”He filed an addendum to the a.s.sault complaint of two weeks earlier.”
”I don't care what he filed. There was no threat. The guy was a coward. He probably felt threatened. But there was no threat. There is a difference.”
Bosch looked over at the other suit. Toliver. It looked as if he was going to be silent the whole time. That was his role. He just stared at Bosch as if he were a TV screen.
Bosch looked around the rest of the room and for the first time noticed the phone on the banquette to the left of the table. The green light signaled a conference call was on. The interview was being piped out of the room. Probably to a tape recorder. Probably to Irving in his office next door.
”There is a witness,” Brockman said.
”To what?”
”The threat.”
”I'll tell you what, Lieutenant, why don't you tell me exactly what the threat was so I know what we're talking about. After all, if you believe I made it, what's wrong with me knowing what it was I said?”
Brockman gave it some thought before answering.
”Very simple, as most are, you told him if he ever, quote, f.u.c.ked with you again, you'd kill him. Not too original.”
”But d.a.m.ning as h.e.l.l, right? Well, f.u.c.k you, Brockman, I never said that. I don't doubt that that a.s.shole wrote up an addendum, that was just his style, but whoever this wit is you got, they're full of s.h.i.+t.”
”You know Henry Korchmar?”
”Henry Korchmar?”
Bosch had no idea whom he was talking about. Then he realized Brockman meant old Henry of the Nod Squad. Bosch had never known his last name and so hearing it in this context had confused him.
”The old guy? He wasn't in the room. He's no witness. I told him to get out and he did. Whatever he told you, he probably backed Pounds because he was scared. But he wasn't there. You go ahead with it, Brockman. I'll be able to pull twelve people out of that squadroom who watched the whole thing through the gla.s.s. And they'll say Henry wasn't in there, they'll say Pounds was a liar and everybody knew it, and then where's your threat?”
Brockman said nothing into the silence so Bosch continued.
”See, you didn't do your work. My guess is that you know everybody who works in that squadroom thinks people like you are the bottom feeders of this department. They've got more respect for the people they put in jail. And you know that, Brickman, so you were too intimidated to go to them. Instead, you rely on some old man's word and he probably didn't even know Pounds was dead when you talked to him.”
Bosch could tell by the way Brockman's eyes darted away that he had nailed him. Empowered with the victory, he stood up and headed toward the door.
”Where are you going?”
”To get some water.”
”Jerry, go with him.”
Bosch paused at the door and looked back.
”What, do you think I'm going to run, Brockman? You think that and you don't know the first thing about me. You think that and you haven't prepared for this interview. Why don't you come over to Hollywood one day and I'll teach you how to interview murder suspects. Free of charge.”
Bosch walked out, Toliver following. At the water fountain down the hall, he took a long drink of water and then wiped his mouth with his hand. He felt nervous, frayed. He didn't know how long it would be before Brockman could see through the front he was putting up.
As he walked back to the conference room, Toliver stayed a silent three paces behind him.
”You're still young,” Bosch said over his shoulder. ”There might be a chance for you, Toliver.”
Bosch stepped back into the conference room just as Brockman stepped through a door from the other side of the room. Bosch knew it was a direct entrance to Irving's office. He had once worked an investigation of a serial killer out of this room and under Irving's thumb.
Both men sat down across from each other again.
”Now, then,” Brockman started. ”I'm going to read you your rights, Detective Bosch.”
He took a small card from his wallet and proceeded to read to Bosch the Miranda warning. Bosch knew for sure the phone line was going to a tape recorder. This was something they would want on tape.
”Now,” Brockman said when he was finished. ”Do you agree to waive those rights and talk to us about this situation?”
”It's a situation now, huh? I thought it was a murder. Yeah, I'll waive.”
”Jerry, go get a waiver, I don't have one here.”
Jerry got up and left through the hallway door. Bosch could hear his feet moving quickly on the linoleum, then a door open. He was taking the stairs down to IAD on the fifth.
”Uh, let's start by-”
”Don't you want to wait until you have your witness back? Or is this being secretly recorded without my knowledge?”
This immediately fl.u.s.tered Brockman.
”Yes, Bosch it's being sec- it's being recorded. But not secretly. We told you before we started that we'd be taping.”
”Good cover-up, Lieutenant. That last line, that was a good one. I'll have to remember that one.”
”Now, let's start with-”
The door opened and Toliver came in with a sheet of paper. He handed it to Brockman, who studied it a moment, made sure it was the correct form and slid it across the table to Bosch. Harry grabbed it and quickly scribbled a signature on the appropriate line. He was familiar with the form. He slid it back and Brockman put it off to the side of the table without looking at it. So he didn't notice the signature Bosch had written was ”f.u.c.k You.”
”All right, let's get this going. Bosch, give us your whereabouts over the last seventy-two hours.”
”You don't want to search me first, do you? How 'bout you, Jerry?”
Bosch stood up, opening his jacket so they could see he was not armed. He thought by taunting them like this they would do the exact opposite and not search him. Carrying Pounds's badge was a piece of evidence that would probably put him in the ground if they discovered it.
”Siddown, Bosch!” Brockman barked. ”We're not going to search you. We're trying to give you every benefit of the doubt but you make it d.a.m.n hard.”
Bosch sat back down, relieved for the time being.
”Now, just give us your whereabouts. We don't have all day.”
Bosch thought about this. He was surprised by the window of time they wanted. Seventy-two hours. He wondered what had happened to Pounds and why they hadn't narrowed time of death to a shorter span.
”Seventy-two hours ago. Well, about seventy-two hours ago it was Friday afternoon and I was in Chinatown at the Fifty-One-Fifty building. Which reminds me, I'm due over there in ten minutes. So, boys, if you'll excuse me ...”
He stood up.