The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(103)

“Black Widow,” Ballard whispered.

Making good on her deal, she uploaded the video from Grand Park and sent it to Kenworth with a message: It’s the same woman in your videos. Three 187s now. We need to talk.

After sending it, she realized 187 might not be the penal code number for murder in Nevada. She also realized that not only did Vegas Metro and LAPD need to talk, but LAPD needed to talk among themselves. The case had reached a point where she needed to bring Olivas up to date and put the need for interagency cooperation with Vegas on his plate.

But before she did that she had to tell her own partner.

Ballard called Bosch and he picked up immediately. But his voice was drowned out by the background noise of traffic and a blaring siren. She managed to hear him yell, “Hold on.”

She waited as he apparently rolled up the windows of his car and put in earbuds.

“Renée?”

“Harry, where are you? What’s going on?”

“Heading to Bunker Hill behind an RA. Clayton Manley just went down thirty-two floors without an elevator.”

“Oh, shit. He jumped?”

“That’s what they’re saying. Who knows? RHD is taking it. Gustafson and Reyes. I’m heading there, see what I can find out.”

“Listen, Harry, be careful. This thing is coming together. I’ve been talking to Vegas Metro. They have a case over there, a murder. They sent video and it’s our girl. The Black Widow.”

“That’s what they call her?”

“No, actually, I called her that when I sent them our videos.”

“What’s the case over there?”

“Mob-related. Some OC guy from Miami checked into the Cleopatra but didn’t check out. It was a suicide setup—like he swallowed a bullet. But they have him on video going up to the room with the Black Widow. Then she comes down, different wig, different look. But she has the walk. It’s her. I’m sure.”

There was a silence, but with Bosch, Ballard was used to it.

“Fake suicide,” he finally said.

“Like with Manley,” Ballard said. “But why is RHD taking it if it’s a suicide—supposedly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe what I’ve been telling Reyes made them put Manley back on their radar. I was in the middle of telling him how they’d missed Manley when he got the call. Anyway, I’m pulling in. I’m going to see if I can get up to the firm.”

“Harry, she could be up there. Or at least still in the vicinity.”

“I know.”

“Well, if they felt the need to get rid of Manley, they might feel the same about you. You’re the one who went in there and stirred things up.”

“I know.”

“So don’t go in. Just wait for me there. I’m on my way.”





BOSCH





49


Bosch pulled to the curb just past the art museum on Grand. He unlocked the glove compartment and took out two things: a small six-shot pistol in a belt-clip holster and an old LAPD ID tag he was supposed to have turned in upon his retirement but claimed he had lost.

He now clipped the gun to his belt and put the ID in his coat pocket. He put the Jeep’s flashers on and got out. Walking past the museum toward California Plaza, he saw Gustafson and Reyes standing at the open trunk of their unmarked car, getting out equipment they would need for their investigation. Bosch cut a path to them. Gustafson saw him coming.

“What are you doing here, Bosch?” he said. “You’re not LAPD, you’re not wanted.”

“You guys wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me,” Bosch said. “You would be—”

“For the record, Bosch, I still think you are full of shit,” Gustafson said. “So you can go now. Bye-bye.”

Gustafson slammed the trunk of the car to underline Bosch’s dismissal.

“You’re not listening to me,” Bosch said. “This is no suicide and the hitter could still be in that building.”

“Right. Orlando just told me all about your lady hitter. That’s a good one.”

“Then why are you here, Gustafson? Since when does RHD roll on suicides?”

“This guy takes a dive, his name comes up in our case, we get the call. A waste of my fucking time.”

Gustafson walked by him and headed toward the scene in the plaza. Reyes dutifully followed and didn’t say a word to Bosch.

Bosch watched them go and then surveyed the area. There was a crowd at the far end of the building, where Bosch could see men in security uniforms creating a perimeter around a blue canvas tarp that had been used to cover the body of Clayton Manley. The EMTs from the rescue ambulance were heading that way, and Gustafson and Reyes weren’t far behind them. Even from a distance Bosch could see that the blue tarp was just a few feet from the building.

There was nothing routine about suicides, but Bosch knew from his years on the job that jumpers usually propelled themselves away from the structure they dropped from. There were always the “step-offs,” but that method was not as precise or as final as the jump-off. Buildings often had architectural parapets, window-washing scaffolds, awnings, and other features that could interfere with a straight drop. The last thing a suicidal individual wanted was to have a fall broken and to bounce down the side of a building, possibly being left at the bottom alive.