The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(77)

“Prison. They were up there in Corcoran together and he said the kid owed him money from up there for protection.”

“Did he mention the kid’s name?”

“Nope. He just said he wouldn’t pay what he owed so he arranged the meet and cleared us all out. Then the kid got shot.”

“And you assumed Elvin Kidd shot him.”

“Yeah, why not? It was his alley. He controlled everything. Nobody got shot there without his okay or him doin’ it his own self.”

Ballard nodded. It was not a direct confession from Kidd to Dorsey but it was close, and she thought it would be good enough for Selma Robinson. Then Dorsey, unprompted, added icing to the cake.

“When we had to move locations because the heat was on with the killing, I looked it up in the paper,” he said. “I only found one thing but I remember the kid got shot had a name like a hotel. Hilton or Hyatt or some shit like that. And so I wondered if’n he had all that hotel money, how come he didn’t just pay what he owed. He was stupid. He shoulda paid and then he’d be alive.”

Dorsey had just pulled it all together. Ballard was elated. She picked up her phone, ended the recording, and put it in her pocket. She wished it were Monday and Selma Robinson was at the Hall of Justice. She wanted to go there right now and file a murder charge against Elvin Kidd.





BOSCH





38


The suede couch in the waiting area at Michaelson & Mitchell was so comfortable that Bosch nearly nodded off. It was Monday morning but he still had not recovered enough sleep from his all-night surveillance of his daughter’s house the Saturday before. Nothing had happened and there had been no sign of the midnight stalker, but Bosch had kept a caffeine-stoked vigil throughout the night. He tried to make up the sleep on Sunday but thoughts about the Montgomery case kept him from even taking a nap. Now here he was, about to meet with Clayton Manley, and he felt like sinking into the waiting-room couch.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, he was collected by the young man from the reception desk. He led Bosch around a grand circular staircase, then down a long hallway past frosted-glass doors that had the lead partners’ names on them, and finally to the last office on the hall. He entered a large room with a desk, a sitting area, and a glass wall that looked down on Angels Flight from sixteen floors up.

Clayton Manley stood up from behind the desk. He was nearing forty, with dark hair but gray showing in his sideburns. He wore a light gray suit, a white shirt, and a blue tie.

“Mr. Bosch, come in,” he said. “Please sit down.”

He extended his hand across the desk and Bosch shook it before taking one of the club chairs in front of the desk.

“Now, my associate said you are looking for an attorney for a possible wrongful-death suit, is that correct?” Manley asked.

“Yes,” Bosch said. “I need a lawyer. I talked to one and he didn’t think he was up to it. So now I’m here, talking to you.”

“Was it a loved one?”

“Excuse me?”

“The decedent who was the victim of the wrongful death.”

“Oh, no, that would be me. I’m the victim.”

Manley laughed, then saw there was no smile on Bosch’s face. He stopped laughing and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Bosch, I don’t understand,” he said.

“Well, clearly I’m not dead,” Bosch said. “But I’ve got a diagnosis of leukemia and I got it on the job. I want to sue them and get money for my daughter.”

“How did this happen? Where did you work?”

“I was an LAPD homicide detective for over thirty years. I retired four years ago. I was forced out, actually, and I sued the department back then for trying to take away my pension. Part of the settlement put a cap on my health insurance, so this thing I’ve got could bankrupt me and leave nothing for my daughter.”

Manley had shown no visible reaction to Bosch’s mention that he had been an LAPD detective.

“So how did you get leukemia on the job?” Manley said. “And I guess the better question is, how do you prove it?”

“Easy,” Bosch said. “There was a murder case and a large quantity of cesium was stolen from a hospital. The stuff they use in minute quantities to treat cancer. Only here, the amount missing was not minute. It was everything the hospital had and I ended up being the one who recovered it. I found it in a truck but didn’t know it was there until I was exposed to it. I was checked out at the hospital and had X-rays and checkups for it for five years. Now I have leukemia, and there’s no way it’s not related to that exposure.”

“And this is all documented? In case files and so forth?”

“Everything. There are the records from the murder investigation, the hospital, and the arbitration on my exit. We can get all of that. Plus, the hospital made sweeping security changes after that—which to me is an admission of responsibility.”

“Of course it is. Now, I hate to ask this, but you said this was a wrongful-death case. What exactly is your diagnosis and prognosis?”

“I just got the diagnosis. I was tired all the time and just not feeling right, so I went in and they did some tests and I was told I have it. I’m about to start chemo, but you never know. It’s going to get me in the end.”