Dark Sacred Night (Harry Bosch Universe #31)(102)

Before yanking the tape, Bosch had moved around the warehouse, planning and prepping for the interview. He had pulled the chair away from the desk and set it five feet away from Dillon, front and center. He had cut the tape around Dillon’s ankles and spread his legs on the concrete floor.

Bosch put two metal mop buckets on the floor on either side of his chair. One had two inches of water in it. Into the other he had poured a bottle of sulfuric acid that he had found on one of the storage shelves.

He then sat down in front of Dillon.

“Are you awake now?” Bosch asked.

“What the fuck is this?” Dillon answered. “Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter who I am. Tell me about Daisy Clayton.”

“I don’t know what or who you’re talking about. Untie me right the fuck now.”

“Sure you do. Nine years ago? The child hooker on Sunset you grabbed from out front of the liquor store? She had to be your first, I’m thinking, or one of your first. Before you had this setup, back when you had to worry about where and how to get rid of the bodies.”

There was a momentary pause in Dillon’s response that told Bosch he had thrown a strike.

“You’re crazy and you’re going to jail,” Dillon said. “All this—illegal. Doesn’t matter what I tell you. I could say I killed Kennedy, Tupac, and Biggie Smalls and it wouldn’t matter. This is all illegal search and seizure. I’m not even a cop and I know that. So just call it in, motherfucker. Let’s get this over with.”

Bosch leaned back in the desk chair. It squeaked.

“One problem with all of that,” he said. “I’m not a cop. I’m not here to call anything in. I’m here for Daisy Clayton. That’s it.”

“Bullshit,” Dillon said. “I can tell. You’re a cop.”

“Tell me about Daisy.”

“Nothing to tell. I don’t know her.”

“You grabbed her that night. You took her.”

“Whatever, man. I want a lawyer.”

“There are no lawyers here. We’re past that.”

“Then do what you gotta do, bro. I’m not saying shit.”

His chair squeaking, Bosch reached down to the bucket containing the acid. He carefully lifted it and moved it to a spot between Dillon’s spread legs.

“What are you doing?” Dillon asked.

Bosch said nothing. The fumes from the acid did the talking.

“Is that the sulfuric?” Dillon asked, panic rising in his voice. “I can smell it. What the fuck are you doing?”

“What’s it matter, Roger?” Bosch said. “You say I’m a cop, right? I won’t do anything to hurt you. Not if it’s illegal.”

“All right, okay, I believe you. You’re not a cop. Just get that stuff away from me. You don’t want to fuck with it. The fumes alone can—Wait a minute. What did you pour it into? It eats through metal. You know that, right?”

“Then I guess we don’t have a lot of time. Daisy Clayton. Tell me about her.”

“I told you—”

Dillon suddenly abandoned his argument and started screaming “Help!” at the top of his lungs. Bosch did nothing and after twenty seconds Dillon stopped, knowing the effort was useless.

“Ironic, huh?” Bosch said. “You designed and built this place so nobody could get out and nobody could hear anybody’s calls for help. And now…here we are. Go ahead, keep on screaming.”

“Look, please, I’m sorry,” Dillon said. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m sorry if I ever did any—”

Bosch reached out with his foot and slid the bucket a few inches closer to Dillon’s crotch. Dillon tried to lean back but there was no place for his body to go. He turned his face to the right.

“Please,” he said. “The fumes. It’s getting in my lungs.”

“I read a story in the newspaper once,” Bosch replied. “It was about this guy who got sulfuric acid spilled on his hands. He quickly put his hands under a faucet to wash it off and that only made it hurt worse. Water more than doubles the pain, but if you don’t flush the acid it will eat right through your skin.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dillon said. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want. I want the story. Daisy Clayton. Two thousand nine. Tell me the story.”

Dillon kept his face turned away from the fumes.

“Get it away!” he cried. “It’s burning my lungs.”

“Two thousand nine,” Bosch said as he sat back in the chair and it squeaked again.

“Look, what do you want?” Dillon said. “You want me to say I did it? Fine, I did it. Whatever it is, I did it. So let’s just call the cops. I know you’re not a cop but let’s call the cops and I’ll tell them I did it. I promise. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them I did the others, too. As many as you want. I’ll tell them I did them all.”

Bosch reached into his pocket for the mini-recorder he had retrieved from his car.

“How many others?” he asked. “Tell me their names.”

He hit the record button.

Dillon shook his head and then kept it turned away from the bucket.

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “This is crazy.”