My plan was to sit in a corner booth at Dan Tana's and sketch out some of the key witness examinations, listing the baseline questions and probable answers for each. I was excited about getting to it, and Lorna need not have worried about me. I wouldn't be alone. I would have my case with me. Not Jerry Vincent's case. Mine.

After quickly repacking the files and adding fresh pencils and legal pads, I killed the lights and locked the office door. I headed down the hallway and then across the bridge to the parking garage. Just as I was entering the garage, I saw a man walking up the ramp from the first floor. He was fifty yards away and it was only a few moments and a few strides before I recognized him as the man in the photograph Bosch had shown me that morning.

My blood froze in my heart. The fight-or-flight instinct stabbed into my brain. The rest of the world didn't matter. There was just this moment and I had to make a choice. My brain a.s.sessed the situation faster than any computer IBM ever made. And the result of the computation was that I knew the man coming toward me was the killer and that he had a gun.

I swung around and started to run.

"Hey!" a voice called from behind me.

I kept running. I moved back across the bridge to the gla.s.s doors leading back into the building. One clear, single thought fired through every synapse in my brain. I had to get inside and get to Cisco's gun. I had to kill or be killed.

But it was after hours and the doors had locked behind me as I had left the building. I shot my hand into my pocket in search of the key, then jerked it out, bills, coins and wallet flying out with it.

As I jammed the key into the lock, I could hear running steps coming up quickly behind me. The gun! Get the gun! The gun! Get the gun!

I finally yanked the door open and bolted down the hallway toward the office. I glanced behind me and saw the man catch the door just before it closed and locked. He was still coming.

Key still in my hand, I reached the office door and fumbled the key while getting it into the lock. I could feel the killer closing in. Finally getting the door open, I entered, slammed it shut, and threw the lock. I hit the light switch, then crossed the reception area and charged into Vincent's office.

The gun Cisco left for me was there in the drawer. I grabbed it, yanked it out of its holster, and went back out to the reception area. Across the room I could see the killer's shape through the frosted gla.s.s. He was trying to open the door. I raised the gun and pointed at the blurred image.

I hesitated and then raised the gun higher and fired two shots into the ceiling. The sound was deafening in the closed room.

"That's right!" I yelled. "Come on in!"

The image on the other side of the gla.s.s door disappeared. I heard footsteps moving away in the hallway and then the door to the bridge opening and closing. I stood stock-still and listened for any other sound. There was nothing.

Without taking my eyes off the door, I stepped over to the reception desk and picked up the phone. I called 911 and it was answered right away, but I got a recording that told me my call was important and that I needed to hold on for the next available emergency dispatcher.

I realized I was shaking, not with fear but with the overload of adrenaline. I put the gun on the desk, checked my pocket, and found that I hadn't lost my cell phone. With the office phone in one hand, I used the other to open the cell and call Harry Bosch. He answered on the first ring.

"Bosch! That guy you showed me was just here!"

"Haller? What are you talking about? Who?"

"The guy in the photo you showed me today! The one with the gun!"

"All right, calm down. Where is he? Where are you?"

I realized that the stress of the moment had pulled my voice tight and sharp. Embarra.s.sed, I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself before answering.

"I'm at the office. Vincent's office. I was leaving and I saw him in the garage. I ran back inside and he ran in after me. He tried to get into the office. I think he's gone but I'm not sure. I fired a couple of shots and then-"

"You have a gun?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n right I do."

"I suggest you put it away before somebody gets hurt."

"If that guy's still out there, he'll be the one getting hurt. Who the h.e.l.l is he?"

There was a pause before he answered.

"I don't know yet. Look, I'm still downtown and was just heading home myself. I'm in the car. Sit tight and I'll be there in five minutes. Stay in the office and keep the door locked."

"Don't worry, I'm not moving."

"And don't shoot me when I get there."

"I won't."

I reached over and hung up the office phone. I didn't need 911 if Bosch was coming. I picked the gun back up.

"Hey, Haller?"

"What?"

"What did he want?"

"What?"

"The guy. What did he come there for?"

"That's a good G.o.dd.a.m.n question. But I don't have the answer."

"Look, stop f.u.c.king around and tell me!"

"I'm telling you! I don't know what he's after. Now quit talking and get over here!"

I involuntarily squeezed my hands into fists as I yelled and put an accidental shot into the floor. I jumped as though I had been shot at by someone else.

"Haller!" Bosch yelled. "What the h.e.l.l was that?"

I pulled in a deep breath and took my time composing myself before answering.

"Haller? What's going on?"

"Get over here and you'll find out."

"Did you hit him? Did you put him down?"

Without answering I closed the phone.

Thirty-two

Bosch made it in six minutes but it felt like an hour. A dark image appeared on the other side of the gla.s.s and he knocked sharply.

"Haller, it's me, Bosch."

Carrying the gun at my side, I unlocked the door and let him in. He, too, had his gun out and at his side.

"Anything since we were on the phone?" he asked.

"Haven't seen or heard him. I guess I scared his a.s.s away."

Bosch holstered his gun and threw me a look, as if to say my tough-guy pose was convincing no one except maybe myself.

"What was that last shot?"

"An accident."

I pointed toward the hole in the floor.

"Give me that gun before you get yourself killed."

I handed it over and he put it into the waist-band of his pants.

"You don't own a gun-not legally. I checked."

"It's my investigator's. He leaves it here at night."

Bosch scanned the ceiling, until he saw the two holes I had put there. He then looked at me and shook his head.

He went over to the blinds and checked the street. Broadway was dead out there this time of night. A couple of nearby buildings had been converted into residential lofts but Broadway still had a way to go before recapturing the nightlife it had had eighty years before.

"Okay, let's sit down," he said.

He turned from the window to see me standing behind him.

"In your office."

"Why?"

"Because we're going to talk about this."

I moved into the office and took a seat behind the desk. Bosch sat down across from me.

"First of all, here's your stuff. I found it out there on the bridge."

From the pocket of his jacket he pulled my wallet and loose bills. He put it all on the desk and then reached back in for the coins.

"Okay, now what?" I asked as I put my property back in my pocket.

"Now we talk," Bosch said. "First off, do you want to file a report on this?"

"Why bother? You know about it. It's your case. Why don't you know who this guy is?"

"We're working on it."

"That's not good enough, Bosch! He came after me! Why can't you ID him?"

Bosch shook his head.

"Because we think he's a hitter brought in from out of town. Maybe out of the country."

"That's f.u.c.king fantastic! Why did he come back here?"

"Obviously, because of you. Because of what you know."

"Me? I don't know anything."

"You've been in here for three days. You must know something that makes you a danger to him."

"I'm telling you, I've got nothing."

"Then, you have to ask yourself, why did that guy come back? What did he leave behind or forget the first time?"

I just stared at him. I actually wanted to help. I was tired of being under the gun-in more ways than one-and if I could've given Bosch just one answer, I would have.

I shook my head.

"I can't think of a single-"

"Come on, Haller!" Bosch barked at me. "Your life is threatened here! Don't you get it? What've you got?"

"I told you!"

"Who did Vincent bribe?"

"I don't know and I couldn't tell you if I did."

"What did the FBI want with him?"

"I don't know that, either!"

He started pointing at me.

"You f.u.c.king hypocrite. You're hiding behind the protections of the law, while the killer is out there waiting. Your ethics and rules won't stop a bullet, Haller. Tell me what you've got!"

"I told you! I don't have anything and don't point your f.u.c.king finger at me. This isn't my job. It's your job. And maybe if you would get it done, people around here would feel-"