Mulholland Dive

Bosch nodded.

“Today I am.”

Bosch had placed a file folder on the table before Coleman was brought in. He now opened it and lifted out two letters. He left the envelope, which was addressed and already stamped, in the file, just far enough away that Coleman wouldn’t be able to read it.

“So next month you’re taking your second shot at parole, I hear,” Bosch said.

“That’s right,” Coleman said, a slight tone of curiosity and concern in his voice.

“Well, I don’t know if you know how it works but the same two board members who heard your first hearing two years ago come back for your second. So you got two guys coming who already turned you down once. That means you’re going to need help, Rufus.”

“I already got the Lord on my side.”

He leaned forward and turned his head from side to side so Bosch could get a good look at the tattooed crosses. They reminded Bosch of the team logo on the side of a football helmet.

“I think you’re going to need more than a couple tattoos, you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you dick, Five-oh. I don’t need your help. I got my letters all sorted and the D-block chaplain and my good record. I even got a forgiveness letter from the Regis family.”

Walter Regis was the name of the man Coleman had murdered in cold blood.

“Yeah, how much you pay for that?”

“I didn’t pay. I prayed and the Lord provided. The family knows me and what I’m about now. They forgive my sins, as does the Lord.”

Bosch nodded and looked down at the letters in front of him for a long moment before continuing.

“All right, so you got it all set. You got the letter and you’ve got the Lord. You may not need me working for you, Rufus, but you sure don’t want me working against you. That’s the thing. You don’t want that.”

“So get to it. What’s your fucking play?”

Bosch nodded. Now they were down to it. He lifted the envelope.

“You see this envelope? It’s addressed to the parole board in Sacramento and it’s got your inmate number down here in the corner and it’s got a stamp on it all ready to go.”

He put the envelope down and picked up the letters, one in each hand, holding them out side by side for Coleman to look at and read.

“I’m going to put one of these two letters in that envelope and drop it in a mailbox as soon as I get out of here today. You’re going to decide which one.”

Coleman leaned forward and Bosch heard the shackles click against the back of his metal chair. He was so big it looked like he was wearing a linebacker’s shoulder pads under his gray prison jumpsuit.

“What are you talking about, Five-oh? I can’t read that shit.”

Bosch leaned back and turned the letters so he could read them.

“Well, they are letters addressed to the parole board. One speaks very favorably of you. It says you are remorseful about the crimes you have committed and have been cooperating with me in seeking the resolution of a long unsolved murder. It ends—”

“I ain’t cooperating with you on shit, man. You can’t put a snitch jacket on me. You watch your fucking mouth on that shit.”

“It ends with me recommending that you be granted parole.”

Bosch put the letter down and turned his attention to the other.

“Now, this second one is not so good for you. This one says nothing about remorse. It says that you have refused to cooperate in a murder investigation in which you have important information. And lastly it says that the LAPD’s Gang Intelligence Unit has gathered intel that suggests that the Rolling 60s are awaiting your return to freedom so they can once again utilize your skills as a hit man for the—”

“That’s some bullshit right there! That’s a lie! You can’t send that shit!”

Bosch calmly put the letter down on the table and started folding it for the envelope. He looked at Coleman deadpan.

“You’re going to sit there and tell me what I can do and can’t do? Uh-uh, that’s not how this works, Rufus. You give me what I want and I give you what you want. That’s how it works.”

Bosch ran his finger along the creases of the letter and then started sliding it into the envelope.

“What murder you talking about?”

Bosch looked up at him. There was the first give. Bosch reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photo of Jespersen he’d had made from her press pass. He held it up for Coleman to see.

“A white girl? I don’t know nothin’ about no murdered white girl.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Then what the fuck we doin’ here? When did she get her ass killed?”

“May first, nineteen ninety-two.”

Coleman did the date math, shook his head, and smiled like he was dealing with a dummy.

“You got the wrong guy. ’Ninety-two I was in Corcoran on a five spot. Eat that shit, Dee-tective.”

“I know exactly where you were in ‘ninety-two. You think I’d come all the way up here if I didn’t know everything about you?”

“All I know is that I was nowhere near some white girl’s murder.”

Bosch shook his head as if to say he wasn’t arguing that point.

“Let me explain it to you, Rufus, because I’ve got somebody else I want to see in here and then a plane to catch. You listening now?”

“I’m listening. Let’s hear your shit.”

Bosch held the photo up again.

“So we’re talking twenty years ago. The night of April thirtieth going into May first, nineteen ninety-two. The second night of the L.A. riots. A

“The fuck she doin’ down there? She shouldn’t a been down there.”

“I won’t argue that, Rufus. But she was there. And somebody stood her up against a wall in an alley and popped her right in the eye.”

“Wadn’t me and I don’t know a thing about it.”

“I know it wasn’t you. You’ve got the perfect alibi. You were in prison. Can I continue?”

“Yeah, man, tell your story.”

“Whoever killed A

Bosch studied Coleman to see if he was seeing where this was going.

“You following me now, Rufus?”

“I’m following but I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“The gun that killed A

“Not yet.”

Coleman was starting to dummy up. But that was okay with Bosch. Coleman wanted one thing: to get out of prison. He would eventually understand that Bosch could either help or hurt his chances.

“Well, let me keep telling the story and you try to follow along. I’ll try to make it easy for you.”

He paused. Coleman didn’t object.

“So now we’re up to nineteen ninety-six and you get convicted and get fifteen to life and go off to prison like the good Rolling Sixties soldier that you were. Another seven years go by and now it’s two thousand three and there’s another murder. A street dealer in the Grape Street Crips named Eddie Vaughn gets whacked and robbed while he’s sitting in his car with a forty and a blunt. Somebody reaches in from the passenger side and puts two in his head and two in the torso. But reaching in like that was bad form. The shells were ejected and they bounced all around inside the car. No time to grab them all. The shooter gets two of them and just runs off.”