Bosch held the gun up sideways, displaying it in front of Hardy’s face.
“There will be two shots. The one I’m about to put through your black fucking heart, and then after I take off the cuffs, I’ll wrap your dead hands around my Glock and cap one into the wall. That way we both get gunshot residue and everybody’s cool with it.”
Bosch leaned down and positioned the gun with the barrel at an upward angle to Hardy’s chest.
“Yeah, I think like this,” he said.
“Wait!” Hardy yelled. “You can’t do this!”
In his eyes Bosch saw true terror.
“This is for Lily Price and Clayton Pell and everybody else you killed and hurt and destroyed.”
“Please.”
“Please? Is that what Lily said to you? Did she say please?”
Bosch changed the angle of the gun slightly and leaned farther down, his chest now only six inches from Hardy’s.
“Okay, I admit it. Venice Beach, nineteen eighty-nine. I’ll tell you everything. Just take me in and set it up. I’ll tell you about my father, too. I drowned him in the bathtub.”
Bosch shook his head.
“You’ll tell me what I want to hear just to get out of here alive. But it’s no good, Hardy. It’s too late. We’re past that. Even if you truly confessed, it wouldn’t hold up. Coerced confession. You know that.”
Bosch pulled back the slide on the Glock to chamber a round.
“I don’t want a bullshit confession. I want evidence. I want your stash.”
“What stash?”
“You keep stuff. All you guys keep stuff. Pictures, souvenirs. You want to save yourself, Hardy, tell me where the stash is.”
He waited. Hardy said nothing. Bosch put the muzzle down against his chest and angled the gun again.
“All right, all right,” Hardy said desperately. “Next door. Everything’s next door. My father owned both places. I have it set up with a phony name on the deed. You go look. You’ll find everything you need.”
Bosch stared down at him for a long moment.
“If you’re lying, you’re dying.”
He withdrew the gun and holstered it. He started to get up.
“How do I get in?”
“The keys are on the counter in the kitchen.”
The odd smile returned to Hardy’s face. A moment ago he was desperate to save his own life, now he was smiling. Bosch realized it was a look of pride.
“Go check it out,” Hardy urged. “You’re going to be famous, Bosch. You caught the goddamn record holder.”
“Yeah? How many?”
“Thirty-seven. I planted thirty-seven crosses.”
Bosch had guessed that there were going to be numbers, but not that high. He wondered if Hardy was inflating his kills as part of one last manipulation. Say anything, give anything, just to get out the door alive. All he had to do was survive this moment and he could slip into the next transformation, from unknown and uncharted killer to figure of public fascination and fear. A name that would inspire dread. Bosch knew it was part of the fulfillment process with their kind. Hardy had probably lived in anticipation of the time he would become known. Men like him fantasized about it.
In one smooth and swift move, Bosch pulled the Glock from his holster again and brought its aim down on Hardy.
“No!” Hardy yelled. “We have a deal!”
“We don’t have shit.”
Bosch pulled the trigger. The metal snap of the firing mechanism sounded and Hardy’s body jerked as if shot, but there was no bullet in the chamber. The gun was empty. Bosch had unloaded it up in the bedroom.
Bosch nodded. Hardy had missed the tell. No cop would’ve had to chamber a round, because no cop would’ve left the chamber empty. Not in L.A., where the two seconds it takes to chamber a round could cost you your life. That had been just part of the play. In case Bosch had had to string it out.
He reached down and rolled Hardy over. He put the gun down on his back and from his suit pocket took out two snap ties. He cinched one around Hardy’s ankles, binding them tightly together, and then used the other on his wrists so he could remove his handcuffs. Bosch had a feeling he would not be the one escorting Hardy to jail and he didn’t want to lose his cuffs.
Bosch stood up and hooked his cuffs back on his belt. He then reached back into his coat pocket and took out a handful of bullets. He ejected the empty magazine from his gun and started reloading it. When he was finished, he slid the magazine back into place and racked one bullet into the chamber before returning the weapon to its holster.
“Always keep one in the chamber,” he said to Hardy.
The door opened and Chu stepped back in, carrying his laptop. He looked at Hardy lying prone on the floor. He had no idea what Bosch’s play had been.