“About what?”
“About there being only one real way out of this. For me.”
The muzzle steadied, its aim at his eyes.
“Before you pull that trigger, can I show you something?”
“It won’t matter.”
“I think it will. It’s in my inside jacket pocket.”
She frowned, then made a signal with the gun.
“Show me your wrists. Where’s your watch?”
Bosch raised his hands and his jacket sleeves came down, showing his watch on his right wrist. He was left-handed.
“Okay, take out whatever it is you need to show me with your right hand. Slowly, Detective, slowly.”
“You got it.”
Bosch reached in and with great deliberation pulled out the folded document. He handed it across the desk to her.
“Just put it down and then lean away.”
He followed her instructions. She waited for him to move back and then picked up the document. With one hand she unfolded it and took a glance, taking her eyes off Bosch for no more than a millisecond.
“I’m not going to be able to read it. What is it?”
“It’s a no-knock search warrant. I have broken no law by being here. I’m not one of them.”
She stared at him for a silent thirty seconds and then finally smirked.
“You have to be kidding me. What judge would sign such a search warrant? You had zero probable cause.”
“I had your lies and your proximity to two murders. And I had Judge Oscar Ortiz — you remember him?”
“Who is he?”
“Back in 1999 he had the McIntyre case. But you took it away from him when you executed McIntyre. Getting him to sign this search warrant wasn’t hard once I reminded him about the case.”
Anger worked into her face. The muzzle started to come up again.
“All I have to say is one word,” Bosch said. “A one-syllable word.”
“And what?”
“And you’re dead.”
She froze, and slowly her eyes rose from Bosch’s face to the windows over the file cabinets.
“You opened the blinds,” she said.
“Yes.”
Bosch studied the two red laser dots that had played on her face since she had entered the room, one high on her forehead, the other on her chin. Bosch knew that the lasers did not account for bullet drop, but the SWAT sharpshooters on the roof of the house across the street did. The chin dot was the heart shot.
Gables seemed frozen, unable to choose whether to live or die.
“There’s a lot you could tell us,” he said. “We could learn from you. Why don’t you just put the gun down and we can get started.”
He slowly started to lean forward, raising his left hand to take the gun.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
She brought the muzzle up but he didn’t say the word. He didn’t think she’d shoot.
There were three sounds in immediate succession: The breaking of glass as the bullet passed through the window. A sound like an ice cream cone dropping on the sidewalk as the bullet passed through her chest. And then the thock of the slug hitting the door frame behind her.
A fine mist of blood started to fill the room.
Gables took a step backward and looked down at her chest as her arms dropped to her sides. The gun made a dull sound when it hit the carpet.
She glanced up at Bosch with a confused look. In a strained voice she asked her last question.
“What was the word?”
She then dropped to the floor.
Staying below the level of the file cabinets, Bosch left the desk and came around to her on the floor. He slid the gun out of reach and looked down at her eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do. The bullet had exploded her heart.
“You bastards!” he yelled. “I didn’t say it! I didn’t say the word!”
Gables closed her eyes and Bosch thought she was gone.
“We’re clear!” he said. “Suspect is ten-seven. Repeat, suspect is ten-seven. Weapons, stand down.”
He started to get up but saw that Gables had opened her eyes.
“Nine,” she whispered, blood coming up on her lips.
Bosch leaned down to her.
“What?”
“I killed nine.”
She nodded and then closed her eyes again. He knew that this time she was gone, but he nodded anyway.
LEVERAGE
BY MIKE COOPER
I was counting on that pension.” Joe Beeker looked up from his hands, knuckled together in his lap. “I need the money.”
“We all need money,” said the lawyer. He was younger than Joe, but so was everyone nowadays. He clacked at the silver laptop sitting open on his desk. “Doesn’t mean they have to give it to you. The bankruptcy wiped out their obligations.”
“I worked there thirty-seven years.” And Joe knew he was marked from those decades: scarred fingers; flash burns on his arms; a small, weathered scar right under one eye. “On the line, mostly, and maintenance. Overtime every single week. You could look up my pay stubs.”