The word sounded alien in his mouth, as if spoken by someone else. There was an urgency
in his own voice that Bosch didn't recognize. The simple hello he had whispered into the
telephone was full of hope, almost desperation. But the voice that came back to him was
not the one he needed to hear.
For a moment Bosch felt foolish. He wondered if the caller had recognized the faltering of his voice.
"This is Lieutenant Michael Tulin. Is this Bosch?"
The name meant nothing to Bosch and his momentary concern about how he sounded was ripped away as an awful dread stole quickly into his mind.
"This is Bosch. What is it? What's wrong?"
"Hold please for Deputy Chief Irving."
The caller clicked off and there was only silence. Bosch remembered who Tulin was now--Irving's adjutant. Bosch stood still and waited. He looked around the kitchen, only the dim oven light on. With one hand he held the phone hard against his ear, the other he instinctively brought up to his stomach, where fear and dread were twisting together. He looked at the glowing numbers on the stove clock. It was almost two, five minutes past the last time he had looked at it. This isn't right, he thought as he waited. They don't do this by phone. They come to your door. They tell you this face to face.
Finally, Irving picked up on the other end of the line.
"Where is she? What happened?"
Another moment of excruciating silence went by as Bosch waited. His eyes were closed now.
"Just tell me, what happened to her? I mean . . . is she alive?"
"Detective, I'm not sure what it is you are talking about. I'm calling because I need to muster your team as soon as possible. I need you for a special assignment."
Bosch opened his eyes. He looked through the kitchen window into the dark canyon below his house. His eyes followed the slope of the hill down toward the freeway and then up again to the slash of Hollywood lights he could see through the cut of the Cahuenga Pass. He wondered if each light was someone awake and waiting for something or someone that wasn't going to come. Bosch saw his own reflection in the window. He looked weary. He could make out the deep circles etched beneath his eyes, even in the dark glass.
"I have an assignment, Detective," Irving repeated impatiently. "Are you able to work or are you--"
"I can work. I just was mixed up there for a moment."
"Well, I'm sorry if I woke you. But you should be used to it."
"Yes. It's no problem."
Bosch didn't tell him that he hadn't been awakened by the call. That he had been roaming around in his dark house waiting.
"Then get it going, Detective. We'll have coffee down here at the scene."
"We'll talk about it when you get here. I don't want to delay this any further. Call your team. Have them come to Grand Street between Third and Fourth. The top of Angels Flight. Do you know where I'm talking about?"
"Bunker Hill? I don't--"
"It will be explained when you get here. Seek me out when you are here. If I am at the bottom come down to me before you speak with anyone."
"What about Lieutenant Billets? She should--"
"She will be informed about what is happening. We're wasting time. This is not a request. It is a command. Get your people together and get down here. Am I making myself clear to you?"
"Then I will be expecting you."
Irving hung up without waiting for a reply. Bosch stood with the phone still at his ear for a few moments, wondering what was going on. Angels Flight was the short inclined railroad that carried people up Bunker Hill in downtown--far outside the boundaries of the Hollywood Division homicide table. If Irving had a body down there at Angels Flight the investigation would at least initially fall under the jurisdiction of Central Division. If central detectives couldn't handle it because of caseload or personnel problems, or if the case was deemed too important or media sensitive for them, then it would be bumped to the bulls, the Robbery-Homicide Division. The fact that a deputy chief of police was involved in the case before dawn on a Saturday skewed things toward the latter possibility. The fact that he was calling Bosch and his team in instead of the RHD bulls was the puzzle. Whatever it was that Irving had working at Angels Flight didn't make sense.
Excerpted from Angel's Flight, excerpted with permission of the publisher. Published by LittleBrown. Copyright (c) 1999 Michael Connelly.
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
- PW Starred Review
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