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 entered 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 now remembered
who Tulin was—Irving’s adjutant. Bosch stood still and
waited. He looked around the kitchen; only the dim oven light was 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
“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 meant someone awake and waiting for someone who 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
“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
“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 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 suggested 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.
Bosch glanced once more down into the dark canyon, pulled the phone away
from his ear and clicked it off. He wished he had a cigarette but he had
made it this far through the night without one. He wouldn’t break
He turned his back and leaned on the counter. He looked down at the
phone in his hand, turned it back on and hit the speed dial button that
would connect him with Kizmin Rider’s apartment. He would call
Jerry Edgar after he talked to her. Bosch felt a sense of relief come
over him that he was reluctant to acknowledge. He might not yet know
what awaited him at Angels Flight, but it would certainly take his
thoughts away from Eleanor Wish.
Rider’s alert voice answered after two rings.
“Kiz, it’s Harry,” he said. “We’ve got
Excerpted from "Angels Flight (A Harry Bosch Novel)" by Michael Connelly. Copyright © 0 by Michael Connelly. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.