FaceOff Read Free Page B

the street and the sidewalk across from him. No sign of anyone on foot. He turned to check the sidewalk on his own side and there at the passenger’s window was the guy in the baseball hat. He’d turned the hat backward, the way gang squad guys often did when they were on the move. Bosch could see a silver chain descending from the sides of his neck into his graphic tee, figured there was a badge hanging from it. Definitely a gun riding the back of the guy’s right hip, something boxy and bigger than a Glock. The man bent down to put himself at eye level with Bosch. He twirled his finger at Bosch, a request to roll the window down.

    THE GUY WITH THE HERTZ NeverLost GPS jutting off his dashboard looked at Patrick for a long moment, but then lowered his window. He looked like he was mid-fifties and in good shape. Wiry. Something about him said cop. The wariness in his eyes for one; cop’s eyes—you could never believe they truly closed. Then therewas the way he kept one hand down in his lap so he could go inside the sport coat for the Glock or the Smith if it turned out Patrick was a bad guy. His left hand.
    “Nice move,” he said.
    “Yeah?” Patrick said.
    The guy nodded over his shoulder. “Sending the fire truck down the street. Good distraction. You with District Thirteen?”
    A true Bostonian always sounded like he was just getting over a cold. This guy’s voice was clean air; not light exactly but smooth. An out-of-towner. Not a trace of Beantown in that voice. Probably a fed. Minted in Kansas or somewhere, trained down in Quantico and then sent up here. Patrick decided to play along as long as he could. He tried to open the door but it was locked. The guy unlocked it, moved his briefcase to the backseat, and Patrick got in.
    “You’re a bit away from Center Plaza, aren’t you?” Patrick said.
    “Maybe,” he said. “Except I don’t know where or what Center Plaza is.”
    “So you’re not with the bureau. Who are you with?”
    The man hesitated again, kept that left hand in his lap, then nodded like he’d decided to take a flier.
    “LAPD,” he said. “I was going to check in with you guys later today.”
    “And what brings the LAPD out to JP?”
    “JP?”
    “Jamaica Plain. Can I see some ID?”
    He pulled a badge wallet out and flipped it open so Patrick could study the detective’s badge and the ID. His name was Hieronymus Bosch.
    “Some name you’ve got. How do you say that?”
    “Harry’s good.”
    “Okay. What are you doing here, Harry?”
    “How about you? That chain around your neck isn’t attached to a badge.”
    “No?”
    Bosch shook his head. “I’d have seen the outline of it through your shirt. Crucifix?”
    Patrick stared at him for a moment and then nodded. “Wife likes me to wear it.” He held out his hand. “Patrick Kenzie. I’m not a cop. I’m an independent contractor.”
    Bosch shook his hand. “You like baseball, Pat?”
    “Patrick.”
    “You like baseball, Patrick?”
    “Big-time. Why?”
    “You’re the first guy I’ve seen in this town not wearing a Sox hat.”
    Patrick pulled off his hat and considered the front of it as he ran a hand through his hair. “Imagine that. I didn’t even look when I left the house.”
    “Is that a rule around here? You’ve all got to represent Red Sox Nation or something?”
    “It’s not a rule, per se, more like a guideline.”
    Bosch looked at the hat again. “Who’s the crooked smiley-faced guy?”
    “Toothface,” Patrick said. “He’s, like, the logo, I guess, of a record store I like.”
    “You still buy records?”
    “CDs. You?”
    “Yeah. Jazz mostly. I hear it’s all going to go away. Records, CDs, the whole way we buy music. MP3s and iPods are the future.”
    “Heard that, too.” Patrick looked over his shoulder at the street. “We looking at the same guy here, Harry?”
    “Don’t know,” Bosch said. “I’m looking at a guy for a murder back in nineteen-ninety. I need to get some