9 Dragons by Michael Connelly

Doctor,” he said. “For your records, I’m taking the ballistic evidence over to forensics.”
    “Did you sign for it?”
    She pointed to a clipboard on the counter and Bosch found she had already filled out the chain-of-evidence report. Bosch signed the line acknowledging he was now in possession of the evidence listed. He headed toward the autopsy suite’s door.
    “Give me a couple days on the hard copy,” Laksmi said.
    Meaning the formal autopsy report.
    “You got it,” Bosch said as he went through the door.

10
    O n the way to forensics Bosch called Chu and asked about the tattoos.
    “I haven’t translated them yet,” Chu said.
    “What do you mean, did you look at them?”
    “Yeah, I looked at them but I can’t translate them. I’m trying to find somebody who can.”
    “Chu, I saw you talking to Mrs. Li. You translated for her.”
    “Bosch, just because I speak it doesn’t mean I can read it. There are eight thousand Chinese symbols like these. All my schooling was in English. I spoke Chinese at home. Never read it.”
    “Okay, then is there somebody there that can get me a translation? It is the
Asian
Crimes Unit, isn’t it?”
    “Asian
Gang
Unit. And, yes, there are people here who can do it, but they don’t happen to be here right now. As soon as I have it I will call you.”
    “Great. Call me.”
    Bosch hung up. He was frustrated by the delay. A case had to move like a shark. It could never stop its momentum because that could be fatal. He checked his watch for the time in Hong Kong, then pulled to the curb and sent the photo of the ankle tattoos to his daughter in an e-mail. She would get it on her phone-right after she saw the photo of the lungs he had sent her.
    Pleased with himself, Bosch pulled back into traffic. He was becoming more and more adept at digital communication thanks to her. She had insisted that they communicate on all modern levels: e-mail, text, video-she had even tried unsuccessfully to get him onto something called Twitter. He insisted in return that they also communicate the old-fashioned way-verbal conversation. He made sure their phones were covered by international call plans.
    He made it back to the PAB a few minutes later and went straight to the Tool Marks and Ballistics unit on the fourth floor. He took his four plastic evidence bags to a technician named Ross Malone. His job was to take bullets and casings and use them to attempt to identify the make and model of the firearm they came from. Later, in the event that a gun was recovered, he would be able to match the bullets to it through ballistic testing and analysis.
    Malone began with the casing, using a set of tweezers to take it from its packaging and then hold it under a high-powered magnifying glass with a lighted rim. He studied it for a long moment before speaking.
    “Cor Bon nine-millimeter,” he said. “And you’re probably looking for a Glock.”
    Bosch was expecting him to confirm the size of the round and identify the brand but not to name the make of weapon that had fired the bullet.
    “How do you know that?”
    “Take a look.”
    Malone was on a stool in front of the magnifying glass, which was attached to an adjustable arm anchored to the worktable. He moved it over slightly so Bosch could look over his shoulder. He was holding the back end of the casing into the light and magnification. Bosch could read the words
Cor Bon
stamped into the outer edge of the cap. At center was a depression made when the gun’s firing pin had struck the primer, firing the bullet.
    “You see how the impression is elongated, almost rectangular?” Malone asked.
    “Yeah, I see it.”
    “That’s Glock. Only Glocks have the rectangle because the firing pin is rectangular. So you are looking for a nine-millimeter Glock. They have several different models that would apply.”
    “Okay, that helps. Anything else?”
    Malone pulled the glass back over in front of him and turned the bullet casing underneath