The Last Coyote by Michael Connelly Page B

his desk.
    The first thing Bosch noticed as he got closer was that the glass panel that he had broken just a week before in the office had already been replaced. He thought it was strange that this could happen so quickly in a department where more vital repairs-such as replacing the bullet-riddled windshield of a patrol car-normally took a month of red tape and paper pushing. But those were the priorities of this department.
    “Henry!” Pounds barked. “Come in here.”
    An old man who sat at the front counter and took calls on the public line and gave general directions jumped up and doddered into the glass office. He was a civilian volunteer, one of several who worked in the station, mainly retirees that most cops referred to collectively as members of the Nod Squad.
    Bosch followed the old man in and put his briefcase down on the floor.
    “Bosch!” Pounds yelped. “There’s a witness here.”
    He pointed to old Henry, then out through the glass.
    “Witnesses out there as well.”
    Bosch could see that Pounds still had deep purple remnants of broken capillaries under each eye. The swelling was gone, though. Bosch walked up to the desk and reached into the pocket of his coat.
    “Witnesses to what?”
    “To whatever you’re doing here.”
    Bosch turned to look at Henry.
    “Henry, you can leave now. I’m just going to talk to the lieutenant.”
    “Henry, you stay,” Pounds commanded. “I want you to hear this.”
    “How do you know he’ll remember it, Pounds? He can’t even transfer a call to the right table.”
    Bosch looked back at Henry again and fixed him with a stare that left no doubt who was in charge in the glass room.
    “Close the door on your way out.”
    Henry made a timid glance back at Pounds but then quickly headed out the door, closing it as instructed. Bosch turned back to Pounds.
    The lieutenant slowly, like a cat sneaking past a dog, lowered himself into his seat, perhaps thinking or knowing from experience that there might be more safety in not being at a face-to-face level with Bosch. Harry looked down and saw that there was a book open on the desk. He reached down and turned the cover to see what it was.
    “Studying for the captain’s exam, Lieutenant?”
    Pounds shrank back from Bosch’s reach. Bosch saw it was not the captain’s exam manual but a book on creating and honing motivational skills in employees. It had been written by a professional basketball coach. Bosch had to laugh and shake his head.
    “Pounds, you know, you’re really something. I mean, at least you’re entertaining. I gotta give you that.”
    Pounds grabbed the book back and shoved it in a drawer.
    “What do you want, Bosch? You know you’re not supposed to be in here. You’re on leave.”
    “But you called me in, remember?”
    “I did not.”
    “The car. You said you wanted the car.”
    “I said turn it in at the garage. I didn’t say come in here. Now get out!”
    Bosch could see the rosy spread of anger on the other man’s face. Bosch remained cool and took that as a sign of a declining level of stress. He brought his hand out of his pocket with the car keys in them. He dropped them on the desk in front of Pounds.
    “It’s parked out by the drunk tank door. You want it back, you can have it. But you take it through the checkout at the garage. That’s not a cop’s job. That’s a job for a bureaucrat.”
    Bosch turned to leave and picked up his briefcase. He then opened the door to the office with such force that it swung around and banged against one of the glass panels of the office. The whole office shook but nothing broke. He walked around the counter, saying, “Sorry about that, Henry,” without looking at the old man, and then headed down the front hall.
    A few minutes later he was standing on the curb on Wilcox, in front of the station, waiting for the cab he had called with his portable. A gray Caprice, almost a duplicate of the car he had just turned in, pulled up in front of him and