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Nothing happened, and he moved to the side deck that led to the rear of the house. He had brought the screwdriver so he could pop the sliding door on the rear deck and gain entrance, but when he got to the back, he saw that the slider had been left open a foot and that a screen door was the only thing between him and entrance to the house.
The screen door was locked, but he used the screwdriver to easily poke a hole through the screening. Then his fingers tore it wide enough to fit his hand through. He reached in, unlocked the door, and then carefully and quietly slid it open.
He slipped into the home. Stepping out of moonlight, he found complete darkness inside. He waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust. He saw a large flat-screen TV attached to a wall and a couch set against the wall opposite, a low table in front of it. Beyond the room where he stood was a dining room and a pass-through window to a kitchen. The glow from a digital clock on a microwave told him it was now 3:10.
On the right he saw the form of a set of stairs leading to thesecond level. He took a step toward the stairs but stopped when he heard a voice from behind.
“Don’t fucking move.”
Bosch froze. A light came on behind him. He raised his hands to shoulder height and slowly turned. He dropped the screwdriver down his sleeve as he did so.
A man sat on a stuffed chair in the corner next to the sliding door. Bosch had entered and walked right by him in the dark. The man was holding a gun pointed at Bosch’s chest.
It was Finbar McShane. Bosch easily recognized him from the photos on the BOLO sheet in his back pocket. He had a full beard now that had gone to gray and a shaved scalp that was darkly tanned from days on the open water on theCalamity Jane.He had obviously been waiting in the dark for Bosch.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter who I am,” Bosch said. “Who told you I was coming?”
Bosch hoped it hadn’t been Tommy, the bartender at the Chart Room.
“Nobody had to tell me,” McShane said. “I saw you out there today, trying to look like a tourist in your cop clothes. I know tourists and I know cops.”
“I’m not a cop. Not anymore.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means this is over. There are others and they know I’m here. They’ll follow. You’re done … McShane.”
The use of his real name put a momentary alarm in his eyes, but then it was quickly gone, replaced by the confidence of knowing he had the gun and the upper hand.
“Turn around. All the way around.”
Bosch was wearing black jeans and a maroon dress shirt. He hadn’t planned on working under cover of night when he had packed for the trip. He turned, keeping his hands up, showing he had no weapon. He came all the way around and they were looking at each other again.
“Let’s see your ankles,” McShane said.
Bosch nodded. McShane was playing it smart, not coming close to Bosch, in case he was hiding a weapon. Bosch reached down and pulled the legs of his pants up, careful to keep the screwdriver from falling out of his sleeve. He showed that he wore no ankle holster.
“No weapon,” McShane said. “You came to kill me and you didn’t bring a weapon?”
“I didn’t come to kill you,” Bosch said.
“Then what? Why are you here?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what, motherfucker? Stop talking in riddles.”
“That you killed the Gallagher family.”
“Jesus Christ … you’re from L.A. Well, you came a long way for nothing, old man. To end up at the end of an anchor chain in forty feet of water.”
“Is that what happened to Henry Jordan and his wife? You wrapped them in chains, put them in the water? How about Dan Cassidy? Is he down there, too?”
Now Bosch saw a momentary look of surprise on McShane’s face.
“Like I said, there are people who know all about you,” Bosch said. “And they’re coming right behind me. This time you don’t get away.”
