CONNELLY, Michael

The Black Echo

…..
The setting sun burned the sky pink and orange in the same bright hues as surfers’ bathing suits. It was beautiful deception, Bosch thought, as he drove north on the Hollywood Freeway to home. Sunsets did that here. Made you forget it was the smog that made their colors so brilliant, that behind every pretty picture there could be an ugly story.

…..
From the back porch Bosch could look northeast across Burbank and Glendale. He could see the purple-hued mountains past Pasadena and Altadena. Sometimes he could see the smoky loom-up and orange blaze of brush fires in the hills. At night the sound of the freeway below softened and the search lights at Universal City swept the sky. Looking out on the valley never failed to give Bosch a sense of power which he could not explain to himself. But he did know that it was one reason — the main reason — he bought the place and would never want to leave it.

…..


The Hollow

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Bosch walked between the headstones, checking names as he passed. These days he suspected that he knew more people belowground than above. He moved slowly, using the cane for support.

He saw Talbot up ahead, standing at the foot of his first wife’s grave. It had been a while since Bosch had seen him. He had less hair and a thicker waist. As expected, he wasn’t happy to see Bosch approaching with his vase of fresh tulips.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Bosch?” Talbot said.

“I could ask you the same thing, Talbot,” Bosch said.

“She’s my wife.”

“Was your wife.”

“Fuck you. Do you even still have a badge?”

“Lucky for guys like you, I hung it up a long time ago.”

“Then what the fuck? You bringing my wife flowers? You got a thing for dead women, Bosch?”

“Twenty-fifth anniversary. I didn’t expect anyone else to be here. Least of all the guy who put her in the grave.”

…..