Two Kinds of Truth by Michael Connelly


Two Kinds of Truth by Michael Connelly

Author:Michael Connelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Fiction, Thrillers, Suspense, Crime, Mystery & Detective, Police Procedural
ISBN: 9780316225908
Google: kZR_nQAACAAJ
Amazon: 0316225908
Goodreads: 34390820
Publisher: Little, Brown
Published: 2017-10-30T00:00:00+00:00


Part Two

The South Side of Nowhere

22

Bosch stood in front of the counter with his eyes down. A man sat there reading a newspaper printed in a foreign language. It was a different man than the goateed driver of the van. This man was older, his hair flecked with gray. He looked to Bosch like an aged enforcer who now relied on the younger generation to do the heavy lifting.

He didn’t bother to look up when he spoke to Bosch with a thick Russian accent.

“Who sent you here?” he asked.

“Nobody,” Bosch said.

The man finally looked up at him and studied his face for a moment.

“You walk here?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“I just want to see the doctor.”

“From where?”

“The shelter over by the courthouse.”

“That is long walk. What do you want?”

“To see the doctor.”

“How do you know there is doctor?”

“At the shelter. Somebody told me. Okay?”

“What for you need doctor?”

“I need pain medication.”

“What pain?”

Bosch stepped back, raised his cane, and lifted his leg. The man leaned forward so he could see over the counter. He then sat back and eyed Bosch.

“The doctor is very busy,” he said.

Bosch looked behind him and around the room. There were eight plastic chairs in the waiting area and all of them were empty. There was only him and the Russian.

“I can wait.”

“ID.”

Bosch pulled the worn leather wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. It was connected by a chain to a loop on his belt. He unsnapped the flap and pulled out the driver’s license and the Medicare card and dropped them on the counter. The Russian reached up, took them both, and then leaned back in his chair as he looked them over. Bosch hoped that his distancing himself was a reaction to Bosch’s body odor. He had actually made the long walk over from the shelter as part of his dropping into character. He was wearing three shirts and the walk had soaked the first layer in sweat and dampened the next two.

“Dominic H. Reilly?”

“That’s right.”

“Where is this Oceanside place?”

“Down near San Diego.”

“Take off glasses.”

Bosch raised his sunglasses up over his brow and looked at the Russian. It was the first big test. He needed to show the eyes of a drug addict. Just before being dropped at the shelter, he had spread peppermint oil provided by his DEA handler on the skin below his eyes. Now the cornea of each was irritated and red.

The Russian looked for a long moment and then tossed the plastic cards back on the counter. Bosch dropped his sunglasses back into place.

“You can wait,” the Russian said. “Maybe doctor have time.”

Bosch had passed. He tried not to show any relief.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

Bosch picked his backpack up off the floor and limped over to the waiting area. He picked a chair closest to the clinic’s front door and sat down, using the backpack as a stool for his braced leg. He put the cane on the floor and slid it under the chair, then folded his arms, rested his head against the wall behind him, and closed his eyes.



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