Page 136 of Resurrection Walk

“I was wrong. He didn’t turn on Second. He’s still on Spring, heading south toward Third.”

“Sir, listen to me, you need to stop what you’re doing and —”

Bosch disconnected and put the phone in his pocket. He knew he needed to pick up speed if he was going to keep the gunman in sight. He got to the corner of Spring and Second just as the gunman reached Third Street and turned the corner out of sight. Bosch started to run and crossed to the west side when there was an opening in traffic.

At Third, Bosch turned right and saw the gunman halfway up the block to Broadway. He had crossed over to the south side of the street. Bosch stayed on the sidewalk on the north side, slowed his pace, and tried to regulate his breathing. Third Street ran slightly uphill and Bosch started huffing. The adrenaline flood that had hit his bloodstream when he saw Sanger murdered in broad daylight was starting to ebb.

The gunman crossed Broadway against the traffic light and turned left on the other side. By the time Bosch got to the corner, the light had changed and the walk signal was flashing. Bosch crossed and watched as the gunman ducked into the Grand Central Market.

Bosch could hear sirens now, but they weren’t close. His guess was that the officers he had asked for had responded to the shooting scene rather than to the location he had given the 911 operator.

The market was crowded with people buying groceries or in line to order from the many different food stalls. Bosch entered and at first did not see the man in black. Then he appeared on the stairs at the midway point of the split-level market. At the top of the stairs he looked back but did not focus on Bosch in the sea of shoppers. Bosch guessed that he was looking for uniforms, not an old man in a suit.

Bosch noted that the man was no longer carrying the gun in his hand but his shirt was now out of his pants. That told Bosch he had not ditched the gun. It was tucked into his pants under his shirt.

The gunman went through the block-long market, emerged on Hill Street, and without hesitation waded out into traffic and crossed the road. Bosch came out of the market in time to see the man go through the turnstile at Angels Flight and climb into the waiting train car.

Bosch knew he had to hold back. He could not get into the train car without exposing himself to the killer. He stayed across the street and watched as the door closed and the car started to move slowly up the tracks toward the terminus at the top of Bunker Hill.

Angels Flight was a funicular that was billed as the shortest train route in the world. It had twin antique railcars that went up and down 150 feet of elevated track. They were counterbalanced, with one going up while the other came down, passing each other at the midpoint of the tracks. Bosch crossed Hill Street as the second car arrived at the lower turnstile. He got on along with a handful of other passengers and sat on one of the wooden bench seats. He waited anxiously as the train car rumbled up the tracks.

At the top of the tracks was a plaza surrounded by the towering glass buildings of the financial district. Bosch had moved to the upper door of the train car so he could be the first one off when it reached its terminus. The Angels Flight ticket booth was there and he had to pay a dollar before he could get through the upper turnstile. He pulled his money out and saw that the smallest bill he had was a twenty. He pushed it through the opening in the booth’s glass.

“Keep the change,” he said. “Just let me through.”

He went through the turnstile and once out in the open plaza did a 360-degree sweep with his eyes but did not spot the man in black.

Bosch saw an opening between one of the towers and the contemporary art museum to his right. He headed that way, breaking into a trot. When he reached Grand Avenue he did another 360 but there was still no sign of the man in black. He was gone.

“Shit,” he said.

He was panting. He bent over and put his hands on his knees so he could catch his breath. He was sweating badly.

“You okay, sir?”

Bosch looked up. It was a woman carrying a bag from the museum store.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little winded. But thanks.”

She moved on and Bosch straightened up and scanned the street a final time in both directions, once more looking for the man in black. Nothing caught his attention. No pedestrian, no car. The gunman could have gone a dozen different ways after getting off Angels Flight.

Bosch’s phone buzzed and he saw that it was Haller calling.

“Mick.”

“Harry, where the fuck are you? I need you back here. Something’s going on. The clerk got a call and —”

“Sanger’s dead.”

“What?”

“She’s dead. Somebody shot her with her own gun when she was on the smoking patio outside.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I followed him but I lost him on Bunker Hill.”

“You saw it happen?”

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