Echo Park

said.
    “It’s a start,” O’Shea said. “What took you so long to call?”
    “I actually did have to take a leak.”
    While O’Shea talked to Pratt about going back to the bench and trying once more for an admission from Anthony Garland, Bosch slipped his earphones back on to hear the conversation taking place at the bench.
    From the visuals on the screens it looked like Anthony Garland was arguing with his father. The old man was pointing a finger at him.
    Bosch picked it up in the middle.
    “It’s our only out,” Anthony Garland said.
    “I said no!” the old man commanded. “You cannot do this. You
will
not do this.”
    On the screen Anthony stepped away from his father and then stepped right back. It looked like he was on an invisible leash. He bent down close to his father and this time he pointed the finger. What he said was spoken so low that the FBI microphones picked up only a mumble. Bosch pressed his hands over the earphones but couldn’t get it.
    “Jerry,” he said. “Can you work on this?”
    Bosch pointed to the screens. Hooten pulled on his earphones and went to work on the audio dials. But it was too late. The close conversation between father and son was over. Anthony Garland had just straightened up in front of his father and turned his back to him. He was silently looking out across the lake.
    Bosch leaned back so that he could see the screen that showed an angle on the bench from one of the path lights at the water’s edge. It was the only screen that showed Anthony’s face at the moment. Bosch saw the rage in his eyes. He had seen it before.
    Anthony set his jaw tightly and shook his head. He turned back to his father.
    “Sorry, Dad.”
    With that he started walking toward the boathouse. Bosch watched him take forceful strides toward the door of the restrooms. He saw his hand go inside his blazer.
    Bosch slapped off his earphones.
    “Anthony’s headed to the men’s room!” he said. “I think he’s got a gun!”
    Bosch jumped up and shoved past Hooten to get to the van’s door. Unfamiliar with it, he fumbled with the handle trying to get it open. Behind him he heard O’Shea barking commands into the radio mike.
    “Everybody move in! Move in! Suspect is armed. Repeat, suspect is armed!”
    Bosch finally got out of the van and started running toward the boathouse. There was no sign of Anthony Garland. He was already inside.
    Bosch was on the far side of the park and more than a hundred yards away. Other agents and district attorney’s office investigators had been deployed closer and Bosch saw them running with weapons out toward the boathouse as well. Just as the first man, an FBI agent, got to the doorway the sound of gunfire echoed from within the restroom. Four quick shots.
    Bosch knew that Pratt’s weapon was dry. It was a prop. He had needed to have a gun in case the Garlands checked him. But Pratt was in custody and facing charges. They had taken away his bullets.
    As Bosch watched, the agent at the doorway dropped into a combat stance, shouted, “FBI!” and entered. Almost immediately, there were more shots but these were of a different timbre than the first four. Bosch knew these were from the agent’s gun.
    As Bosch got to the restroom the agent stepped out, gun at his side. He held a radio to his mouth.
    “We have two down in the restroom,” he said. “Scene is secured.”
    Winded from his run, Bosch gulped down some air and walked toward the doorway.
    “Detective, that’s a crime scene in there,” the agent said.
    He put his hand up in front of Bosch’s chest. Bosch pushed it aside.
    “I don’t care.”
    He entered the restroom and saw the bodies of Pratt and Garland on the dirty concrete floor. Pratt had been shot twice in the face and twice in the chest. Garland had taken three chest shots. The fingers of Pratt’s right hand were touching the sleeve of Garland’s blazer. Pools of blood on the floor were blossoming from both bodies and soon would mingle.
    Bosch watched for a few moments, studying Anthony’s open eyes. The rage Bosch had seen moments before was gone, replaced by the empty look of death.
    He stepped out of the restroom and looked over at the bench. The old man, T. Rex Garland, sat leaning forward with his face in his hands. The cane with the polished dragon’s head had been dropped to the grass.

38

    THE ENTIRETY OF ECHO PARK was closed for the investigation. For the third time in a week Bosch was interviewed about a