The Reversal

But that was enough.
    “Shit!” McPherson said. “Sarah isn’t even registered under her name. How did Revelle get this?”
    “She must’ve followed us back after court, paid somebody for the room number. We have to assume that Jessup has this information.”
    Bosch pulled his phone and called Mickey Haller on speed dial.
    “It’s Bosch. You still have Sarah with you?”
    “Yes, she’s here in court. We’re waiting for the judge.”
    “Look, don’t scare her but she can’t go back to the hotel.”
    “All right. How come?”
    “Because there’s an indication here that Jessup has that location. We’ll be setting up on it.”
    “What do I do, then?”
    “I’ll be sending a protection team to the court—for both of you. They’ll know what to do.”
    “They can cover her. I don’t need it.”
    “That’ll be your choice. My advice is you take it.”
    He closed the phone and looked at McPherson.
    “I gotta get a protection team over there. I want you to take my car and get my daughter and your daughter and go somewhere safe. You call me then and I’ll send a team to you, too.”
    “My car’s two blocks from here. I can just—”
    “That’ll waste too much time. Take mine and go now. I’ll call the school and tell them you’re coming for Maddie.”
    “Okay.”
    “Thank you. Call me when you have—”
    They heard shouting from the front of the office suite. Angry male voices. Bosch knew they came from the friends of Manny Branson. They were seeing their fallen comrade on the floor and getting fueled with outrage and the scent of blood for the hunt.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    They moved back through the suite to the front. Bosch saw Wright standing just outside the front door, consoling two SIS men with angry, tear-streaked faces. Bosch made his way around Branson’s body and out the door. He tapped Wright on the elbow.
    “I need a moment, Lieutenant.”
    Wright broke away from his two men and followed. Bosch walked a few yards to where they could speak privately. But he need not have worried about being overheard. In the sky above, there were at least four media choppers circling over the crime scene and laying down a layer of camouflage sound that would make any conversation on the block private.
    “I need two of your best men,” Bosch said, leaning toward Wright’s ear.
    “Okay. What do you have going?”
    “There’s a note on the desk of one of the victims. It’s the hotel and room number of our prime witness. We have to assume our shooter has that information. The slaughter inside there indicates he’s taking out the people associated with the trial. The people he thinks did him wrong. That’s a long list but I think our witness would be at the top of it.”
    “Got it. You want to set up at the hotel.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “Yeah. One man outside, one inside and me in the room. We wait and see if he shows.”
    Wright shook his head.
    “We use four. Two inside and two outside. But forget waiting in the room, because Jessup will never get by the surveillance. Instead, you and I find a viewpoint up high and set up the command post. That’s the right way to do it.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “Okay, let’s go.”
    “Except there’s one thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “If I bring you in on this, then you stay back. My people take him down.”
    Bosch studied him for a moment, trying to read everything hidden in what he was saying.
    “There are questions,” Bosch said. “About Franklin Canyon and the other places. I need to talk to Jessup.”
    Wright looked over Bosch’s shoulder and back toward the front door of Royce and Associates.
    “Detective, one of my best people is dead on the floor in there. I’m not guaranteeing you anything. You understand?”
    Bosch paused and then nodded.
    “I understand.”

Forty-one
    Thursday, April 8, 1:50 P.M .
    T here was more media in the courtroom than there had been at any other point of the trial. The first two rows of the gallery were shoulder-to-shoulder with reporters and cameramen. The rest of the rows were filled with courthouse personnel and lawyers who had heard what had happened to Clive Royce.
    Sarah Gleason sat in a row by the courtroom deputy’s desk. It was marked as reserved for law enforcement officers but the deputy put her there so the reporters couldn’t get to her. Meantime, I sat at the prosecution table waiting for the judge like a man on a desert island. No Maggie. No Bosch. Nobody at the defense table. I was