Bosch saw two more patrol officers in the rear hallway and he guessed they were holding the witness in what was probably a rear storage room or office. He put his briefcase down on the floor by the door. He unsnapped the locks and pulled out two pairs of latex gloves. He gave a set to Ferras and they put them on.
The sergeant noticed the arrival of the two detectives and broke away from his men.
“Ray Lucas,” he said by way of greeting. “We have one vic down behind the counter here. His name is John Li, spelled L-I. Happened, we think, about an hour ago. Looks like a robbery where the guy just didn’t want to leave a witness. A lot of us down here in the Seventy-seventh knew Mr. Li. He was a good old guy.”
Lucas signaled Bosch and Ferras over to the counter. Bosch held his coat so it wouldn’t touch anything when he went around and squeezed into the small space behind the counter. He squatted down like a baseball catcher to look closer at the dead man on the floor. Ferras leaned in over him like an umpire.
The man on the floor was Asian and looked to be almost seventy. He was on his back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His lips were pulled back from clenched teeth, almost in a sneer. There was blood on his lips, cheek and chin. It had been coughed up as he died. The front of his shirt was soaked with his blood and Bosch could see at least three bullet entry points in his chest. His right leg was bent at the knee and folded awkwardly under his other leg. He had obviously collapsed on the spot where he had been standing when he was shot.
“No casings that we can see,” Lucas said. “The shooter cleaned those up and then he was smart enough to pull the disc out of the recorder in the back.”
Bosch nodded. The patrol guys always wanted to be helpful but it was information Bosch didn’t need yet. There was much to do first.
Bosch studied the body silently. He was pretty sure it was the same man he had encountered in here so many years before. He was even in the same spot on the floor behind the counter. And Bosch could see a soft pack of cigarettes in the shirt pocket.
He noticed that the victim’s right hand had blood smeared on it. This was not unusual. From earliest childhood, you touch your hand to an injury to try to protect it and make it better. It is a natural instinct. This victim had done the same here, most likely grabbing at his chest after the first shot hit him.
There was a substantial spatial separation between the bullet wounds. At least four inches separated the shots as they formed the points of a triangle. Bosch knew that three quick shots from close range usually made a tighter cluster. This led him to believe that the victim had likely been shot once and then had fallen to the floor. The killer had then probably leaned over the counter and shot him twice more, creating the spread.
The slugs had torn through the victim’s chest, causing massive damage to the heart and lungs. The blood expectorated through the mouth showed that death was not immediate. The victim had tried to breathe. After all his years working cases, Bosch was sure of one thing. There was no easy way to die.
“No headshot,” Bosch said.
“Right,” Ferras said. “What’s it mean?”
Bosch realized he had been musing out loud.
“Maybe nothing. Just seems like three in the chest, the shooter wanted no doubt. But then no headshot to make sure.”
“Like a contradiction.”
“Maybe.”
Bosch took his eyes off the body for the first time and looked around from his low angle. His eyes immediately held on a gun that was in a holster attached to the underside of the counter. It was located for easy access in case of a robbery or worse, but it had not even been pulled from its holster.
“We’ve got a gun under here,” Bosch said. “Looks like a forty-five in a holster, but the old man never got the chance to pull it.”
“The shooter came in quick and shot the old guy before he could reach for his piece,” Ferras said. “Maybe he knew he was strapped.”
“The gun’s gotta be new,” Lucas said. “The guy’s been robbed at least six times in the last three years since I’ve been here. As far as I know, he never pulled a gun.”
Bosch nodded and turned his head to speak over his shoulder to the sergeant.
“Tell me about the witness,” he said.
“Uh, she’s not really a witness,” Lucas said. “It’s Mrs. Li, the wife.
She came in and found her husband when she brought the dinner in. We’ve got her in the back room but you’ll need a translator. We called the ACU, asked for Chinese to go.”
Bosch took another look at the dead man’s face, then stood up and both his knees cracked loudly. Lucas had acted a bit quick in calling the Asian Crime Unit. That was supposed to be Bosch’s call but the department had so many specialty units that a patrol sergeant like Lucas was probably always quick to make use of whatever seemed necessary.
“You speak Chinese, Sarge?”
“No, that’s why I called ACU.”
“Then how did you know to ask for Chinese and not Korean or maybe even Vietnamese?”
“I’ve been on the job twenty-six years, Detective. And—”
“And you know Chinese when you see it.”
“No, what I’m saying is, I have a hard time making it through a shift these days without a little jolt. Once a day I stop by here to pick up one of those energy drinks, you know? Five-hour boost it gives you. Anyway, I got to know Mr. Li a little bit from coming in. He told me he and his wife came from China and that’s how I knew.”
Bosch nodded and was embarrassed.
“I guess I’ll have to try one of those,” he said. “Did Mrs. Li call nine-one-one?”
“No, like I said, she doesn’t have much English. From what I got from dispatch, Mrs. Li called her son and he’s the one who called nine-one-one.”
Bosch stepped out and around the counter. Ferras lingered behind it, squatting to get the same view of the body and the gun that Bosch had just had.
“Where is the son?” Bosch asked.
“He’s coming but he works up in the Valley,” Lucas said. “Should be here anytime now.”
Bosch pointed to the counter.
“When he gets here, you and your people keep him away from this.”
“Got it.”
“And we’re going to have to try to keep this place as clear as possible now.”
Lucas got the message and took his officers out of the store. Finished behind the counter, Ferras joined Bosch near the front door, where he was looking up at the camera mounted on the ceiling at the center of the store.
“Why don’t you check out the back?” Bosch said. “See if the guy really pulled the disc, and look in on our witness.”
“Got it.”
“Oh, and find the thermostat. Turn the air down. It’s too warm in here and I don’t want that body to turn.”
Ferras headed down the center aisle. Bosch looked back to take in the scene as a whole. The counter was about twelve feet long. The cash register was set up at center with an open space for customers to put down their purchases. On one side of this were racks of gum and candy. On the other side of the register were other point-of-purchase products, like energy drinks, a plastic case containing cheap cigars and a lotto display case. Overhead was a wire-mesh storage box for cigarette cartons.