Free Suicide Run by Michael Connelly

the investigation.
    “Harry, what do you want me to do?” Ferras asked.
    “Head to Parker Center. I’m going to put Sauer on a search warrant for the victim’s house. Hopefully he’ll have it signed and ready to go by the time you get there. Pick it up and come out here to the scene. We’ll figure out things then.”
    “What about Turnbull?”
    “Give me his address. I’m going to take a run by there now.”
    After he finished the call and hung up, Gunn spoke first.
    “I checked the purse. The money’s gone. What’s happening?”
    “You have a company car here?”
    “Yeah, I’ve got a piece-of-shit cruiser from the barn at Pacific.”
    “Good. You drive. I’ll tell you what’s happening on the way. Everything I just told you—that we talked about—it all just went down the tubes.”

    The address Ferras had given Bosch for the home of Charles Turnbull led to a brick apartment building on Franklin. On the way there Bosch filled Gunn in on what Ferras had come up with at the casino in Commerce.
    They had no background on Turnbull other than what Ferras had given them but when they got to the entrance to the apartment building, another new dimension was added. Next to the button for apartment 4B it said
Turnbull Investigations.
Before pushing the button, Bosch called Jim Sauer at Parker Center and asked him to run the name Charles Turnbull through the state corporations and licensing computer. A few minutes later he hung up.
    “He’s held a PI license for sixteen years,” he told Gunn. “Before that he was a Santa Monica cop.”
    Bosch pushed the button next to Turnbull Investigations. After getting no response he pushed it two more times, each time longer than the time before. He had opened his phone again and was asking directory assistance for a number for Turnbull when a sleepy and annoyed voice sounded from the speaker above the entrance buttons.
    “
Whaaat
is it?”
    Bosch stepped close to the speaker.
    “Mr. Turnbull?”
    “What? It’s eight o’clock in the morning!”
    “ LAPD , Mr. Turnbull. We need to speak to you.”
    “About what?”
    “It’s an emergency situation, sir, involving one of your clients. Can we come up?”
    “Which client?”
    “Can we come up?”
    There was no response for five seconds and then there was a buzzing sound and the entrance door was electronically unlocked. They took the elevator up to the fourth floor and on the way Bosch unsnapped the safety strap on his holster. Gunn did the same.
    “That a Kimber?” Bosch asked.
    “Yeah, the Ultra Carry.”
    Bosch nodded. It was the same weapon he carried.
    “Good gun. Never jams.”
    “I hope we don’t have to find out.”
    When they stepped out of the elevator, there was a man standing in the hallway in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He wore a ragged bathrobe over the ensemble, which hid much of his belt line and anything he might have hidden in it. He was in bare feet and his dark brown hair was sticking straight up on one side. He had been asleep.
    “Turnbull?” Bosch asked, while using his right hand to show the man his badge.
    “What’s this about?” the man asked.
    “Not in the hallway. Can we come in, Mr. Turnbull?”
    “Whatever.”
    He pointed them toward the open door to apartment B but Bosch signaled him to go in first. Bosch wanted to keep Turnbull in front of him and in sight at all times.
    “Have a seat if you can find a spot,” Turnbull said as they entered. “Coffee?”
    “I could use some,” Bosch said.
    “Thank you,” said Gunn.
    They both remained standing. The apartment had furnishings of a contemporary design but it was cluttered with Turnbull’s work. There were files stacked on the coffee table and spread on a couch. It was clear that the living room was the nexus of his practice.
    Bosch followed him to the kitchen alcove, again so he could keep a visual on him. Turnbull spoke as he filled a glass coffeepot with water.
    “Which client is in the shit?” Turnbull