Angle of Investigation: Three Harry Bosch Short Stories – Read Now and Download Mobi

Angle of Investigation: Three Harry
Bosch Stories

Michael Connelly

Christmas Even

The Three Kings Pawnshop on Hollywood Boulevard had been victimized by a burglar three times in two years. The criminal methods of each break-in were similar and so it was suspected by the Los Angeles Police Department that the same thief was responsible each time. But the thief was careful never to leave a fingerprint or any other clue to his identity. No arrests were ever made and none of the stolen property was ever recovered. Nikolai Servan, the Russian immigrant who owned the store, was left to wonder about the justice system of his adopted country.

On the day before Christmas of this year Servan unlocked the rear door of the pawnshop, entered and discovered that his business had been victimized a fourth time. He also discovered that the burglar was still inside. It was this discovery that ultimately brought Detective Harry Bosch and his partner, Jerry Edgar, to the Three Kings Pawnshop.

Shortly after 10 A.M. they arrived in a slickback Bosch had checked out of the motor pool at the Hollywood Division. They knew a burglary detective named Eugene Braxton was already waiting inside the shop with Nikolai Servan. Along with the body.

“Look at that, Harry, looks like a big old Christmas present,” Edgar remarked as Bosch killed the engine. “Just waitin’ for us to open it.”

Edgar was right. The exterior walls of the small, single-story pawnshop were painted a garish red. The yellow crime scene tape that had been strung across the front by the patrol officers looked like a bow. Bosch didn’t bother to comment on his partner’s observation. He got out and closed the car door.

Bosch stood for a moment on the sidewalk and studied the front of the pawnshop. It was between a porno emporium and a shop that offered private mailboxes. A steel security gate had been folded open—presumably by Servan that morning after he called the police. Bosch looked up at the sign on the front wall above the plateglass windows. He saw that the triangular formation of three balls—the international pawnshop emblem—had been modified to include a king’s crown on each ball.

“Cute,” Edgar said, looking up at the sign, too.

“Very,” Bosch said. “Let’s get this done.”

“Don’t worry about me, Har. I’m not going to hold things up. It’s Christmas Eve. I wanna wrap this thing up and get home early for a change.”

Bosch stepped in and moved through the front of the shop, past the bicycles and golfe="ize clubs and antiques and musical instruments, and reached the counter where Braxton and Servan waited.

Braxton, who had investigated the previous three burglaries at Three Kings, had gotten there first because Servan had his business card taped to the side of the telephone. When the shop owner came to work that morning and found the dead burglar behind the jewelry case, he didn’t dial 911. He dialed Braxton.

“Merry Christmas, Brax,” Bosch said. “What have we got?”

“Deck the halls, Harry,” Braxton said. “We’ve got one less burglar in the world. And that makes Christmas a good one for me already.”

Bosch nodded and looked at Servan, who was seated on a tall stool on the other side of the counter. He was about fifty with black hair thinning on the top. He had a lot of muscle that was going soft. He had no visible tattoos.

“This is Nikolai Servan,” Braxton said. “This is his store.”

Bosch reached a hand across the counter to shake Servan’s hand. The Russian came off the stool and shook hands firmly.

“Mr. Servan, I’m Detective Bosch. This is Detective Edgar.”

“Nick. Call me Nick, please.”

His accent was heavy. Bosch guessed he’d been in the country only a few years. Edgar reached across the counter and shook his hand as well.

Bosch moved around Braxton and over to the area behind the glass jewelry counter. Sprawled on the floor in this close space was the body. He was a white man dressed head to toe in black. All except for the right hand. It was not wearing a glove, while the left hand was. Bosch crouched like a baseball catcher next to the body and studied it without touching anything. A knit ski mask had been pulled down over the face. There were openings for the eyes and mouth. Bosch noted that the eyes were open and the lips were pulled back despite the teeth being closed together tightly. He spoke without looking up.

“What’s the ETA on ME and SID?”

“On the way,” Braxton said. “That’s all I can tell you. Not much traffic today, though.”

The medical examiner’s team and the forensics people would be coming from downtown. Bosch and Edgar had driven only eight blocks from the station where they were posted.

“You know this guy, Brax?”

“Can’t see enough of him to know for sure.”

Bosch didn’t say anything. He waited. He knew that Braxton had to have taken a quick look under the ski mask, even though this would have violated crime scene protocol.

“It kind of looks like a guy I popped about five years back nath=ears bamed Monty Kelman,” Braxton said.

Bosch nodded.

“Local guy, I take it?”

“Most of the time. From what I heard, he used to take out-of-town assignments. Was on a crew that took work from a setup guy named Leo Freeling. Worked out of the Valley. But Leo got himself killed a few years back. I think Monty’s been sort of setting up his own capers since then.”

“Works alone?”

“Depends on the job.”

Bosch took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, blew them up like balloons to make them fit better and then slipped them on. He adjusted his position and tried to roll the body a little bit to check for wounds and the missing glove. He didn’t see anything but he didn’t want to roll the body completely over until after photos were taken and the medical examiner’s investigators surveyed the scene.

“So how did this guy die?”

The question was rhetorical but he looked up at Servan just as he said it. It seemed to take the shop owner by surprise, as if he had been accused of something. Servan spread his hands and shook his head.

“I don’t know this,” he said. “I come to shop, unlock, he is dead right there.”

Bosch nodded and looked around the counter area. He noticed Edgar was no longer there. He looked at Braxton.

“Brax, why don’t you take Mr. Servan to one of the patrol cars so we can work in here.”

While Braxton took Servan outside, Bosch went back to the body and continued his examination. He lifted the bare hand and studied it, trying to figure out why there was no glove. He noticed a discoloration on the pad of the thumb. A brownish yellow line. There was a matching line of discoloration on the index finger. Using both hands he placed the thumb and finger together, aligning the two marks. It appeared as though the hand—the right hand—had been holding a pen or some other thin instrument when the marks had been made.

Bosch carefully placed the hand on the floor and moved down the body to the feet. He removed the right shoe, a black leather athletic shoe with a black rubber sole, and peeled off the black sock. On the ball of the dead man’s foot was a circular discoloration that was brown at its center, tapering outward in yellow.

“Whadaya got, Harry?”

Bosch looked up. It was Braxton.

“I’m not sure yet. You see a glove? The guy’s missing a glove.”

“Over here.”

It was Edgar. He was behind another display case on the other side ofustther si the shop. Bosch stood up and walked over. Edgar crouched and pointed beneath the case.

“There’s a black leather glove under the case. I don’t know if it’s a match but it is a glove.”

Bosch got down on his hands and knees so he could look underneath the display case. He reached under and pulled out the glove.

“Looks the same,” he said.

“If it does not fit, you must acquit,” said Edgar.

Bosch looked at him.

“Johnnie Cochran,” Edgar said. “You know, the O.J. gloves.”

“Right.”

Bosch stood up. One of his knees made a popping sound as he did so. He looked into the case. It contained two shelves lighted from inside. On the shelves were non-jewelry items of what appeared to be high value. There were coins and some small jade sculptures, gold and silver pillboxes, cigarette cases and other ornate and bejeweled trinkets. It was high-end stuff. Most of the coins, Bosch noticed, were Russian.

Bosch stepped away from the case and surveyed the shop. Other than the two display cases there was mostly junk, the property of financially desperate people willing to part with almost anything in exchange for cash.

“Brax,” Bosch said. “Where’s the entry?”

Braxton signaled him toward the back and led the way. Bosch and Edgar followed. They came to a rear room that was used as an office and for storage. Gravel and other debris were scattered on the floor. They all looked up. There was a hole roughly cut in the ceiling. It was two feet wide and there was blue sky above.

“It’s a composite roof,” Braxton said. “No big thing cutting through. A half hour maybe.”

“It would make noise,” Edgar said. “Anybody know when the porno palace closes?”

“I remember I checked one of the other times this place was hit,” Braxton said. “He closes at four, reopens at eight. Four-hour window.”

“The roof the entry point in the other three hits?” Bosch asked.

Braxton shook his head.

“He hit the back door the first two times and then the roof. This is the second time through the roof.”

“You think it was Monty all three times before?”

“Wouldn’t doubt it. That’s what these guys do. Hit the same places over and over. After the second time the back door was used, Mr. Servan took precautions there. Added more steel reinforcement. So the guy went up onto the rook ionto thf.”

“Why this place so many times?” Edgar asked.

“A lot of immigrants come here. Russians, Koreans, from all over. They pawn the stuff they brought with them from the homeland. Jade. Gold. Coins. Small, expensive stuff. Burglars love that shit, man. That case where you found that glove? It’s all in there. That’s what the guy came in for. I don’t know why he ended up behind the jewelry case.”

“What’s been the take on the prior three?” Bosch asked.

“It’s probably averaged out to forty to fifty grand a hit,” Braxton said. “That’s on the high side for a pawnshop. That’s why this guy kept getting hit.”

A patrolman stepped back into the rear room and told the detectives that the medical examiner’s people had arrived.

The three detectives continued to huddle for a moment to discuss initial impressions and Bosch’s theory on what had happened to the burglar and to set a case strategy. It was decided that Edgar would stay on scene and assist the ME and SID teams as necessary. Bosch and Braxton would handle Servan and next-of-kin notification.

As soon as the medical examiner’s investigator rolled a set of prints off the burglar’s exposed hand, Bosch and Braxton headed back to Hollywood Division along with Nikolai Servan.

Bosch scanned the prints into the computer and sent them downtown to the print lab at Parker Center. He then conducted a formal and taped interview with Servan. Though the pawnbroker added nothing new to what he had told them in his shop, it was important for Bosch to lock down his story on tape.

By the time he was done with the interview he had a message waiting from a print technician named Tom Rusch. The prints were matched by computer to a thirty-nine-year-old ex-convict named Montgomery George Kelman. Kelman was on parole for a burglary conviction.

It took Bosch three calls to locate Kelman’s parole agent and to get the dead man’s current address and employer. He was told Kelman worked a morning dishwashing shift at a restaurant on Hillview. The parole agent had already received a call that morning from the restaurant owner, who reported that Kelman had not shown up for work or called in sick—as parole regulations dictated. The agent seemed pleased to learn he didn’t have to bother filing all the paperwork needed to show Kelman violated parole.

“Merry Christmas!” he said to Bosch before hanging up.

After checking with Edgar by phone and learning the techs were still working the body and scene, Bosch told his partner that the victim had been IDed as Kelman and that he and Braxton were headed to the address the parole agent had provided for Kelman. He said they were going to leave Nikolai Servan behind in an interview room at the division.

Monty Kelman’s address was an apartment on Los Feliz near Griffith Park. Bosch’s knock was answered by a young woman in shorts andresn short a long-sleeve turtleneck shirt. She was thin to the point of being gaunt. An obvious junkie. She abruptly collapsed into the fetal position on the couch when they gave her the bad news about Monty. While Braxton attempted to console her and gather information from her at the same time, Bosch took a quick look around the one-bedroom apartment. As he expected, there was no obvious sign that the premises belonged to a burglar. This apartment was the front—the place where the parole agent visited and Kelman kept the semblance of a law-abiding life. Bosch knew that any active burglar with a parole tail would keep a separate and secret place—a safe house—for his tools and swag.

In the bedroom was a small desk in which Kelman kept his checkbook and personal papers. Bosch flipped through the checkbook and saw nothing unusual. He looked through everything else in the drawer but found no lead to Kelman’s safe house. He wasn’t particularly anxious about it. It was just a loose end, something that would be of greater concern to Braxton, as a burglary detective, than to Bosch.

As he turned to leave the bedroom he saw a saxophone propped on a stand in the corner by the door. He recognized from its size that it was an alto. He stepped over and lifted it into his hands. It looked old but well cared for. It was polished brass and he saw the buffing cloth pushed down into the mouth of the instrument. Bosch had never played the saxophone, had never even tried, but the instrument’s sound was the only music that had ever been able to truly light him up inside.

He held the instrument with a sense of reverence he rarely exhibited for any person or thing. And for a moment he was tempted to raise the mouthpiece to his lips and try to sound a note. Instead, he gripped the instrument the way he had seen countless musicians—from Art Pepper to Wayne Shorter—hold theirs.

“Harry, you got anything?” Braxton said from the other room.

Bosch carried the saxophone and stand out to the living room. The woman was sitting up on the couch now, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Tears streaked her face. Bosch didn’t know if she was crying over her lost love or her lost junk ticket.

He held up the saxophone.

“Whose is this?”

She swallowed before answering.

“It’s Monty’s. Was.”

“He played?”

“He tried. He liked jazz. He always said he wanted to take lessons. He never did.”

A new rush of tears cascaded down her cheeks.

“It’s gotta be swag,” Braxton said, ignoring her and speaking to Bosch. “I can run it on the box when we get back. On those things the manufacturer and serial number are engraved inside the bell.”

He pointed to the mouth of the horn.

“In there. Wouldn’t surprise me if it came out of Servan’s shop on one of the earlier B and Es.”

Bosch pulled the felt buffing cloth out of the opening and looked inside. There was an inscription on the curved brass but he couldn’t read it. He walked over to the window and angled the instrument so sunlight flooded into the mouth. He bent close and turned the instrument so he could read it.

CALUMET INSTRUMENTS

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

CUSTOM MADE FOR QUENTIN MCKINZIE, 1963

“THE SWEET SPOT”

Bosch read it again and then a third time. His temples suddenly felt as if someone had pressed hot quarters against them. A flash memory filled his thoughts. A musician under the canopy set up on the deck of the ship. The soldiers crowded close. Those in wheelchairs, the men missing limbs, at the front. The man playing the sax, bending up and down and in and out like Sugar Ray Robinson coming from the corner of the ring. The music beautiful and agile, lighting him up. The sound better than anything he had ever heard. The goddamn light at the end of all his tunnels.

“Jesus, Harry, what’s it say?”

Bosch looked over at Braxton, the memory retreating into the darkness.

“What?”

“You look like you saw a ghost hidin’ in there. What’s it say?”

“Chicago. It was made in Chicago.”

“Calumet?”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m a burglary detective. It’s my job to know. Calumet is one of the big ones. Been around a long time. We might be able to trace it.”

Bosch nodded.

“You finished here?” he asked. “Let’s go.”

On the way back to the station Bosch let Braxton drive so that he could hold and study the saxophone.

“What’s something like this worth?” he asked after they were halfway to their destination.

“Depends. New, you’re talking in the thousands. To a pawnbroker probably a fne.probablew hundred.”

“You ever heard of Quentin McKinzie?”

Braxton shook his head.

“I don’t think so.”

“They called him Sugar Ray McK. On account of when he played the sax he’d bob and weave like the fighter Sugar Ray Robinson. He was good. He was mostly a session guy but he put out a few records. ‘The Sweet Spot,’ you never heard that tune?”

“Sorry, man, not into jazz. Too much of a cliché, you know? Detectives and jazz. I listen to country myself.”

Bosch felt disappointed. He wanted to tell him about that day on the ship but if Braxton didn’t know jazz it couldn’t be explained.

“What’s the connection?” Braxton asked.

Bosch held up the saxophone.

“This was his. It says inside here, ‘Custom made for Quentin McKinzie.’ That’s Sugar Ray McK.”

“You ever see him play?”

Bosch nodded.

“One time. Nineteen sixty-nine.”

Braxton whistled.

“Long time ago. You think he’s still alive?”

“I don’t know. He’s not recording. Last disc he put out was Man with an Ax. That was at least ten years ago. Maybe longer. It was a compilation.”

Bosch looked at the saxophone.

“Can’t record without this anyway, I suppose.”

Bosch’s cell phone chirped. It was Edgar.

“Harry, whereyat?”

“On the way back to the station. We just checked out Kelman’s apartment.”

“Anything?”

“Not really. A junkie and a saxophone. What have you got?”

“First off, we’ve got lividity issues. This guy was moved.”

“And what’s the ME say about cause?”

“He’s going with your theory at the moment. Electrocution. The burns on the hand and foot—where the juice went in and out.”

“You find the source?Kelm sasource?

“I looked around. Can’t find it.”

Bosch thought about all of this. Postmortem lividity was the settling of the blood in a dead body. It was a purple gravity line. If a body is moved after the blood has settled, then a new gravity line will appear. It is an easy tip-off that most people outside of homicide investigation don’t know about.

“You looked around the case where the glove was?”

“Yeah, I looked. I can’t find any electrical source that can explain this. The case you’re talking about has internal lighting but there’s no malfunction.”

Braxton pulled into the parking lot behind the station and into a spot reserved for investigators’ cars.

“You do a property inventory on the guy yet?”

“Yeah, nothing. Pockets empty. No ID or anything else.”

“All right, we’re at the cop shop. Let me think about it and call you back.”

“Whatever, Harry. I just want to get out of here on time tonight and I don’t like the looks of this.”

“I know, I know.”

Bosch closed the phone and got out of the car with the saxophone.

“What has he got?” Braxton asked.

“Nothing much,” Bosch said over the top of the car. “It looks like an electrocution.”

“You called it.”

“When we get in, can you pull the reports on the three prior B and Es at Three Kings?”

“You got it. What about Servan?”

“I’ll check on him but I’m going to let him sit for a while.”

They went into the station and down to the detective bureau, where they split up, Braxton going to the burglary corral to get the reports, and Bosch to the rear hallway that led to the interview rooms. Servan was in interview room 3, pacing in the small space when Bosch opened the door.

“Mr. Servan, are you okay? It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Yeah, okay, okay. You find?”

He pointed to the saxophone. Bosch nodded.

“Did this come from your store?”

Servan studied the instrument and nodded vigorously.

“I think so, yes.”

“Okay, well, we’ll find out for sure. We’ve got a few things to do and then we’ll get back to you. You want some coffee or to use the bathroom?”

Servan declined both and Bosch left him there. When he got to the homicide table he started looking for Quentin McKinzie, running searches on the DMV, voter registration and crime index computers. He came up with a record of drug arrests in Los Angeles in the 1970s and 1980s but no address and nothing that gave a clue to his current whereabouts.

Braxton came over and dropped three thin files on his desk. Bosch told him to take the photo of Monty Kelman they had pulled off the computer and show it to Servan to see if he recognized Kelman as ever coming into the shop as a customer.

After Braxton was gone Bosch started looking through the burglary reports, beginning with the first break-in at Three Kings. He quickly flipped through the pages until he got to the stolen-property inventory. There was no saxophone on the list. He scanned the items listed and determined they were all small pieces taken from the lighted display cabinet.

He flipped back to the summary, which had been written by Braxton. It reported that the unknown suspect or suspects had broken through the rear door to enter the establishment, then had emptied the display case containing the highest-value items in the shop. Braxton noted that the display case had a key lock that had either been left unlocked or was expertly picked by the thief.

He went on to the next report and found a saxophone listed on the stolen-property inventory. It was described as an alto saxophone but there were no other identifiers and no listing of who the person was who had pawned the saxophone. He read the summary and found it mirrored the summary in the first burglary report; the burglar or burglars broke through the rear door, opened the display case and took all of the high-price valuables. The saxophone appeared to have been taken as an afterthought and Bosch knew now that that was because Monty Kelman had always wanted to learn to play the instrument.

The third report was the same, with the exception of the method of entry. This time, with the back door fortified, the burglar or burglars cut through the composite roof and dropped down. The lock on the display case was picked and the shelves emptied for the third time.

The losses from the three burglaries averaged out to $40,000 a hit. Servan had insurance—though Bosch assumed the premiums were ever increasing. Most of the items stolen were sale items, meaning their original owners had let the pawn period lapse and ownership now belonged to Servan.

Braxton walked out of the back hallway and came to the homicide table.

“Yeah, he recognizes him,” he said. “Said he came into the store a couple days ago. Looked at some of the coins in the case.”

“He ever see him before that?”

osseze=ze="3">He thinks so but can’t be sure.”

“Anybody else work in that shop besides him?”

“No, he’s a one-man show. Six days a week, nine to six. Your average hardworking immigrant story.”

Bosch leaned back in his chair and combed one side of his mustache with his thumb. He didn’t say anything. After a few moments Braxton got tired of waiting.

“Harry, what else you need from me?”

Bosch didn’t look up at him.

“Um, can you go back in there and ask him about the case?”

“The case? You mean the display cabinet?”

“Yeah, ask him if he’s sure he locked it every time. On all the burglaries.”

He could tell Braxton was still waiting by the table.

“What?”

“What am I? The errand boy here?”

“No, Brax, you’re the guy he trusts. Go ask him the question.”

Bosch waited, stroking his mustache and thinking. Braxton wasn’t long.

“He said he absolutely locks that case. Even when he’s open for business it’s locked. He only unlocks it to put something in or take something out. Then he relocks it, every time. He keeps the key with him, all the time. There are no copies.”

“So then our guy used picks.”

“Looks that way.”

Bosch nodded.

“Um, one more thing, Brax. The saxophone. He has to keep pawn records, right?”

“He has to keep them and we get copied as well. The pawn detail. They compare pawn inventories to stolen-property reports. You know, look for matches.”

Bosch reached over and lifted the saxophone off the desk.

“So then how can I find out who pawned this?”

Braxton seemed mildly taken aback.

“What’s it got to do with all of this?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. But I want to find out who pawned it.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. The guys in the detail keep everything separated by store.wited by s In shoeboxes. They could just look through the box for Three Kings. Depending on how far back they go, it might be in there.”

“What would work better, if you call them or I call them?”

“They’re not going to like it either way, but let me take a crack at it.”

“Thanks, man.”

Bosch looked at his watch. It was almost noon.

“And tell them we’d like to hear back on it today.”

“I’ll tell them but I doubt they’ll make any promises. It’s Christmas Eve, Harry. People are trying to get home early.”

“Just tell them it’s important.”

“To you or the case?”

Bosch didn’t answer and eventually Braxton went back to his desk to make the call. Bosch looked through the three burglary reports again. When he finished he got up and went down the back hallway to the interview rooms. Instead of going into 3, where Servan was, he went into 4 and looked through the mirrored glass at the pawnbroker. He was sitting at the table with his arms folded and his eyes closed. He was either sleeping or meditating. Maybe both.

He left the room and went back to the homicide table. He sat down and picked up the saxophone again. He liked handling it, the feel and weight of it in his grasp. Knowing that the instrument could produce a sound that echoed all the sadness and hope of humanity gave him pause. Again, he remembered the day on the ship. Sugar Ray bobbing and weaving through “The Sweet Spot” and a few other tunes. Bosch fell in love with the sound that day. It felt like it had come from somewhere deep within himself. He was not the same after that day.

He came out of the memory and walked over to a shelf that ran above the row of file cabinets. He took down one of the forensics manuals and turned to the index. He found what he wanted and went to the page. He was sitting down, reading the manual, when his cell phone chirped and he dug it out of his pocket. It was Edgar.

“Harry, they’re about to clear here. You want me to come in?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, what are we doing?”

“There was nothing with the body, right? No tools, no picks?”

“That’s right. I already told you.”

“I just read through the reports from the three priors. That display case was hit each time. It was picked. Servan said it was always locked.”

“Well, we got no lock picks here, Harry. I guess whoever moved the body took the picks.”

“It was Servan.”

Edgar was quiet and then said, “Why don’t you run it down for me, Harry.”

Bosch thought for a moment before speaking.

“He’d been hit three times in two years. Every time the high-end case was picked. It’s hard to work a set of picks with gloves on. Servan probably knew that the one time this guy took off his gloves was to work the picks. Steel picks going into a steel lock.”

“If he put a hundred ten volts into that lock, it could’ve shut this guy’s heart down.”

“Not necessarily. I’ve been sitting here reading one of the manuals. One-ten can stop your heart, but it all depends on the amps. There’s a formula. It has to do with resistance to the charge. You know, like dry skin versus moist skin, things like that.”

“This guy just took his glove off. He probably had sweaty hands.”

“Exactly. So if the resistance was low and Servan had somehow rigged a one-ten line going directly into that lock, then the initial jolt could have contracted the muscles and left our burglar unable to let go of the pick. The juice goes through him, hits the heart and the heart goes into V-fib.”

“Ventricular fibrillation is a natural cause, Harry.”

“Not when you use one-ten to get it.”

“Then we’re talking more than just homicide. This is lying in wait.”

“The DA can decide all of that. We just have to bring in the facts.”

“By the way, how’d you know to take off his sock and look for the exit burn?”

“The burns on his fingers. I saw them and just took a shot.”

“Well, I’d say you hit the bull’s-eye, partner.”

“Got lucky. So now you have to get into that case and find out how he wired it. Did SID leave?”

“They’re still packing up.”

“Tell them to take the case as evidence.”

“The whole case? It’s ten feet long.”

“Tell them to take it with them. You go with it. The case is the key. And tell them to be careful with it.”

“They’re going to have to get a Special Services truck out here.”

“Whatever. Call them now. Get it done.”

Bosch closed the phone and got up from his desk. He went down the hallway past the watch office to the locker rooms. He bought two packages of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine. He opened one and ate all the squares while he was walking back to the detective bureau. He put the other package in his coat pocket for later. He stopped once on the way back to get a drink from the water fountain.

Braxton was waiting for him at the homicide table with a sheet of paper in his hand.

“You got lucky,” he told Bosch as he approached. “The guy pawned that saxophone two years ago but they still had the slip.”

He gave the sheet of paper to Bosch. It was a photocopy of the pawn slip. It contained the name, address and phone numbers of the customer. The man who had pawned Quentin McKinzie’s saxophone was named Donald Teed. He lived in the Valley. Nikolai Servan had given him $200 for the instrument.

Bosch sat down and noticed that Teed had listed his work phone number with a 323 area code and a Hollywood exchange. That might explain why a man who lived in the Valley had used a pawnshop in Hollywood. He picked up the phone and punched in Teed’s work number. It was answered immediately by a woman who said, “Splendid Age.”

“Excuse me?” Bosch said.

“Splendid Age Retirement Home, how can I help you?”

“Yes, is Donald Teed a resident there?”

“A resident? No. We have a Donald Teed who works here. Is that who you mean?”

“I think so. Is he there?”

“He is here today but I am not sure where he is right now. He’s a custodian and moves around. Who is calling? Is this a solicitation?”

Bosch felt things falling into place. He decided to take a shot.

“I’m a friend. Can you tell me if another friend of mine is there? His name is Quentin McKinzie.”

“Yes, Mr. McKinzie is a resident here. What is this about?”

“I’ll call back.”

Bosch hung up the phone and his eyes drifted to the saxophone.

Nikolai Servan opened his eyes the moment Bosch came through the door. Bosch put the piece of paper he carried down on the table and took the seat across from Servan, folding his arms and putting his elbows on the table in almost a mirror image.

“We’ve hit a snag, Mr. Servan.”

“A snag?”

“A problem. Actually a few imaually aof them. And what I’d like to do here is give you the opportunity to tell me the truth this time.”

“I don’t understand. I tol’ you truth. I tol’ you truth.”

“I think you left some things out, Mr. Servan.”

Servan clasped his hands together on the table and shook his head.

“No, I tol’ everything.”

“I’m going to advise you of your rights now, Mr. Servan. Listen closely to what I read you.”

Bosch read Servan his rights from the paper on the table. He then turned it around and asked the pawnbroker to sign it. He gave him the pen. Servan hesitated and seemed to slowly reread the rights waiver form all over again. He then picked up the pen and signed. Bosch asked the first question the instant the point of the pen came off the paper.

“So what did you do with the burglar’s lock picks, Mr. Servan?”

Servan held his lips tightly together for a long moment and then shook his head.

“I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do, Mr. Servan. Where are the picks?”

Servan only stared at him.

“Okay,” Bosch said, “let’s try this one. Tell me how you wired that display case.”

Servan bowed his head once.

“I have attorney now,” he said. “Please, I have attorney now.”

Bosch pulled to a stop in front of the Splendid Age Retirement Home and got out with the saxophone and its stand. He heard Christmas music drifting out of an open window. Elvis Presley singing “Blue Christmas.”

He thought about Nikolai Servan spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the Parker Center jail. It would probably be the only jail time he’d ever see.

The District Attorney’s Office would not decide until after the holiday whether to charge him or kick him loose. And Bosch knew it would probably be the latter. Prosecuting the case against the pawnbroker was fraught with difficulties. Servan had lawyered up and stopped talking. Afternoon-long searches of his home, car, the pawnshop and the trash containers in the alley failed to produce Monty Kelman’s lock picks or the method by which the display case had been rigged to deliver the fatal charge. Even the cause of death would be difficult to prove in a court of law. Kelman’s heart had stopped beating. A burst of electricity had most likely caused ventricular fibrillation, but in court a defense lawyer could easily and most likely successfully argue that the burn marks on the victim’s hand and foot were inconclusive and possibly not even related to cause of death.

And all of these obstacles were minor in comparison with the main difficulty—the victim was a thief killed during the commission of a crime. He had engaged in repeated offenses against the defendant. Would a jury even care that Nikolai Servan had set a fatal trap for him? Probably not, the prosecutor told Bosch and Edgar.

Bosch planned to go back to the pawnshop the following morning. In his personal ledger, everybody counted or nobody counted. That included burglars. He would look until he found the picks or the wire Servan had used to kill Monty Kelman.

As he approached the front doors of the retirement home he noticed that not much about it looked particularly splendid. It looked like a final stop for pensioners and people who hadn’t planned on living as long as they had. Quentin McKinzie, for example. Few jazzmen and drug users went the distance. He probably never thought he’d make it this far. According to the information Bosch got off the computer, he was seventy-two years old.

Bosch entered and walked up to a welcome counter. The place smelled like most of the low-rent retirement homes he had ever been in. Urine and decay, the end of hopes and dreams. He asked for directions to Quentin McKinzie’s room. The woman behind the counter suspiciously eyed the saxophone under Bosch’s arm.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked. “Evening visiting is by appointment only.”

“Is that to give you time to clean the place up before the kids come by to see dear old dad?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t need an appointment. Where is Mr. McKinzie?”

He held his badge up, a foot from her face. She looked at it for a long moment—longer than it took to read it—and then cleared her throat.

“He’s in one-oh-seven. Down the hall on the left side. He’s probably sleeping.”

Bosch nodded his thanks and headed down the hall.

The door to 107 was ajar. The light was on in the room and Bosch could hear television sounds coming from inside. He knocked softly and didn’t get a response. He slowly pushed the door open and stuck his head in. He saw an old man sitting in a chair next to a bed. A television mounted high on the opposite wall was droning. The old man’s eyes were closed. He was gaunt and depleted, his body taking up only half of the chair. His black skin looked gray and powdery. Despite the thin face and loose skin gathering below his chin, Bosch recognized him. It was Sugar Ray McK.

He stepped into the room and quietly came around the bed. The man didn’t stir. Bosch stood still for a moment, wondering what he should do. He decided not to wake the man. He put the instrument stand down on the floor in the corner. He then cradled the saxophone in it. He straightened up, took another look at the sleeping jazzman and nodded to him in some sort of unnoticed acknowledgment. As he headed out of the room he reached up and turned off the television.

At the door he was stopped by a raspy voice.

“Hey!”

Bosch turned. Sugar Ray was awake and looking at him with rheumy eyes.

“You turned off my box.”

“Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”

He came back into the room and reached up to turn the television on again.

“Who are you, boy? You don’t work here.”

Bosch turned to face him.

“My name is Harry. Harry Bosch. I came—”

Sugar Ray noticed the saxophone sitting in the corner of the room.

“That’s my ax.”

Bosch picked up the saxophone and handed it to him.

“I found it. I saw your name in it and I wanted to get it back to you.”

The man held the instrument like it was as precious as a new baby. He slowly turned it in his hands, studying it for flaws or maybe just wanting to look at it the way he would look at a loved one long gone away. Bosch felt a constriction rising in his chest as the jazzman brought the instrument to his mouth, licked the mouthpiece and then held it between his teeth. His chest rose as he drew in a breath.

But as his fingers went to work and he blew out the riff, the wind escaped from the weak seal his lips made around the mouthpiece. Sugar Ray closed his eyes and tried again. The same result sounded from his instrument. He was too old and weak. His lungs were gone. He could no longer play.

“It’s all right,” Bosch said. “You don’t have to play. I just thought it should be back with you, that’s all.”

Sugar Ray cradled the instrument in his lap as if he were protecting it. He looked up at Bosch.

“Where did you get this, Harry Bosch?”

“I took it from a guy who stole it from a pawnshop.”

Sugar Ray nodded like he knew the story.

“Was it stolen from you?” Bosch asked.

“No. I had it pawned. A fellow here did it for me so I could get money for the box. I don’t like being in the dayroom with the others. They’re all suicides waitin’ to happen. So I needed my own box.”

He shook his head. His eyes went up to the tefy"up to tlevision on the wall over Bosch’s shoulder.

“Imagine, a man trading the love of his life for that.”

Bosch looked up at the tube and saw a commercial where a Santa Claus was drinking a cold beer after a long night of delivering presents and cheer. He looked back at Sugar Ray. He didn’t know whether to feel good or bad about what he had done. He had returned an instrument to a musician who could no longer play it.

But as this indecision gripped his heart he saw Sugar Ray pull the saxophone closer to his body. He held it there tightly, as if it were all he had in the world. He brought his eyes to Bosch’s and in them Harry saw that he had done the right thing.

“Merry Christmas, Sugar Ray.”

Sugar Ray nodded and looked down. Bosch knew it was time to leave him alone. He reached over and gripped his shoulder for a moment.

“Why?” Sugar Ray asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did you do this for me? You think you’re playing Santa Claus or something?”

Bosch smiled and squatted down next to the chair. He was now looking up into the old man’s eyes.

“I did it to try to make us even, I guess.”

The old man just looked at him, waiting.

“In December nineteen sixty-nine I was on a hospital ship in the South China Sea.”

Bosch touched his left side, just above the hip.

“I got bamboo-bladed in a tunnel four days before. You probably don’t remember this but—”

“The USS Sanctuary. Off Danang. Of course I remember. You were one of the boys in the blue bathrobes, huh?”

Sugar Ray smiled. Bosch nodded and continued.

“I remember the announcement that the show was canceled because the seas were too high and the fog too thick. The big Hueys with all the equipment couldn’t land. We had all been waiting on deck. We saw the choppers coming in through the mist and then just turning around to go back.”

Sugar Ray raised a finger.

“You know, it was Mr. Bob Hope who told our pilot to turn that son of a bitch around again and put it down on that boat.”

Bosch nodded. He had heard it was Hope. One chopper turned again and came to the Sanctuary. The small one. The one with the headliners onboard.

“I remember it was Bob Hope, Connie Stevens, you and a beautiful black girl from that TV show.”

“Teresa Graves. Laugh-In.”

“Man, you remember everything.”

“Just ’cause I’m old doesn’t mean I can’t remember. The man on the moon was there, too.”

Bosch smiled. Sugar Ray was filling in details he had forgotten.

“Neil Armstrong, yeah. But the rest of the band—the Playboy All-Stars—was on one of the other choppers and it went back to Danang. It was only you and you carried your own ax. You played for us. Solo.”

Bosch looked at the instrument in the old man’s gray hands. He remembered the day on the Sanctuary as clearly as he remembered any other moment of his life.

“You played ‘The Sweet Spot’ and then ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ ”

“I played the ‘Tennessee Waltz,’ too. By request of a young man in the front row. He’d lost both his legs and he asked me to play that waltz.”

Bosch nodded solemnly.

“Bob Hope told us his jokes and Connie Stevens sang ‘Promises, Promises.’ A cappella. In less than an hour it was all over and the chopper took off. Man, I can’t explain it but it meant something. It made something right in a messed-up world, you know? I was only nineteen years old and I wasn’t sure how or why I was even over there.

“Anyway, I’ve listened to a lot of saxophone since then but I haven’t heard it any better.”

Bosch nodded and stood up. His knee creaked loudly. He guessed it wouldn’t be too long before he was in one of these places. If he was lucky.

“I just wanted to tell you that,” he said. “That’s all.”

“You were in the tunnels over there, huh? I heard about them.”

Bosch nodded.

“Coulda used you going about this bin Laden character.”

He pointed up to the TV, as if that were where the terrorist was.

Bosch shook his head.

“Nah, it’s a different game. Back then they gave you a flashlight and a forty-five, said good luck and dropped you in a hole. Now it’s sound and motion detectors, heat sensors, infrared… it’s a different game.”

“Maybe. But a hunter is still a hunter.”

Bosch look lu">Bosched at him for a moment before speaking.

“Take it easy, Sugar Ray.”

He headed toward the door and one more time Sugar Ray stopped him.

“Hey, Santa Claus.”

Bosch turned back.

“You strike me as a man who is alone in the world,” Sugar Ray said. “That true?”

Bosch nodded without hesitation.

“Most of the time.”

“You got plans for Christmas dinner?”

Bosch hesitated. He finally shook his head.

“No plans.”

“Then, come back here at three tomorrow. We have a dinner and I can bring a guest. I’ll sign you up.”

Bosch hesitated. He had been alone so often on Christmases past that he thought it might be too late, that being around anyone might be intolerable.

“Don’t worry,” Sugar Ray said. “They won’t put your turkey in the blender as long as you’ve got teeth.”

Bosch smiled.

“All right, Sugar Ray, I’ll be by.”

“Then, I’ll see you then.”

Bosch walked down the yellowed corridor and out into the night. As he headed to the car he heard Christmas music still playing from an open window somewhere. It was an instrumental, slow and heavy on the saxophone. He stopped and it took him a moment to recognize it as “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” He stood there on the walkway and listened until the end of the song.

The author would like to gratefully acknowledge John Houghton for recounting and sharing the experience on the USS Sanctuary that inspired this story.

Father’s Day

The victim’s tiny body was left alone in the emergency room enclosure. The doctors, after halting their resuscitation efforts, had solemnly retreated and pulled the plastic curtains closed around the bed. The entire construction, management and purpose of the hospital was to prevent death. When the effort failed, nobody wanted to see it.

The curtains were opaque. Harry Bosch looked like a ghost as he approached and then split them to enter. He stepped into the enclosure and stood somber and alone with the dead. The boy’s body took up less than a quarter of the big metal bed. He had worked thousands of cases but nothing ever touched Bosch liket di the sight of a young child’s lifeless body. Fifteen months old. Cases in which the child’s age was still counted in months were the most difficult of all. He knew that if he dwelled too long he would start to question everything—from the meaning of life to his mission in it.

The boy looked like he was only asleep. Bosch made a quick study, looking for any bruising or other sign of mishap. The child was naked and uncovered, his skin as pink as a newborn’s. Bosch saw no sign of trauma except for an old scrape on the boy’s forehead.

He pulled on gloves and very carefully moved the body to check it from all angles. His heart sank as he did this but he saw nothing that was suspicious. When he was finished, he covered the body with the sheet—he wasn’t sure why—and slipped back through the plastic curtains shrouding the bed.

The boy’s father was in a private waiting room down the hall. Bosch would eventually get to him but the paramedics who had transported the boy had agreed to stick around to be interviewed. Bosch looked for them first and found both men—one old, one young, one to mentor, one to learn—sitting in the crowded ER waiting room. He invited them outside so they could speak privately.

The dry summer heat hit them as soon as the glass doors parted. Like walking out of a casino in Vegas. They walked to the side so they would not be bothered but stayed in the shade of the portico. He identified himself and told them he would need the written reports on their rescue effort as soon as they were completed.

“For now, tell me about the call.”

The senior man did the talking. His name was Ticotin.

“The kid was already in full arrest when we got there,” he began. “We did what we could but the best thing was just to ice him and transport him—try to get him in here and see what the pros could do.”

“Did you take a body temperature reading at the scene?” Bosch asked.

“First thing,” Ticotin said. “It was one-oh-six-eight. So you gotta figure the kid was up around one-oh-eight, one-oh-nine before we got there. There was no way he was going to come back from that. Not a little baby like that.”

Ticotin shook his head as though he was frustrated by having been sent to rescue someone who could not be rescued. Bosch nodded as he took out his notebook and wrote down the temperature reading.

“You know what time that was?” he asked.

“We arrived at twelve seventeen so I would say we took the BT no more than three minutes later. First thing you do. That’s the protocol.”

Bosch nodded again and wrote the time—12:20 P.M.—next to the temperature reading. He looked up and tracked a car coming quickly into the ER lot. It parked and his partner, Ignacio Ferras, got out. He had gone directly to the accident scene, while Bosch had gone directly to the hospital. Bosch siht=al. Bosgnaled him over. Ferras walked with anxious speed. Bosch knew he had something to report but Bosch didn’t want him to say it in front of the paramedics. He introduced him and then quickly got back to his questions for the paramedics.

“Where was the father when you got there?”

“They had the kid on the floor by the back door, where he had brought him in. The father was sort of collapsed on the floor next to him, screaming and crying like they do. Kicking the floor.”

“Did he ever say anything?”

“Not right then.”

“Then when?”

“When we made the decision to transport and work on the kid in the truck, he wanted to go. We told him he couldn’t. We told him to get somebody from the office to drive him.”

“What were his words?”

“He just said, ‘I want to go with him. I want to be with my son.’ Stuff like that.”

Ferras shook his head as if in pain.

“At any time did he talk about what had happened?” Bosch asked.

Ticotin checked his partner, who shook his head.

“No,” Ticotin said. “He didn’t.”

“Then how were you informed of what had happened?”

“Well, initially, we heard it from dispatch. Then one of the office workers, a lady, she told us when we got there. She led us to the back and told us along the way.”

Bosch thought he had all he was going to get but then thought of something else.

“You didn’t happen to take an exterior air temperature reading for that spot, did you?”

The two paramedics looked at each other and then at Bosch.

“Didn’t think to,” Ticotin said. “But it’s gotta be at least ninety-five with the Santa Anas kicking up like this. I don’t remember a June this hot.”

Bosch remembered a June he had spent in a jungle but wasn’t going to get into it. He thanked the paramedics and let them get back to duty. He put his notebook away and looked at his partner.

“Okay, tell me about the scene,” he said.

“We’ve got to charge this guy, Harry,” Ferras said urgently.

“Why? What did you find?”

“It’s not what I found. It’s because it was just a kid, Harry. What kind of father would let this happen? How could he forget?”

Ferras had become a father for the first time six months earlier. Bosch knew this. The experience had made him a professional dad and every Monday he came into the squad with a new batch of photos. To Bosch, the kid looked the same week to week, but not to Ferras. He was in love with being a father, with having a son.

“Ignacio, you’ve got to separate your own feelings about it from the facts and the evidence, okay? You know this. Calm down.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that, how could he forget, you know?”

“Yeah, I know, and we’re going to keep that in mind. So tell me what you found out over there. Who’d you talk to?”

“The office manager.”

“And what did he say?”

“It’s a lady. She said that he came in through the back door shortly after ten. All the sales agents park in the back and use the back door—that’s why nobody saw the kid. The father came in talking on the cell phone. Then he got off and asked if he’d gotten a fax but there was no fax. So he made another call and she heard him ask where the fax was. Then he waited for the fax.”

“How long did he wait?”

“She said not long but the fax was an offer to buy. So he called the client and that started a whole back-and-forth with calls and faxes and he completely forgot about the kid. It was at least two hours, Harry. Two hours!”

Bosch could almost share his partner’s anger, but he had been on the mission a couple decades longer than Ferras and knew how to hold it in when he had to and when to let it go.

“Harry, something else, too.”

“What?”

“The baby had something wrong with him.”

“The manager saw the kid?”

“No, I mean, always. Since birth. She said it was a big tragedy. The kid was handicapped. Blind, deaf, a bunch of things wrong. Fifteen months old and he couldn’t walk or talk and never could even crawl. He just cried a lot.”

Bosch nodded as he tried to plug this information into everything else he knew and had accumulated. Just then another car came speeding into the parking lot. It pulled into the ambulance shoot in front of the ER doors. A woman leaped out and ran into the ER, leaving the car running and the door open.

“That’s probably the mother,” Bosch said. “We better get in there.”

Bosch started trotting toward the ER doors and Ferras followed. They went through the ER waiting room and down a hallway where the father had been placed in a private room to wait.

As Bosch got close he did not hear any screaming or crying or fists on flesh—things that wouldn’t have surprised him. The door was open and when he turned in he saw the parents of the dead boy embracing each other, but not a tear lined any of their cheeks. Bosch’s initial, split-second reaction was that he was seeing relief in their young faces.

They separated when they saw Bosch enter, followed by Ferras.

“Mr. and Mrs. Helton?” he asked.

They nodded in unison. But the man corrected Bosch.

“I’m Stephen Helton and this is my wife, Arlene Haddon.”

“I’m Detective Bosch with the Los Angeles Police Department and this is my partner, Detective Ferras. We are very sorry for the loss of your son. It is our job now to investigate William’s death and to learn exactly what happened to him.”

Helton nodded as his wife stepped close to him and put her face into his chest. Something silent was transmitted.

“Does this have to be done now?” Helton asked. “We’ve just lost our beautiful little—”

“Yes, sir, it has to be done now. This is a homicide investigation.”

“It was an accident,” Helton weakly protested. “It’s all my fault but it was an accident.”

“It’s still a homicide investigation. We would like to speak to each of you privately, without the intrusions that will occur here. Do you mind coming down to the police station to be interviewed?”

“We’ll leave him here?”

“The hospital is making arrangements for your son’s body to be moved to the medical examiner’s office.”

“They’re going to cut him open?” the mother asked in a near-hysterical voice.

“They will examine his body and then determine if an autopsy is necessary,” Bosch said. “It is required by law that any untimely death fall under the jurisdiction of the medical examiner.”

He waited to see if there was further protest. When there wasn’t, he stepped back and gestured for them to leave the room.

“We’ll drive you down to Parker Center and I promise to make this as painless as possible.”

They placed the grieving parents in separate interview rooms in the third-floor offices of Homicide Special. Because it was Sunday the cafeteria was closed and Bosch="0ed and had to make do with the vending machines in the alcove by the elevators. He got a can of Coke and two packages of cheese crackers. He had not eaten breakfast before being called in on the case and was now famished.

He took his time while eating the crackers and talking things over with Ferras. He wanted both Helton and Haddon to believe that they were waiting while the other spouse was being interviewed. It was a trick of the trade, part of the strategy. Each would have to wonder what the other was saying.

“Okay,” Bosch finally said. “I’m going to go in and take the husband. You can watch in the booth or you can take a run at the wife. Your choice.”

It was a big moment. Bosch was more than twenty-five years ahead of Ferras on the job. He was the mentor and Ferras was the student. So far in their fledgling partnership, Bosch had not let Ferras conduct a formal interview. He was allowing that now and the look on Ferras’s face showed that it was not lost on him.

“You’re going to let me talk to her?”

“Sure, why not? You can handle it.”

“All right if I get in the booth and watch you with him first? That way you can watch me.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Don’t thank me, Ignacio. Thank yourself. You earned it.”

Bosch dumped the empty cracker packages and the can in a trash can near his desk.

“Do me a favor,” he said. “Go on the Internet first and check the L.A. Times to see if they’ve had any stories lately about a case like this. You know, with a kid. I’d be curious, and if there are, we might be able to make a play with the story. Use it like a prop.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’ll go set up the video in the booth.”

Ten minutes later Bosch entered interview room 3, where Stephen Helton was waiting for him. Helton looked like he was not quite thirty years old. He was lean and tan and appeared to be the perfect real estate salesman. He didn’t look like he had ever spent even five minutes in a police station before.

Immediately he protested.

“What is taking so long? I’ve just lost my son and you stick me in this room for an hour? Is that procedure?”

“It hasn’t been that long, Stephen. But I am sorry you had to wait. We were talking to your wife and that went longer than we thought it would.”

“Why were you talking to her? Willy was with me the whole time.”

“We talked to her for the same reason we’re talking to you. I’m sorry for the delay.”

Bosch pulled out the chair that was across the small table from Helton and sat down.

“First of all,” he said, “thank you for coming in for the interview. You understand that you are not under arrest or anything like that. You are free to go if you wish. But by law we have to conduct an investigation of the death and we appreciate your cooperation.”

“I just want to get it over with so I can begin the process.”

“What process is that?”

“I don’t know. Whatever process you go through. Believe me, I’m new at this. You know, grief and guilt and mourning. Willy wasn’t in our lives very long but we loved him very much. This is just awful. I made a mistake and I am going to pay for it for the rest of my life, Detective Bosch.”

Bosch almost told him that his son paid for the mistake with the rest of his life but chose not to antagonize the man. Instead, he just nodded and noted that Helton had looked down at his lap when he had spoken most of his statement. Averting the eyes was a classic tell that indicated untruthfulness. Another tell was that Helton had his hands down in his lap and out of sight. The open and truthful person keeps his hands on the table and in sight.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning,” Bosch said. “Tell me how the day started.”

Helton nodded and began.

“Sunday’s our busiest day. We’re both in real estate. You may have seen the signs, Haddon and Helton. We’re PPG’s top-volume team. Today Arlene had an open house at noon and a couple of private showings before that. So Willy was going to be with me. We lost another nanny on Friday and there was no one else to take him.”

“How did you lose the nanny?”

“She quit. They all quit. Willy is a handful… because of his condition. I mean, why deal with a handicapped child if someone with a normal, healthy child will pay you the same thing? Consequently, we go through a lot of nannies.”

“So you were left to take care of the boy today while your wife had the property showings.”

“It wasn’t like I wasn’t working, though. I was negotiating a sale that would have brought in a thirty-thousand-dollar commission. It was important.”

“Is that why you went into the office?”

“Exactly. We got an offer sheet and I was going to have to respond. So I got Willy ready and put him in the car and went into work.”

“What time was this?”

“About quarter to ten. I got the call from the other Realtor at about nine thirty. The buyer was playing hardball. The response time was going to be set at an hour. So I had to get my seller on standby, pack up Willy and get in there to pick up the fax.”

“Do you have a fax at home?”

“Yes, but if the deal went down we’d have to get together in the office. We have a signing room and all the forms are right there. My file on the property was in my office, too.”

Bosch nodded. It sounded plausible to a point.

“Okay, so you head off to the office…”

“Exactly. And two things happened…”

Helton brought his hands up into sight but only to hold them across his face to hide his eyes. A classic tell.

“What two things?”

“I got a call on my cell—from Arlene—and Willy fell asleep in his car seat. Do you understand?”

“Make me understand.”

“I was distracted by the call and I was no longer distracted by Willy. He had fallen asleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I forgot he was there. Forgive me, God, but I forgot I had him with me!”

“I understand. What happened next?”

Helton dropped his hands out of sight again. He looked at Bosch briefly and then at the tabletop.

“I parked in my assigned space behind PPG and I went in. I was still talking to Arlene. One of our buyers is trying to get out of a contract because he’s found something he likes better. So we were talking about that, about how to finesse things with that, and I was on the phone when I went in.”

“Okay, I see that. What happened when you went in?”

Helton didn’t answer right away. He sat there looking at the table as if trying to remember so he could get the answer right.

“Stephen?” Bosch prompted. “What happened next?”

“I had told the buyer’s agent to fax me the offer. But it wasn’t there. So I got off the line from my wife and I called the agent. Then I waited around for the fax. Checked my slips and made a few callbacks while I was waiting.”

“What are your slips?”

“Phone messages. People who see our signs on properties and call. I don’t put my cell oriv t my ce home number on the signs.”

“How many callbacks did you make?”

“I think just two. I got a message on one and spoke briefly to the other person. My fax came in and that was what I was there for. I got off the line.”

“Now, at this point it was what time?”

“I don’t know, about ten after ten.”

“Would you say that at this point you were still cognizant that your son was still in your car in the parking lot?”

Helton took time to think through an answer again but spoke before Bosch had to prompt him.

“No, because if I knew he was in the car, I would not have left him in the first place. I forgot about him while I was still in the car. You understand?”

Bosch leaned back in his seat. Whether he understood it or not, Helton had just dodged one legal bullet. If he had acknowledged that he knowingly left the boy in the car—even if he planned to be back in a few minutes—that would have greatly supported a charge of negligent homicide. But Helton had maneuvered the question correctly, almost as if he had expected it.

“Okay,” Bosch said. “What happened next?”

Helton shook his head wistfully and looked at the side wall as if gazing through a window toward the past he couldn’t change.

“I, uh, got involved in the deal,” he said. “The fax came in, I called my client and I faxed back a counter. I also did a lot of talking to the other agent. By phone. We were trying to get the deal done and we had to hand-hold both our clients through this.”

“For two hours.”

“Yes, it took that long.”

“And when was it that you remembered that you had left William in the car out in the parking lot where it was about ninety-five degrees?”

“I guess as soon—first of all, I didn’t know what the temperature was. I object to that. I left that car at about ten and it was not ninety-five degrees. Not even close. I hadn’t even used the air conditioner on the way over.”

There was a complete lack of remorse or guilt in Helton’s demeanor. He wasn’t even attempting to fake it anymore. Bosch had become convinced that this man had no love or affinity for his damaged and now lost child. William was simply a burden that had to be dealt with and therefore could easily be forgotten when things like business and selling houses and making money came up.

But where was the crime in all of this? Bosch knew he could charge him with negligence but the courts tend to view the loss of a child as enough punishment in these situations. Helton would go free with hi defree wis wife as sympathetic figures, free to continue their lives while baby William moldered in his grave.

The tells always add up. Bosch instinctively believed Helton was a liar. And he began to believe that William’s death was no accident. Unlike his partner, who had let the passions of his own fatherhood lead him down the path, Bosch had gotten here after careful observation and analysis. It was now time to press on, to bait Helton and see if he would make a mistake.

“Is there anything else you want to add to the story?” he asked.

Helton let out a deep breath and slowly shook his head.

“That’s the whole sad story,” he said. “I wish to God it never happened. But it did.”

He looked directly at Bosch for the first time during the entire interview. Bosch held his gaze and then asked a question.

“Do you have a good marriage, Stephen?”

Helton looked away and stared at the invisible window again.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean do you have a good marriage? You can say yes or no if you want.”

“Yes, I have a good marriage,” Helton responded emphatically. “I don’t know what my wife told you but I think it is very solid. What are you trying to say?”

“All I’m saying is that sometimes when there is a child with challenges, it strains the marriage. My partner just had a baby. The kid’s healthy but money’s tight and his wife isn’t back at work yet. You know the deal. It’s tough. I can only imagine what the strain of having a child with William’s difficulties would be like.”

“Yeah, well, we made it by all right.”

“The nannies quitting all the time…”

“It wasn’t that hard. As soon as one quits we put an ad on Craigslist for another.”

Bosch nodded and scratched the back of his head. While doing it he waved a finger in a circular motion toward the camera that was in the air vent up on the wall behind him. Helton could not see him do this.

“When did you two get married?” he asked.

“Two and a half years ago. We met on a contract. She had the buyer and I had the seller. We worked well together. We started talking about joining forces and then we realized we were in love.”

“Then William came.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“That must’ve changed em"ve chathings.”

“It did.”

“So when Arlene was pregnant, couldn’t the doctors tell that he had these problems?”

“They could have if they had seen him. But Arlene’s a workaholic. She was busy all the time. She missed some appointments and the ultrasounds. When they discovered there was a problem it was too late.”

“Do you blame your wife for that?”

Helton looked aghast.

“No, of course not. Look, what does this have to do with what happened today? I mean, why are you asking me all of this?”

Bosch leaned across the table.

“It may have a lot to do with it, Stephen. I am trying to determine what happened today and why. The why is the tough part.”

“It was an accident! I forgot he was in the car, okay? I will go to my grave knowing that my mistake killed my own son. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Bosch leaned back and said nothing. He hoped Helton would say more.

“Do you have a son, Detective? Any children?”

“A daughter.”

“Yeah, well, then happy Father’s Day. I’m really glad for you. I hope you never have to go through what I’m going through right now. Believe me, it’s not fun!”

Bosch had forgotten it was Father’s Day. The realization knocked him off his rhythm and his thoughts went to his daughter living eight thousand miles away. In her ten years he had only been with her on one Father’s Day. What did that say about him? Here he was trying to get inside another father’s actions and motivations and he knew his own could not stand equal scrutiny.

The moment ended when there was a knock on the door and Ferras came in carrying a file.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I thought you might want to see this.”

He handed the file to Bosch and left the room. Bosch turned the file on the table in front of them and opened it so that Helton would not be able to see its contents. Inside was a computer printout and a handwritten note on a Post-it.

The note said: “No ad on Craigslist.”

The printout was of a story that ran in the L.A. Times ten months earlier. It was about the heatstroke death of a child who had been left in a car in Lancaster while his mother ran into a store to buy milk. She ran into the middle of a robbery. She was tied up along with the store clerk and placed in a back room. The robbers ransacked the stotoucked thre and escaped. It was an hour before the victims were discovered and freed but by then the child in the car had already succumbed to heatstroke. Bosch scanned the story quickly then dropped the file closed. He looked at Helton without speaking.

“What?” Helton asked.

“Just some additional information and lab reports,” he lied. “Do you get the L.A. Times, by the way?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just curious, that’s all. Now, how many nannies do you think you’ve employed in the fifteen months that William was alive?”

Helton shook his head.

“I don’t know. At least ten. They don’t stay long. They can’t take it.”

“And then you go to Craigslist to place an ad?”

“Yes.”

“And you just lost a nanny on Friday?”

“Yes, I told you.”

“She just walked out on you?”

“No, she got another job and told us she was leaving. She made up a lie about it being closer to home and with gas prices and all of that. But we knew why she was leaving. She could not handle Willy.”

“She told you this Friday?”

“No, when she gave notice.”

“When was that?”

“She gave two weeks’ notice, so it was two weeks back from Friday.”

“And do you have a new nanny lined up?”

“No, not yet. We were still looking.”

“But you put the feelers out and ran the ad again, that sort of thing?”

“Right, but listen, what does this have to—”

“Let me ask the questions, Stephen. Your wife told us that she worried about leaving William with you, that you couldn’t handle the strain of it.”

Helton looked shocked. The statement came from left field, as Bosch had wanted it.

“What? Why would she say that?”

“I don’t know. Is it true?”

“No, it’s not true.”

“She told us she was worried that this wasn’t an accident.”

“That’s absolutely crazy and I doubt she said it. You are lying.”

He turned in his seat so that the front of his body faced the corner of the room and he would have to turn his face to look directly at Bosch. Another tell. Bosch knew he was zeroing in. He decided it was the right time to gamble.

“She mentioned a story you found in the L.A. Times that was about a kid left in a car up in Lancaster. The kid died of heatstroke. She was worried that it gave you the idea.”

Helton swiveled in his seat and leaned forward to put his elbows on the table and run his hands through his hair.

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe she…”

He didn’t finish. Bosch knew his gamble had paid off. Helton’s mind was racing along the edge. It was time to push him over.

“You didn’t forget that William was in the car, did you, Stephen?”

Helton didn’t answer. He buried his face in his hands again. Bosch leaned forward so that he only had to whisper.

“You left him there and you knew what was going to happen. You planned it. That’s why you didn’t bother running ads for a new nanny. You knew you weren’t going to need one.”

Helton remained silent and unmoving. Bosch kept working him, changing tacks and offering sympathy now.

“It’s understandable,” he said. “I mean, what kind of life would that kid have had anyway? Some might even call this a mercy killing. The kid falls asleep and never wakes up. I’ve worked these kinds of cases before, Stephen. It’s actually not a bad way to go. It sounds bad but it isn’t. You just get tired and you go to sleep.”

Helton kept his face in his hands but he shook his head. Bosch didn’t know if he was denying it still or shaking off something else. He waited and the delay paid off.

“It was her idea,” Helton said in a quiet voice. “She’s the one who couldn’t take it anymore.”

In that moment Bosch knew he had him but he showed nothing. He kept working it.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “She said she had nothing to do with it, that this was your idea and your plan and that when she called you it was to talk you out of it.”

Helton dropped his hands with a slap on the table.

“That’s a lie! It was her! She was embarrassed that we had a kid like that! She couldn’t take him anywhere and we couldn’t go anywhere! He was ruining our lives and she told me I had to do something about it! She told me ho e told w to do something about it! She said I would be saving two lives while sacrificing only one.”

Bosch pulled back across the table. It was done. It was over.

“Okay, Stephen, I think I understand. And I want to hear all about it. But at this point I need to inform you of your rights. After that, if you want to talk, we’ll talk and I’ll listen.”

When Bosch came out of the interview room Ignacio Ferras was there waiting for him in the hallway. His partner raised his fist and Bosch tapped his knuckles with his own fist.

“That was beautiful,” Ferras said. “You walked him right down the road.”

“Thanks,” Bosch said. “Let’s hope the DA is impressed, too.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry.”

“Well, there will be no worries if you go into the other room and turn the wife now.”

Ferras looked surprised.

“You still want me to take the wife?”

“She’s yours. Let’s walk them into the DA as bookends.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Go check the equipment and make sure we’re still recording in there. I’ve got to go make a quick call.”

“You got it, Harry.”

Bosch walked into the squad room and sat down at his desk. He checked his watch and knew it would be early in Hong Kong. He pulled out his cell phone anyway, and sent a call across the Pacific.

His daughter answered with a cheerful hello. Bosch knew he wouldn’t even have to say anything and he would feel fulfilled by just the sound of her voice saying the one word.

“Hey, baby, it’s me,” he said.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed. “Happy Father’s Day!”

And Bosch realized in that moment that he was indeed a happy man.

Angle of Investigation

THEN

“This is all because of Manson,” Eckersly said.

Bosch looked across the seat at his training partner, unsure of what he meant.

“Charles Manson?”

eigl“You know, Helter Skelter and all of that shit,” Eckersly explained. “They’re still scared.”

Bosch nodded, though he still didn’t get it. He looked out the windshield. They were heading south on Vermont through territory unfamiliar to him. It was only his second day with Eckersly and his second on the job. Almost all of the neighborhoods in Wilshire were unfamiliar to him but that was okay. Eckersly had been working patrol in the division for four years. He knew the neighborhoods.

“Somebody doesn’t answer the phone, and back east they think Squeaky and the rest of Charlie’s girls have broken in and chopped them up or something,” Eckersly continued. “We get a lot of these ‘check the lady’ calls. Nearly four years now and people still think L.A.’s been turned over to the nuts.”

Bosch had been away from the world when Manson and his people had done their thing. So he didn’t have a proper read on what the murders had done to the city. When he had come back from Vietnam he had felt an edginess in L.A. that had not been there before he left. But he didn’t know whether that was because of the changes he had been through or the ones the city had been through.

South of Santa Monica they took a left on Fourth Street and Bosch started reading numbers off of mailboxes. In a few seconds Eckersly pulled the squad car to a stop in front of a small bungalow with a driveway down the side to a single garage in the back. They both got out, Bosch taking his nightstick out of the plastic pipe on the door and sliding it into the ring on his equipment belt.

“Oh, you won’t need that,” Eckersly said. “Unless you want to use it to knock on the door.”

Bosch turned back to the car to put the club back.

“Come on, come on,” Eckersly said. “I didn’t tell you to put it back. I just said you wouldn’t need it.”

Bosch hustled to catch up to him on the flagstone walkway leading to the front door. He walked with both hands on his belt. He was still getting used to the weight and the awkward bulk of it. When he was in Vietnam his job had been to go into the tunnels. He’d kept his body profile as trim as possible. No equipment belt. He carried all of his equipment—a flashlight and a forty-five—in his hands.

Eckersly had sat out the war in a patrol car. He was eight years older than Bosch and had that many years on the job. He was taller and heavier than Bosch and carried the weight and bulk of his equipment belt with a practiced ease. He signaled to Bosch to knock on the front door, as if that took training. Bosch knocked three times with his fist.

“Like this,” Eckersly corrected.

He rapped sharply on the door.

“Police, Mrs. Wilkins, can you come to the door, please?”

His fist and voice had a certain authority. A tone. That was what he was trying to teach his rookie partner.

Bosch nodded. He understood the lesson. He looked around and saw that the windows were all closed even though it was a nice cool morning. Nobody answered the door.

“You smell that?” he asked Eckersly.

“Smell what?”

The one area where Bosch didn’t need any training from Eckersly was in the smell of death. He had spent two tours in the dead zone. In the tunnels the enemy put their dead into the walls. Death was always in the air.

“Somebody’s dead,” Bosch said. “I’ll check around back.”

He stepped off the front porch and took the driveway to the rear of the property. The odor was stronger back here. To Bosch, at least. The dispatcher on the radio had said June Wilkins lived alone and hadn’t answered phone calls from her daughter in Philadelphia for seven days.

There was a small enclosed yard with a clothesline stretching from the corner of the garage to the corner of the house. There were a few things hanging on the line, two silk slips and other women’s undergarments. There were more clothing items on the ground, having fallen or been blown off the line. The winds came up at night. People didn’t leave their clothes on the line overnight.

Bosch went to the garage first and stood on his toes to look through one of two windows set high in the wooden door. He saw the distinctive curving roofline of a Volkswagen Beetle inside. The car and the clothing left out on the line seemed to confirm what the odor already told him. June Wilkins had not left on a trip, simply forgetting to tell her daughter back east. She was inside the house waiting for them.

He turned to the house and went up the three concrete steps to the back door stoop. There was a glass panel in the door that allowed him to see into the kitchen and partway down a hallway that led to the front rooms of the house. Nothing seemed amiss. No rotting food on the table. No blood on the floor.

He then saw on the floor next to a trash can a dog food bowl with flies buzzing around the rotting mound inside it.

Bosch felt a quickening of his pulse. He took his stick out and used it to rap on the glass. He waited but there was no response. He heard his partner knock on the front door again and announce once more that it was the police.

Bosch tried the knob on the back door and found it unlocked. He slowly opened the door and the odor came out with an intensity that made him drop back off the stoop.

“Ron!” he called out. “Open door in the back.”

After a moment he could hear his partner’s equipment belt jangling as he hustled to the back, his footfalls heavy. He came around the corner to the stoop.

“Did you—oh, shit! That is rank! I mean, that is bad! We’ve got a DB in there.” Bo mothere.sch nodded. He assumed DB meant dead body.

“Should we go in?” he asked.

“Yeah, we better check it out,” Eckersly said. “But wait a second.”

He went over to the clothesline and yanked the two slips off the line. He threw one to Bosch.

“Use that,” he said.

Eckersly bunched the silk slip up against his mouth and nose and went first through the door. Bosch did the same and followed him in.

“Let’s do this quick,” Eckersly said in a muffled voice.

They moved with speed through the house and found the DB in the bathroom off the hallway. There was a clawfoot bathtub filled to the brim with still dark water. Breaking the surface were two rounded shapes, one at either end, with hair splayed out on the water. Flies had collected on each as if they were lifeboats on the sea.

“Let me see your stick,” Eckersly said.

Not comprehending, Bosch pulled it out of his belt ring and handed it to his partner. Eckersly dipped one end of the stick into the tub’s dark water and prodded the round shape near the foot of the tub. The flies dispersed and Bosch waved them away from his face. The object in the water shifted its delicate balance and turned over. Bosch saw the jagged teeth and snout of a dog break the surface. He involuntarily took a step back.

Eckersly moved to the next shape. He probed it with the stick and the flies angrily took flight, but the object in the water did not move so readily. It was not free-floating like the dog. It went down deep like an iceberg. He dipped the stick down farther and then raised it. The misshapen and decaying face of a human being came up out of the water. The small features and long hair suggested a woman but that could not be determined for sure by what Bosch saw.

The stick had found leverage below the dead person’s chin. But it quickly slipped off and the face submerged again. Dark water lapped over the side of the tub and both of the police officers stepped back again.

“Let’s get out of here,” Eckersly said. “Or we’ll never get it out of our noses.”

He handed the nightstick back to Bosch and pushed past him to the door.

“Wait a second,” Bosch said.

But Eckersly didn’t wait. Bosch turned his attention back to the body and dipped the stick into the dark water again. He pulled it through the water until it hooked something and he raised it up. The dead person’s hands came out of the water. They were bound at the wrists with a dog collar. He slowly let them back down into the water again.

On his way out of the house, Bosch carried the stick at arm’s length from his body. In the backyard he founth=yard hed Eckersly standing by the garage door, gulping down fresh air. Bosch threw the slip he had used to breathe through over the clothesline and came over.

“Congratulations, boot,” Eckersly said, using the department slang for rookie. “You got your first DB. Stick with the job and it will be one of many.”

Bosch didn’t say anything. He tossed his nightstick onto the grass—he planned to get a new one now—and took out his cigarettes.

“What do you think?” Eckersly asked. “Suicide? She took the pooch with her?”

“Her hands were tied with the dog’s collar,” Bosch said.

Eckersly’s mouth opened a little but then he recovered and became the training officer again.

“You shouldn’t have gone fishing in there,” he said sternly. “Suicide or homicide, it’s not our concern anymore. Let the detectives handle it from here.”

Bosch nodded his contrition and agreement.

“What I don’t get,” his partner said, “is how the hell did you smell that at the front door?”

Bosch shrugged.

“Used to it, I guess.”

He nodded toward the west, as if the war had been just down the street.

“I guess that also explains why you’re not puking your guts out,” Eckersly said. “Like most rookies would be doing right now.”

“I guess so.”

“You know what, Bosch. Maybe you’ve got a nose for this stuff.”

“Maybe I do.”

NOW

Harry Bosch and his partner, Kiz Rider, shared an alcove in the back corner of the Open-Unsolved Unit in Parker Center. Their desks were pushed together so they could face each other and discuss case matters without having to talk loudly and bother the six other detectives in the squad. Rider was writing on her laptop, entering the completion and summary reports on the Verloren case. Bosch was reading through the dusty pages of a blue binder known as a murder book.

“Anything?” Rider asked without looking up from her screen.

Bosch was reviewing the murder book since it was the next case they would work together. He hadn’t chosen it at random. It involved the 1972 slaying of June Wilkins. Bosch had been a patrolman then and had been on the job only two days when he and his partner at the time had discovered the body of the murdered woman in her bathtub. Along with the body of her dog. Both had been held underwater and drowned.

There were thousands of unsolved murders in the files of the Los Angeles Police Department. To justify the time and cost of mounting a new investigation, there had to be a hook. Something that could be sent through the forensic databases in search of a match: fingerprints, ballistics, DNA. That was what Rider was asking. Had he found a hook?

“Not yet,” he answered.

“Then why don’t you quit fooling with it and skip to the back?”

She wanted him to skip to the evidence report in the back of the binder and see if there was anything that could fit the bill. But Bosch wanted to take his time. He wanted to know all the details of the case. It had been his first DB. One of many that would come to him in the department. But he’d had no part in the investigation. He had been a rookie patrolman at the time. He had to watch the detectives work it. It would be years in the department before it was his turn to speak for the dead.

“I just want to see what they did,” he tried to explain. “See how they worked it. Most of these cases, they coulda-shoulda been cleared back in the day.”

“Well, you have till I’m finished with this summary,” Rider cautioned. “After that we better get flying on something, Harry.”

Bosch blew out his breath in mock indignation and flipped a large section of summaries and other reports over in the binder until he got to the back. He then turned to the tab marked FORENSICS and looked at an evidence inventory report.

“Okay, we’ve got latents, you happy?”

Rider looked up from her computer for the first time.

“That could work,” she said. “Tied to the suspect?”

Bosch flipped back to the evidence report to look for the summary ascribed to the specific evidence logged in the inventory. He found a one-paragraph explanation that said a right palm print had been located on the wall of the bathroom where the body had been found. Its location was sixty-six inches from the floor and seven inches right of center above the toilet.

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

“It’s a palm.”

She groaned.

It was not a good hook. Databases containing palm prints were relatively new in law enforcement. Only in the past decade had palm prints been seriously collected by the FBI and the California Department of Justice. In California there were approximately ten thousand palms on file compared with the millions of fingerprints. The Wilkins murder was thirty-three years old. What were the chances that the person who had left a palm print on the wall of the victim’s bathroom would be printed two decades or more later? Ride"ju later?r had answered that one with her groan.

“It’s still worth a shot,” Bosch said optimistically. “I’ll put in the SID request.”

“You do that. Meantime, as soon as I’m done here I’ll see if I can find a case with a real hook we can run with.”

“Hold your horses, Kiz. I still haven’t run any of the names out of the book. Give me today with this and then we’ll see.”

“Not good to get emotionally involved, Harry,” she responded. “The Laura syndrome, you know.”

“It’s not like that. I’m just curious. It was sort of my first case.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You know what I mean. I remember thinking she was an old lady when the detectives gave me the rundown on it. But she was only forty-six. I was half her age, so I thought anybody forty-six was old and had had a good run of it. I didn’t feel too bad about it.”

“Now you do.”

“Forty-six was too young, Kiz.”

“Well, you’re not going to bring her back.”

Bosch nodded.

“I know that.”

“You ever seen that movie?”

“Laura? Yeah, I’ve seen it. Detective falls in love with the murder victim. You?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hold up too well. Sort of a parlor room murder case. I liked the Burt Reynolds take on it in the eighties. Sharky’s Machine. With Rachel Ward. You seen it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Had Bernie Casey in it. When I was a youngster I always thought he was a fine-looking man.”

Bosch looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Before I switched teams,” she said. “Then I rented it a couple years ago and Bernie didn’t do it for me. I liked Rachel Ward.”

Her bringing up her sexuality seemed to put an uneasiness between them. She turned back to her computer. Bosch looked down at the evidence report.

“Well, we know one thing,” he said after a while. “We’re looking for a left-handed man.”

She turned back to look at him.

“How do you know that?”

“He put his right hand on the wall over the toilet.”

“And?”

“It’s just like a gun, Kiz. He aimed with his left hand because he’s left-handed.”

She shook her head dismissively.

“Men…”

She went back to work on her computer, and Bosch went back to the murder book. He wrote down the information he would need to give to the latent prints section of the Scientific Investigation Division in order for a tech to look up the palm print in their files. He then asked if Rider wanted him to pick her up a coffee or a soda from the cafeteria while he was floating around the building. She said no and he was off. He took the murder book with him.

Bosch filled out the comparison request forms and gave them to a print tech named Larkin. He was one of the older, more experienced techs. Bosch had gone to him before and knew that he would move quickly with the request.

“Let’s hope we hit the jackpot, Harry,” Larkin said as he took the forms.

It was true that there was always a sense of excitement when you put an old print into a computer and let it ride. It was like pulling the lever on a slot machine. The jackpot payoff was a match, a cold hit in police parlance.

After leaving SID Bosch went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee and to finish reading through the murder book. He decided he could handle the constant background noise of the cafeteria better than he could the intrusive questions from Kiz Rider.

He understood where his partner was coming from. She wanted to choose their cases dispassionately from the thousands that were open. Her concern was that if they went down a path in which Bosch was exorcizing ghosts or choosing cases with personal attachments, they would burn out sooner rather than later.

But Bosch was not as concerned. He knew that passion was a key element in any investigation. Passion was the fuel that kept his fire burning. So he purposely sought the personal connection or, short of that, the personal outrage in every case. It kept him locked in and focused. But it wasn’t the Laura syndrome. It wasn’t the same as falling in love with a dead woman. By no means was Bosch in love with June Wilkins. He was in love with the idea of reaching back across time and catching the man who had killed her.

The killing of June Wilkins was as horrible as it was cunning. The woman was bound hands and feet with a dog collar and a leash and then drowned in the tub. Her dog was treated to the same death. The autopsy showed no bruising or injuries on Wilkins suggestive of a struggle. But analysis of blood and tissue samples taken during autopsy indicated that she had been drugged with a veterinary paralytic. It meant that it was likely that Wilkins was conscious but unable to move her muscles to fight or defend herself when she was submerged in the water in the bathtub. Analysis of the dog’s blood found that the animal ith the anhad been drugged with the same substance.

A textbook investigation followed the murder but it ultimately led to no arrests or the identification of a suspect. June Wilkins had lived alone. She had been divorced and had one child, a college student who went to school in Philadelphia. June worked as an assistant to a casting director in an office in a building at Hollywood and Vine, but had been on a two-week vacation at the time of her death.

No evidence was found that she’d had an ongoing romantic relationship or that there were any hard feelings from a former relationship. It appeared to neighbors, acquaintances, coworkers and family members that the love of her life was her dog, a miniature poodle named Frenchy.

The dog was also the focus of her life. He was of pure breed, and the only travel Wilkins did in the year most recent to her death had been to attend dog shows in San Diego and Las Vegas, where Frenchy competed. The second bedroom of her bungalow had been converted into a grooming salon, where ribbons from previous dog shows lined the mirrors.

The original investigation was conducted by partners Joel Speigelman and Dan Finster of Wilshire Division. They began with a wide focus on Wilkins’s life and then narrowed in on the dog. The use of the veterinary drug by the killer and the killing of the dog suggested some connection to that aspect of the victim’s life. But that avenue soon hit a dead end when the detectives found no indication of a dispute or difficulty involving Wilkins in the competitive world of dog shows. They learned that Wilkins was considered a harmless novice in that world and was neither taken seriously by her competitors nor competitive in nature herself. The detectives also learned that Frenchy, though a purebred animal, was not a champion-caliber dog and the ribbons he took home were more often than not awarded for simply competing, not winning.

The detectives changed their theory and began to consider the possibility that the killer had purposely misdirected the investigation toward the dog show angle. But what the correct angle of investigation should have been was never determined. The investigation stalled. The detectives never linked the palm print on the bathroom wall to anyone and lacking any other solid leads the case was pushed into the wait-and-see pile. That meant it was still on the desk but the investigators were waiting for something to break—an anonymous tip, a confession or even another murder of similar method. But nothing came up and after a year it was moved off the table and into the archives to gather dust.

While reading through the binder Bosch had written down a list of names of people who had come up in the investigation. These included family members, neighbors and coworkers of the victim as well as acquaintances she encountered through veterinary services and the dog shows she attended.

In most cases Speigelman and Finster had asked for birth dates, addresses and even Social Security numbers while conducting their interviews. It was standard operating procedure. Their thoroughness back then would now help Bosch when he ran every name from the list through the crime computer.

When finished reading, Bosch closed the murder book and looked at his list. He had collected thirty-six names to run through the computer. He knew he had theen w he ha names and the palm print and that was about it. He could also run ketamine hydrochloride through the computer to see if it had come up in any other investigations since 1972.

He decided that if nothing came out of the three angles of investigation he would drop the case, admit defeat to his partner and press on to the next case that had a valid hook.

As he finished his coffee, he thought about the palm print. There had been no analysis of it other than to measure its location on the wall and have it ready for comparison to suspects that might come up in the investigation. But Bosch knew that there was more to it than that. If the print was sixty-six inches up the wall, that meant it was likely that the man who had left it was over six feet tall. He came to this conclusion because he knew that if the suspect leaned forward to brace himself while urinating, he would probably put his hand on the wall at shoulder level or slightly above. Add a foot in height for his neck and head and you have a man ranging from six two to six six in total height. A tall, left-handed man.

“That narrows it down,” Bosch said to himself, noting his own sarcasm.

He got up, dumped his coffee cup and headed out of the cafeteria. On the elevator up to five he thought about the times he had leaned his hand on the wall over a toilet. He was either drunk, middle-of-the-night sleepy or burdened by something besides a heavy bladder. He wondered which of these conditions had fit the tall, left-handed man.

Most of the police department’s civilian offices were on the fifth floor along with the Open-Unsolved Unit. He passed the unit’s door and went down to the Personnel Department. He picked up contact information on Speigelman, Finster and his old partner, Eckersly. In years past such information would be jealously guarded. But under order from the Office of the Chief of Police, detectives with the Open-Unsolved Unit were given carte blanche because it was part of investigatory protocol to contact and interview the original investigators of a case that had been reopened.

Eckersly, of course, was not one of the original investigators. He was only there on the morning they had found the lady in the tub. But Bosch thought it might be worth a call to see if he remembered that day and had any thoughts on the reinvestigation of the case. Bosch had lost contact with Eckersly after he completed his street training and was transferred out of Wilshire Division. He assumed he was no longer on the job and was not mistaken. Eckersly had pulled the plug at twenty years, and his pension was sent to the town of Ten Thousand Palms, where he was the police chief.

Nice move, Bosch thought. Running a small-town police force in the desert and collecting an LAPD pension on the side. Every cop’s dream.

Bosch also noted the coincidence of Eckersly now living in a town called Ten Thousand Palms and the fact that Bosch was currently running an angle through a database of ten thousand palm prints.

Rider was not at her desk when Bosch got back to the unit. There was no note of explanation left on his desk and he figured she had simply taken a break. He sat at her desk and looked at her laptop. She had left it on but had cleared the screen before leavingchifore le the office. He pulled the list of names out of the murder book and connected to the National Crime Index Computer. He didn’t have his own computer and was not highly skilled in the use of the Internet and most law enforcement databases. But the NCIC had been around for years and he knew how to run names on it.

All thirty-six names on his list would have been run through existing databases in 1972 and cleared. What he was looking for now was whether any of the thirty-six people had been arrested for any kind of significant or similar crime in the years after the June Wilkins murder.

The first name he entered came back with multiple hits for drunk driving arrests. This didn’t get Bosch particularly excited but he circled the name on the list anyway and moved on. No hits came up on the next seven and he crossed them out. The next name after that scored a hit with an arrest for disturbing the peace. Bosch circled it but again was not feeling the tug of a hook yet.

The process continued with most of the names coming up clean. It wasn’t until he entered the twenty-ninth name that Bosch looked at the screen and felt a tightness grip in his chest.

The twenty-ninth name was Jonathan Gillespie. He had been described in the murder book as a dog breeder who sold miniature poodles in 1972. He had sold the dog Frenchy to June Wilkins two years before her death and was interviewed by Speigelman and Finster when they were trying to run down the dog show angle on the case. According to the NCIC records, Gillespie went to prison on a rape charge in 1981 and served six years in prison. He was now a registered sexual offender living in Huntington Beach. There had been no other arrests since 1981. He was sixty-eight years old.

Bosch underlined the name on the list and wrote down the case number. It had an LAPD prefix. Though he immediately wanted to go to work on Gillespie, he finished running the rest of the names through the NCIC database first. He got two more hits, one for a DUI and one for a hit-and-run accident with injuries. He circled the names to keep with his procedure but was not excited about them.

Before signing out of the NCIC system, he switched over to the crime-tracking database and entered ketamine hydrochloride into the search window. He got several hits back, all within the last fifteen years, and learned that the substance was being used increasingly as a date rape drug. He scrolled through the cases listed and didn’t see anything that linked them to June Wilkins. He logged off the database to begin his pursuit of Jonathan Gillespie.

Closed cases from 1981 had gone to microfiche archives and the department was slowly moving backward and entering case information into the department’s computerized database. But 1981 was too far back. The only way Bosch would be able to look at the sexual assault case that had sent Gillespie to prison would be to go to the records archives, which were housed over at Piper Tech, the storage facility and air squadron base at the edge of downtown.

Bosch went to his side of the desk and wrote a note to Rider telling her he had come up with a hot angle and was chasing it through Piper Tech. The phone on his desk started to ring. He finished the note and grabbed the phone while standing up to reach the note over to Rider’s desk.

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“Open-Unsolved, this is Bosch.”

“Harry, it’s Larkin.”

“I was just going to call you.”

“Really? Why?”

“I have a name for you.”

“Funny, I have a name for you. I matched your palm and you’re not going to like it.”

“Jonathan Gillespie.”

“What?”

“Jonathan Gillespie.”

“Who is that?”

“That’s not your match?”

“Not quite.”

Bosch sat back down at his desk. He pulled a pad over in front of him and got ready to write.

“Who did you come up with?”

“The palm print belonged to one of ours. Guy must have left it while at the crime scene. Sorry about that.”

“Who is it?”

“The name is Ronald Eckersly. He worked for us ’sixty-five to ’eighty-five, then he pulled the pin.”

Bosch almost didn’t hear anything else Larkin said.

“… shows that he was a patrol lieutenant upon retirement. You could go to personnel and get a current location if you need to talk to him. But it looks like he might have just screwed up and put his hand on the wall while he was at the scene. Back then they didn’t know anything about crime scene protocol and some of these guys would—hell, about twenty years ago I was dusting a homicide scene and one of the detectives who had been there all night started frying an egg in the dead guy’s kitchen. He said, ‘He ain’t gonna miss it and I’m goddamn starved.’ You believe that? So no matter how hard you drill into them not to touch—”

“Thanks, Larkin,” Bosch said. “I’ve got to go.”

Bosch hung up, grabbed the note off Rider’s desk and crumpled it in his hand. He took his cell phone off his belt and called Rider’s cell number. She answered right away.

“Where are you?” Bosch asked.

“Having a coffee.”

“You want to take a ride?”

“I’ve got the case"0egot the summary to finish. A ride where?”

“Ten Thousand Palms.”

“Harry, that’s not a ride. That’s a journey. That’s at least ninety minutes each way.”

“Get me a coffee for the road. I’ll be right down.”

He hung up before she could protest.

On the drive out Bosch told Rider about the moves he had made with the case and how the print had come back to his old partner. He then recounted the morning he and Eckersly had found the lady in the tub. Rider listened without interrupting, then she had only one question at the end.

“This is important, Harry,” she said. “You are dealing with your own memory and you know from case experience how faulty memories can be. We’re talking thirty-three years ago. Are you sure there wasn’t a moment when Eckersly could have put his hand on the wall?”

“Yeah, like he might’ve leaned against the wall and taken a leak while I didn’t notice.”

“I’m not talking about taking a leak. Could he have leaned against the wall when you found the body, like he got grossed out or sick and leaned against the wall for support?”

“No, Kiz. I was in that room the whole time he was. He said, ‘Let’s get out of here,’ and he was the first one out. He did not go back in. We called in the detectives and then stood outside keeping the neighbors away when everybody showed up.”

“Thirty-three years is a long time, Harry.”

Bosch waited a moment before responding.

“I know this sounds sad and sick but your first DB is like your first love. You remember the details. Plus…”

He didn’t finish.

“Plus what?”

“Plus my mother was murdered when I was a kid. I think it’s why I became a cop. So finding that woman—my second day on the job—was sort of like finding my mother. I can’t explain it. But what I can tell you is that I remember being in that house like it was yesterday. And Eckersly never touched a thing in there, let alone put his hand on the wall over the toilet.”

Now she was silent for a long moment before responding.

“Okay, Harry.”

Ten Thousand Palms was on the outskirts of Joshua Tree. They made good time and pulled into the visitor parking space in front of the tiny police station shortly before one. They had worked out how they would handle Eckersly in the last half hour of the drive.

They went in and I rwent inasked a woman who was sitting behind a front counter if they could speak with Eckersly. They flashed the gold and told her they were from the Open-Unsolved Unit. The woman picked up a phone and communicated the information to someone on the other end. Before she hung up, a door behind her opened and there stood Ron Eckersly. He was thicker and his skin a dark and worn brown from the desert. He still had a full head of hair, which was cut short and silver. Bosch had no trouble recognizing him. But it didn’t appear that he recognized Bosch.

“Detectives, come on back,” he said.

He held the door and they walked into his office. He was wearing a blue blazer with a maroon tie over a white shirt. It did not appear to Bosch that he had a gun on his belt. Maybe in a little desert town a gun wasn’t needed.

The office was a small space with LAPD memorabilia and photographs on the wall behind the desk. Rider introduced herself and shook Eckersly’s hand and then Bosch did the same. There was a hesitation in Eckersly’s shake and then Bosch knew. Instinctively, he knew. He was holding the hand of June Wilkins’s killer.

“Harry Bosch,” Eckersly said. “You were one of my boots, right?”

“That’s right. I came on the job in ’seventy-two. We rode Wilshire patrol for nine months.”

“Imagine that, one of my boots coming back to see me.”

“Actually, we want to talk to you about a case from ’seventy-two,” Rider said.

As planned, she took the lead. They took seats and Bosch once again tried to determine if Eckersly was armed. There was no telltale bulge beneath the blazer.

Rider explained the case to Eckersly and reminded him that he and Bosch had been the patrol officers who discovered the body. She asked if he remembered the case at all.

Eckersly leaned back in his desk chair, his jacket falling to his sides and revealing no holster or weapon on his belt. He looked for an answer on the ceiling. Finding nothing, he leaned forward and shook his head.

“I’m drawing a blank, Detectives,” he said. “And I’m not sure why you would come all the way out here to ask an old patrol dog about a DB. My guess is we were in and out, and we cleared the way for the dicks. Isn’t that right, partner?”

He looked at Bosch, his last word a reminder that they had once protected each other’s back.

“Yes, we were in and out.”

“But we have information—newly discovered information—that you apparently had a relationship with the victim,” Rider said matter-of-factly. “And that this relationship was not brought to light during the initial investigation.”

Eckersly looked closely at her, wondering how to read the situation. Bosch knew this wase wnew thi the pivotal moment. If Eckersly were to make a mistake, it would be now.

“What information?” Eckersly asked.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss it, Chief,” Rider responded. “But if you have something to tell us, tell us now. It would be best for you to clear this up before we go down the road with it.”

Eckersly’s face cracked into a smile and he looked at Bosch.

“This is a joke, right? Bosch, you’re putting her up to this, right?”

Bosch shook his head.

“No joke,” Bosch said. “You’re in a spot here, Chief.”

Eckersly shook his head as if not comprehending the situation.

“You said Open-Unsolved, right? That’s cold case stuff. DNA. This a DNA case?”

Bosch felt things tumbling into place. Eckersly had made the mistake. He had taken the bait and was fishing for information. It wasn’t what an innocent man would do. Rider felt it, too. She leaned toward his desk.

“Chief, do you mind if I give you a rights warning before we go further with this?”

“Oh, come on,” Eckersly protested. “You can’t be serious. What relationship?”

Rider read Eckersly the standard Miranda rights warning from a card she pulled out of a pocket in her blazer.

“Chief Eckersly, do you understand your rights as I have read them?”

“Of course, I understand them. I’ve only been a cop for forty years. What the hell is going on here?”

“What’s going on is that we are giving you the opportunity to explain the relationship you had with this woman. If you choose not to cooperate, then it’s not going to work out well for you.”

“I told you. There was no relationship and you can’t prove there was. That body had been in that tub for a week. From what I heard, it practically came apart when they were taking it out of there. You got no DNA. Nobody even knew about DNA back then.”

Rider made a quick glance toward Bosch and this was her signal that he could step in if he wanted. He did.

“You worked Wilshire for four years before that morning,” Bosch said. “Did you meet her on patrol? When she was out walking the dog? Where did you meet her, Chief? You told me you were working solo for four months before I was put in the car with you. Is that when you met her? When you were out working alone?”

Eckersly angrily grabbed the phone out of its cradle on his dellyle on hsk.

“I still know some people at Parker Center. I’m going to see if they are aware of what you two people are doing. Coming to my office to accuse me of this crap!”

“If you call anyone, you better call your lawyer,” Bosch said.

Eckersly slammed the phone back down into its cradle.

“What do you want from me? I did not know that woman. Just like you, I saw her for the first time floating with her dog in the bathtub. First and last time. And I got out of there as fast as I goddamn could.”

“And you never went back in.”

“That’s right, boot. I never went back in.”

There, they had him.

“Then how come your palm print was on the wall over the toilet?”

Eckersly froze. Bosch read his eyes. He remembered the moment he had put his hand on the wall. He knew they had him.

Eckersly glanced out the office’s only window. It was to his left and it offered a view of a fire department equipment yard. He then looked back at Bosch and spoke in a quiet voice.

“You know how often I wondered when somebody like you would show up here… how many years I’ve been waiting?”

Bosch nodded.

“It must have been a burden,” he said without sympathy.

“She wanted more, she wanted something permanent,” Eckersly said. “Christ, she was fifteen years older than me. She was just a patrol pal, that’s what we called them. But then she got the wrong idea about things and when I had to set her straight she said she was going to make a complaint about me. She was going to go to the captain. I was married back then. I couldn’t…”

He said nothing else. His eyes were downcast. He was looking at the memory. Bosch could put the rest of it together. Eckersly hatched a plan that would throw the investigation off, send it in the wrong direction. His only mistake was the moment he put his hand on the wall over the toilet.

“You have to come with us now, Chief,” Rider said.

She stood up. Eckersly looked up at her.

“With you?” he said. “No, I don’t.”

With his right hand he pulled open the desk drawer in front of him and quickly reached in with his left. He withdrew a black, steel pistol and brought it up to his neck.

“No!” Rider yelled.

>

Eckersly pressed the muzzle deep into the left side of his neck. He angled the weapon upward and pulled the trigger. The weapon’s contact against his skin muffled the blast. His head snapped back and blood splattered across the wall of police memorabilia behind him.

Bosch never moved in his seat. He just watched it happen. Pretty soon the woman from the front counter came running in and she screamed and held her hands up to her mouth.

Bosch turned and looked at Rider.

“That was a long time coming,” he said.

Laura was already rented at Eddie’s Saturday Matinee, so Bosch rented Sharky’s Machine instead. He watched it at home that night while drinking beer and eating peanut butter sandwiches, and trying to keep his mind away from what had happened in Eckersly’s office. It wasn’t a bad movie, though he could see almost everything coming. Burt Reynolds and Bernie Casey made pretty good cops and Rachel Ward was the call girl with a heart of gold. Bosch saw what Burt saw in her. He thought he could easily fall in love with her, too. Call girl or not, dead or alive.

Near the end of the movie, there was a shootout and Bernie Casey got wounded. Bleeding and out of bullets, he used a Zen mantra to make himself invisible to the approaching shooter.

It worked. The shooter walked right by him, and Bernie lived to tell about it. Bosch liked that. At the end of the movie he remembered that moment the best. He wished there were a Zen chant he could use now so Ronald Eckersly could just walk on by him, too. But he knew there was no such thing. Eckersly would take his place with the others that came to him at night. The ones he remembered.

Bosch thought about calling Kiz and telling her what he thought of the movie. But he knew it was too late and she would get upset with him. He killed the TV instead and turned off the lights.

And for more Michael Connelly…

The following is an excerpt from the opening pages of The Drop.

On sale 27th October 2011.

Available for pre-order now.

One

Christmas came once a month in the Open-Unsolved Unit. That was when the lieutenant made her way around the squad room like Santa Claus, parceling out the assignments like presents to the squad’s six detective teams. The cold hits were the lifeblood of the unit. The teams didn’t wait for callouts and fresh kills in Open-Unsolved. They waited for cold hits.

The Open-Unsolved Unit investigated unsolved murders going back fifty years in Los Angghteles. There were twelve detectives, a secretary, a squad room supervisor, known as the whip, and the lieutenant. And there were ten thousand cases. The first five detective teams split up the fifty years, each pair taking ten randomly chosen years. Their task was to pull all the unsolved homicide cases from their assigned years out of archives, evaluate them and submit long-stored and forgotten evidence for reanalysis with contemporary technology. All DNA submissions were handled by the new regional lab out at Cal State. When DNA from an old case was matched to an individual whose genetic profile was carried in any of the nation’s DNA databases, it was called a cold hit. The lab put cold hit notices in the mail at the end of every month. They would arrive a day or two later at the Police Administration Building in downtown Los Angeles. Usually by 8 A.M. that day, the lieutenant would open the door of her private office and enter the squad room. She carried the envelopes in her hand. Each hit sheet was mailed individually in a yellow business envelope. Generally, the envelopes were handed to the same detectives who had submitted the DNA evidence to the lab. But sometimes there were too many cold hits for one team to handle at once. Sometimes detectives were in court or on vacation or on leave. And sometimes the cold hits revealed circumstances that required the utmost finesse and experience. That was where the sixth team came in. Detectives Harry Bosch and David Chu were the sixth team. They were floaters. They handled overflow cases and special investigations.

On Monday morning, October 3, Lieutenant Gail Duvall stepped out of her office and into the squad room, carrying only three yellow envelopes. Harry Bosch almost sighed at the sight of such a paltry return on the squad’s DNA submissions. He knew that with so few envelopes he would not be getting a new case to work.

Bosch had been back in the unit for almost a year following a two-year reassignment to Homicide Special. But coming back for his second tour of duty in Open-Unsolved, he had quickly fallen into the rhythm of the squad. It wasn’t a fly squad. There was no dashing out the door to get to a crime scene. In fact, there were no crime scenes. There were only files and archive boxes. It was primarily an eight-to-four gig with an asterisk, that asterisk meaning that there was more travel than with other detective squads. People who got away with murder, or at least thought they had, tended not to stick around. They moved elsewhere and often the OU detectives had to travel to retrieve them.

A big part of the rhythm was the monthly cycle of waiting for the yellow envelopes to come out. Sometimes Bosch found it hard to sleep during the nights leading up to Christmas. He never took time off during the first week of the month and never came to work late if there was a chance that the yellow envelopes were in. Even his teenage daughter noticed his monthly cycle of anticipation and agitation, and had likened it to a menstrual cycle. Bosch didn’t see the humor in this and was embarrassed whenever she brought it up.

Now his disappointment at the sight of so few envelopes in the lieutenant’s hand was something palpable in his throat. He wanted a new case. He needed a new case. He needed to see the look on the killer’s face when he knocked on the door and showed his badge, the embodiment of unexpected justice come calling after so many years. It was addictive and Bosch was craving it now.

The lieutenant handed the first envelope to Rick Jackson. He and his partnerf w his pa, Rich Bengtson, were solid investigators who had been with the unit since its inception. Bosch had no complaint there. The next envelope was placed on an empty desk belonging to Teddy Baker. She and her partner, Greg Kehoe, were on their way back from a pickup in Tampa—an airline pilot who had been connected through fingerprints to the 1991 strangulation of a flight attendant in Marina del Rey.

Bosch was about to suggest to the lieutenant that Baker and Kehoe might have their hands full with the Marina case and that the envelope should be given to another team, namely his, when the lieutenant looked at him and used the last remaining envelope to beckon him to her office.

“Can you guys step in for a minute? You, too, Tim.”

Tim Marcia was the squad whip, the detective three who handled mostly supervisory and fill-in duties in the squad. He mentored the young detectives and made sure the old ones like Jackson and Bosch didn’t get lazy.

Bosch was up out of his seat before the lieutenant had finished her question. He headed toward the lieutenant’s office with Chu and Marcia trailing behind.

“Close the door,” Duvall said. “Sit down.”

Duvall had a corner office with windows that looked across Spring Street at the Los Angeles Times Building. Paranoid that reporters were watching from the newsroom across the way, Duvall kept her shades permanently lowered. It made the office dim and cavelike. Bosch and Chu took the two seats positioned in front of the lieutenant’s desk. Marcia followed them in, moved to the side of Duvall’s desk and leaned against an old evidence safe.

“I want you two to handle this hit,” she said, proffering the yellow envelope to Bosch. “There’s something wrong there and I want you to keep quiet about it until you find out what it is. Keep Tim in the loop but keep it low-key.”

The envelope had already been opened. Chu leaned over to look as Harry lifted the flap and pulled out the hit sheet. It listed the case number for which DNA evidence had been submitted, plus the name, age, last known address and criminal history of the person whose genetic profile matched it. Bosch first noticed that the case number had an 89 prefix, meaning it was a case from 1989. There were no details about the crime, just the year. But Bosch knew that 1989 cases belonged to the team of Ross Shuler and Adriana Dolan. He knew this because 1989 had been a busy year for him working murders for the Homicide Special team, and he had recently checked on one of his own unsolved cases and learned that jurisdiction over cases from that year belonged to Shuler and Dolan. They were known in the unit as “the kids.” They were young, passionate and very skillful investigators, but between them they had less than eight years’ experience working homicides. If there was something unusual about this cold hit, it was not surprising that the lieutenant wanted Bosch on it. Bosch had worked more killings than everybody in the unit combined. That is, if you took out Jackson. He had been around forever.

Bosch next studied the name on the hit sheet. Clayton S. Pell. It meant nothing to him. But Pell’s arrest record included numerous arrests and three separate convictions for indecent exposure, falses aosure, imprisonment and forcible rape. He had spent six years in prison for the rape before being released eighteen months earlier. He had a five-year probation tail and his last known address came from the state probation and parole board. He was assigned to a halfway house for sexual offenders in Panorama City.

Based on Pell’s record, Bosch believed the 1989 case was likely a sex-related murder. He could feel his insides beginning to tighten. He was going to go out and grab Clayton Pell and bring him to justice.

“Do you see it?” Duvall asked.

“See what?” Bosch asked. “Was this a sex killing? This guy has the classic pred—”

“The birth date,” Duvall said.

Bosch looked back down at the hit sheet as Chu leaned over farther.

“Yeah, right here,” Bosch said. “November nine, nineteen eighty-one. What’s that got—”

“He’s too young,” Chu said.

Bosch glanced at him and then back down at the sheet. He suddenly got it. Clayton Pell was born in 1981. He was only eight years old at the time of the murder on the hit sheet.

“Exactly,” Duvall said. “So I want you to get the book and box from Shuler and Dolan and very quietly figure out what we have here. I’m hoping to God they didn’t get two cases mixed up.”

Bosch knew that if Shuler and Dolan had somehow sent in genetic material from the old case labeled under a more recent case, then both cases would be tainted beyond any hope of eventual prosecution.

“Like you were about to say,” Duvall continued, “this guy on the hit sheet is no doubt a predator, but I don’t think he got away with a killing when he was only eight years old. So something doesn’t fit. Find it and come back to me before you do anything. If they screwed up and we can correct it, then we won’t need to worry about IAD or anybody else. We’ll just keep it right here.”

She may have appeared to be trying to protect Shuler and Dolan from Internal Affairs, but she was also protecting herself, and Bosch knew it. There would not be much vertical movement in the department for a lieutenant who had presided over an evidence-handling scandal in her own unit.

“What other years are assigned to Shuler and Dolan?” Bosch asked.

“On the recent side, they’ve got ’ninety-seven and two thousand,” Marcia said. “This could have come from a case they were working from one of those two years.”

Bosch nodded. He could see the scenario. The reckless handling of genetic evidence from one case cross-pollinates with another. The end result would be two tainted cases and scandal that would taint anybody near it.

“What si="3"> do we say to Shuler and Dolan?” Chu asked. “What’s the reason we’re taking the case off them?”

Duvall looked up at Marcia for an answer.

“They’ve got a trial coming up,” he offered. “Jury selection starts Thursday.”

Duvall nodded.

“I’ll tell them I want them clear for that.”

“And what if they say they still want the case?” Chu asked. “What if they say they can handle it?”

“I’ll put them straight,” Duvall said. “Anything else, Detectives?”

Bosch looked up at her.

“We’ll work the case, Lieutenant, and see what’s what. But I don’t investigate other cops.”

“That’s fine. I’m not asking you to. Work the case and tell me how the DNA came back to an eight-year-old kid, okay?”

Bosch nodded and started to stand up.

“Just remember,” Duvall added, “you talk to me before you do anything with what you learn.”

“You got it,” Bosch said.

They were about to leave the room.

“Harry,” the lieutenant said. “Hang back a second.”

Bosch looked at Chu and raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know what this was about. The lieutenant came around from behind her desk and closed the door after Chu and Marcia had left. She stayed standing and businesslike.

“I just wanted you to know that your application for an extension on your DROP came through. They gave you four years retroactive.”

Bosch looked at her, doing the math. He nodded. He had asked for the maximum—five years nonretroactive—but he’d take what they gave. It wouldn’t keep him much past high school but it was better than nothing.

“Well, I’m glad,” Duvall said. “It gives you thirty-nine more months with us.”

Her tone indicated that she had read disappointment in his face.

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m glad. I was just thinking about where that would put me with my daughter. It’s good. I’m happy.”

“Good, then.”

That was her way of saying the meeting was over. Bosch thanked her and left the office. As he stepped back into the squad room, he looked across the vast expanse ofdoit expan desks and dividers and file cabinets. He knew it was home and that he would get to stay—for now.

Two

The Open-Unsolved Unit shared access to the two fifth-floor conference rooms with all other units in the Robbery-Homicide Division. Usually detectives had to reserve time in one of the rooms, signing on the clipboard hooked on the door. But this early on a Monday, they both were open and Bosch, Chu, Shuler and Dolan commandeered the smaller of the two rooms without making a reservation.

They brought with them the murder book and the small archival evidence box from the 1989 case.

“Okay,” Bosch said, when everyone was seated. “So you are cool with us running with this case? If you’re not, we can go back to the lieutenant and say you really want to work it.”

“No, it’s okay,” Shuler said. “We both are involved in the trial, so it’s better this way. It’s our first case in the unit and we want to see it through to that guilty verdict.”

Bosch nodded as he casually opened the murder book.

“You want to give us the rundown on this one, then?”

Shuler gave Dolan a nod and she began to summarize the 1989 case as Bosch flipped through the pages of the binder.

“We have a nineteen-year-old victim named Lilly Price. She was snatched off the street while walking home from the beach in Venice on a Sunday afternoon. At the time, they narrowed the grab point down to the vicinity of Speedway and Voyage. Price lived on Voyage with three roommates. One was with her on the beach and two were in the apartment. She disappeared between those two points. She said she was going back to use the bathroom and she never made it.”

“She left her towel and a Walkman on the beach,” Shuler said. “Sunscreen. So it was clear she was intending to come back. She never did.”

“Her body was found the next morning on the rocks down at the cut,” Dolan said. “She was naked and had been raped and strangled. Her clothes were never found. The ligature was removed.”

Bosch flipped through several plastic pages containing faded Polaroid shots of the crime scene. Looking at the victim, he couldn’t help but think of his own daughter, who at fifteen had a full life in front of her. There had been a time when looking at photos like this fueled him, gave him the fire he needed to be relentless. But since Maddie had come to live with him, it was increasingly more difficult for him to look at victims.

It didn’t stop him from building the fire, however.

“Where did the DNA come from?” he asked. “Semen?”

“No, the killer used a condom or didn’t ejaculate,” Dolan said. “No semen.”

“It came from a small smear of blood,” Shuler said. “It was found on her neck, right below the right ear. She had no wounds in that area. It was assumed that it had come from the killer, that he had been cut or maybe was already bleeding. It was just a drop. A smear, really. She was strangled with a ligature. If she was strangled from behind then his hand could have been against her neck there. If there was a cut on his hand…”

“Transfer deposit,” Chu said.

“Exactly.”

Bosch found the Polaroid that showed the victim’s neck and the smear of blood. The photo was washed out by time and he could barely see the blood. A ruler had been placed on the girl’s neck so that the blood smear could be measured in the photo. It was less than an inch long.

“So this blood was collected and stored,” he said, a statement meant to draw further explanation.

“Yes,” Shuler said. “Because it was a smear it was swabbed. Back then, they typed it. O-positive. The swab was stored in a tube and we found it still in Property when we pulled the case. The blood had turned to powder.”

He tapped the top of the archive box with a pen.

Bosch’s phone started to vibrate in his pocket. Normally, he would let the call go to message, but his daughter was home sick from school and alone. He needed to make sure she wasn’t calling. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. It wasn’t his daughter. It was a former partner, Kizmin Rider, now a lieutenant assigned to the OCP—Office of the Chief of Police. He decided he would return her call after the meeting. They had lunch together about once a month and he assumed she was free today, or calling because she’d heard about him getting approved for another four years on the DROP. He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

“Did you open the tube?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Shuler said.

“Okay, so four months ago you sent the tube containing the swab and what was left of the blood out to the regional lab, right?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Shuler said.

Bosch flipped through the murder book to the autopsy report. He was acting like he was more interested in what he was seeing than what he was saying.

“And at that time, did you submit anything else to the lab?”

“From the Price case?” Dolan asked. “No, that was the only biological evidence they came up with back at the time.”

Bosch nodded, hoping she would keep talking.

“But back then it didn’t lead to anything,” she said. “They never came up with a suspect. Who’d they come up with recome up on the cold hit?”

“We’ll get to that in a second,” Bosch said. “What I meant was, did you submit to the lab from any other cases you were working? Or was this all you had going?”

“No, that was it,” Shuler said, his eyes squinting in suspicion. “What’s going on here, Harry?”

Bosch reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out the hit sheet. He slid it across the table to Shuler.

“The hit comes back to a sexual predator who would look real good for this except for one thing.”

Shuler unfolded the sheet and he and Dolan leaned together to read it, just as Bosch and Chu had earlier.

“What’s that?” Dolan said, not picking up on the significance of the birth date yet. “This guy looks perfect.”

“He’s perfect now,” Bosch said. “But back then he was only eight years old.”

“You’re kidding,” Dolan said.

“What the fuck?” Shuler added.

Dolan pulled the sheet away from her partner as if to see it clearer and to double-check the birth date. Shuler leaned back and looked at Bosch with those suspicious eyes.

“So you think we fucked up and mixed up cases,” he said.

“Nope,” Bosch said. “The lieutenant asked us to check out the possibility but I don’t see any fuckup on this end.”

“So it happened at the lab,” Shuler said. “Do you realize that if they screwed things up at regional, every defense lawyer in the county is going to be able to raise doubt about DNA matches that come out of there?”

“Yeah, I kind of figure that,” Bosch said. “Which is why you should keep this under your hats until we know what happened. There are other possibilities.”

Dolan held up the hit sheet.

“Yeah, what if there is no fuckup anywhere in the line? What if it’s really this kid’s blood on that dead girl?”

“An eight-year-old boy snatches a nineteen-year-old girl off the street, rapes and strangles her and dumps the body four blocks away?” Chu asked. “Never happened.”

“Well, maybe he was there,” Dolan said. “Maybe this was how he got his start as a predator. You see his record. This guy fits—except for his age.”

Bosch nodded.

“Maybe,” he said. “Like I said, there are other possibilities. No reason to panic yet.”

His phone started to vibrate again. He pulled it and saw it was Kiz Rider again. Two calls in five minutes, he decided he’d better take it. This wasn’t about lunch.

“I have to step out for a second.”

He got up and answered the call as he stepped out of the conference room into the hallway.

“Kiz?”

“Harry, I’ve been trying to get to you with a heads-up.”

“I’m in a meeting. What heads-up?”

“You are about to get a forthwith from the OCP.”

“You want me to come up to ten?”

In the new PAB, the chief’s suite of offices was on the tenth floor, complete with a private courtyard balcony that looked out across the civic center.

“No, Sunset Strip. You’re going to be told to go to a scene and take over a case. And you’re not going to like it.”

“Look, Lieutenant, I just got a case this morning. I don’t need another one.”

He thought that using her formal title would communicate his wariness. Forthwiths and assignments out of the OCP always carried high jingo—political overtones. It was sometimes hard to navigate your way through it.

“He’s not going to give you a choice here, Harry.”

He being the chief of police.

“What’s the case?”

“A jumper at the Chateau Marmont.”

“Who was it?”

“Harry, I think you should wait for the chief to call you. I just wanted to—”

“Who was it, Kiz? If you know anything about me, I think you know I can keep a secret until it’s no longer a secret.”

She paused before answering.

“From what I understand there is not a lot that is recognizable—he came down seven floors onto concrete. But the initial ID is George Thomas Irving. Age forty-six of eight—”

“Irving as in Irvin Irving? As in Councilman Irvin Irving?”

“Scourge of the LAPD in general and one Detective Harry Bosch in particular. Yes, one and the same. It’s his son, and Councilman Irving has insisted to the chief that you take over the investigation. The chief said no problemchid no pr.”

Bosch paused with his mouth open for a moment before responding.

“Why does Irving want me? He’s spent most of his careers in police and politics trying to end mine.”

“This I don’t know, Harry. I only know that he wants you.”

“When did this come in?”

“The call came in at about five forty-five this morning. My understanding is that it is unclear when it actually happened.”

Bosch checked his watch. The case was more than three hours old. That was quite late to be coming into a death investigation. He’d be starting out at a disadvantage.

“What’s to investigate?” he asked. “You said it was a jumper.”

“Hollywood originally responded and were going to wrap it up as a suicide. The councilman arrived and is not ready to sign off on that. That’s why he wants you.”

“And does the chief understand that I have a history with Irving that—”

“Yes, he does. He also understands that he needs every vote he can get on the council if we ever want to get overtime flowing to the department again.”

Bosch saw his boss, Lieutenant Duvall, enter the hallway from the Open-Unsolved Unit’s door. She made a There you are! gesture and started toward him.

“Looks like I’m about to get the official word,” Bosch said into the phone. “Thanks for the heads-up, Kiz. Doesn’t make any sense to me, but thanks. If you hear anything else, let me know.”

“Harry, you be careful with this. Irving’s old but he’s still got teeth.”

“I know that.”

Bosch closed his phone just as Duvall got to him, holding out a piece of paper.

“Sorry, Harry, change of plans. You and Chu need to go to this address and take a live case.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bosch looked at the address. It was the Chateau Marmont.

“Orders from the chief’s office. You and Chu are to proceed code three and take over a case. That’s all I know. That and that the chief himself is there waiting.”

“What about the case you just gave us?”

“Move it to the back burner for now. I want you on it, but just get to it when you can.”

She pointed to the piece of paper in his hand.

“That’s the priority.”

“You sure about this, Lieutenant?”

“Of course I’m sure. The chief called me directly and he’s going to call you. So grab Chu and get going.”

Three

As expected, Chu was full of questions while they were driving out of downtown on the 101 Freeway. They had been partnered for nearly two years and by now Bosch was more than used to the manifestation of Chu’s insecurities in a nonstop verbal outpouring of questions, comments and observations. He usually spoke about one thing while his real concern was something else. Sometimes Bosch took it easy on him and told him what he wanted to know. Sometimes he let things play out till they became excruciating to his young partner.

“Harry, what the hell is going on? We got one case this morning and now they say we have another?”

“The LAPD is a paramilitary organization, Chu. That means when someone of higher rank tells you to do something, you do it. The order came down from the chief and we’re following it. That’s what’s going on. We’ll eventually get back to the cold hit. But for now we have a live one and it’s the priority.”

“Sounds like bullshit politics.”

“High jingo.”

“What’s that?”

“The confluence of police and politics. We are investigating the death of Councilman Irvin Irving’s son. You know about Irving, right?”

“Yeah, he was a deputy chief when I came on. Then he quit and ran for the council.”

“Well, he didn’t voluntarily quit. He was forced out and ran for the council so he could seek his revenge on the department. Pure and simple, he lives for one thing—putting the boot to the LAPD. You should also know that back in the day, he had a particular dislike for me. We had a few collisions, you could say.”

“Then why would he want you on his son’s case?”

“We’ll be finding that out pretty soon.”

“What did the lieutenant tell you about this case? Is it suicide?”

“She didn’t tell me anything. She just gave me the address.”

He decided not to tell Chu what he knew about the case through Kiz Rider. To do so would reveal that he had a source inside the OCP. He didn’t want to share that with Chu yet and had always kept his monthly lunches with Kiz private.

“This all sounds a little spooky.”

Bosch’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen. The ID was blocked but he took the call. It was the chief of police. Bosch had known him for years and had even worked cases with him. He had come up through the ranks, including a long stint in RHD as both an investigator and supervisor. He had been chief for only a couple years and still had the support of the rank and file.

“Harry, it’s Marty. What’s your twenty?”

“We’re on the one-oh-one. We left as soon as I got the word.”

“I need to clear before the media gets wind of this, which won’t be long now. No need to turn this from a one-ring to a three-ring circus. As you no doubt have been told, the victim is the son of Councilman Irving. The councilman insisted that I bring you into this.”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t really expressed his reasons to me. I know you two have a history.”

“But not a good one. What can you tell me about the case?”

“Not a lot.”

He gave Bosch the same summary as Rider had with few additional details.

“Who’s there from Hollywood?”

“Glanville and Solomon.”

Bosch was familiar with them from prior cases and task forces. Both investigators were known for their wide bodies and tall egos. They were called Crate and Barrel and enjoyed it. They were flashy dressers with big pinkie rings. And as far as Bosch knew, they were competent detectives. If they were about to wrap the investigation as a suicide, then they most likely had it right.

“They will continue under your direction,” the chief said. “I told them personally.”

“Okay, Chief.”

“Harry, I need your best work on this. I don’t care about your history. Put it aside. We can’t have the councilman go off and say we laid down on this.”

“Understood.”

Bosch was silent for a moment as he thought about what else to ask.

“Chief, where is the councilman?”

“We’ve got him down in the lobby.”

“Did he go into the room?”

“He insisted. I let him look around without touching anything and then we walked him out.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Marty.”

Bosch knew he was taking a risk telling the chief of police he had done something wrong. It didn’t matter that they used to roll bodies over together.

“I guess you had no choice,” Bosch added.

“Just get here as soon as you can and keep me apprised. If you can’t get directly to me, use Lieutenant Rider as a go-between.”

But he didn’t offer his cell phone’s blocked number, so the message was clear to Bosch. He would no longer be talking directly with his old pal the chief. What wasn’t clear was what the chief was telling Bosch to do about the investigation.

“Chief,” he said, going formal to make sure it was clear he wasn’t calling on old loyalties. “If I get up there and it’s a suicide, I’m going to call it a suicide. If you want something else, get somebody else.”

“It’s okay, Harry. Just let the chips fall. It is what it is.”

“You sure about that? Is that what Irving wants?”

“It’s what I want.”

“Got it.”

“By the way, did Duvall give you the news about the DROP?”

“Yeah, she told me.”

“I pushed for the whole five but you got a couple of people on the commission who didn’t like everything in your file. We got what we could, Harry.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Good.”

The chief closed the connection. Bosch barely had time to close his own phone before Chu was on him with questions about what had been said. Harry relayed the conversation as he pulled off the freeway onto Sunset Boulevard and headed west.

Chu parlayed the report on the chief’s call into a question about what really had been bothering him all morning.

“What about the lieutenant?” he said. “Were you ever going to tell me what that was about?”

Bosch played dumb.

“What what was about?”

“Don’t play dumb, Harry. When she held you back in the office, what was she saying? She wants me out of the unit, doesn’t she? I never liked her either.”

Bosch couldn’t help himself. His partner’s glass was always half empty and an opportunity to needle him about it was not to be missed.

“She said she wanted to move you laterally—keep you in homicide. She said there were some slots coming up in South Bureau and she’s talking to them about a switch.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Chu had recently moved out to Pasadena. The commute to South Bureau would be a nightmare.

“Well, what did you tell her?” he demanded. “Did you stick up for me?”

“South is a good gig, man. I told her you’d get seasoned down there in two years. It would take five anywhere else.”

“Harry!”

Bosch started laughing. It was a good release. The impending meeting with Irving was weighing on him. It was coming and he wasn’t sure yet how to play it.

“Are you shitting me?” Chu cried, fully turned in his seat now. “Are you fucking shitting me?”

“Yes, I’m fucking shitting you, Chu. So chill out. All she told me was that my DROP came through. You’re going to have to put up with me for another three years and three months, okay?”

“Oh…, well, that’s good, right?”

“Yes, that’s good.”

Chu was too young to worry about things like the DROP. Almost ten years before, Bosch had taken a full pension and retired from the department in an ill-advised decision. After two years as a citizen he came back under the department’s Deferred Retirement Option Plan, which was designed to keep experienced detectives in the department and doing the work they did best. For Bosch that was homicide. He was a retread with a seven-year contract. Not everybody in the department was happy with the program, especially divisional detectives hoping for a shot at some of the prestige slots in the downtown Robbery-Homicide Division.

Department policy allowed for one extension of the DROP of three to five years. After that, retirement was mandated. Bosch had applied for his second contract the year before and, bureaucracy being what it was in the department, waited more than a year for the news the lieutenant gave him, going well past his original DROP date. He had been anxious while waiting, knowing that he could be dismissed from the department immediately if the police commission did not decide to extend his stay. It was certainly good news to finally get but he now saw a defined limit on his time carrying a badge. So the good news was tinged with a certain melancholy. When he got the formal notification from the commission, it would have an exact date on it that would be his last day as a cop. He couldn’t help but focus on that. His future had limitations. Maybe he was a half-empty kind of guy himself.

Chu gave him a break on the questions after that and Harry tried to avoid thinking about the DROP. Instead, he thought about Irvin Irving as he drove west. The councilman had spent more than forty years in the police department but had never gotten to the top floor. After a d aor. Aftcareer spent grooming and positioning himself for the chief’s job, it had been snatched from him in a political windstorm. A few years after that, he was engineered out of the department—with Bosch’s help. A man scorned, he ran for the city council, won the election, and made it his business to exact retribution on the department where he had toiled for so many decades. He had gone so far as to vote against every proposed raise in salaries for police officers and expansion of the department. He was always first to call for an independent review or investigation of any perceived impropriety or alleged transgression committed by officers. His sharpest poke, however, had come the year before when he had wholeheartedly joined the cost-cutting charge that slashed a hundred million in overtime out of the department budget. That hurt every officer up and down the ladder.

Bosch had no doubt that the current chief of police had made some sort of deal with Irving. A quid pro quo. Bosch would be delivered to take over the case in exchange for something else. While Harry had never considered himself very politically astute, he was confident he would figure things out soon enough.

Four

The Chateau Marmont sat at the east end of the Sunset Strip, an iconic structure set against the Hollywood Hills that had enticed movie stars, writers, rock and rollers and their entourages for decades. Several times during his career Bosch had been to the hotel as he had followed cases and sought witnesses and suspects. He knew its beamed lobby and hedged courtyard and the layout of its spacious suites. Other hotels offered amazing levels of comfort and personal service. The Chateau offered Old World charm and a lack of interest in your personal business. Most hotels had security cameras, hidden or not, in all public spaces. The Chateau had few. The one thing the Chateau offered that no other hotel on the strip could touch was privacy. Behind its walls and tall hedges was a world without intrusion, where those who didn’t want to be watched were not. That is, until things went wrong, or private behavior became public.

Just past Laurel Canyon Boulevard the hotel rose behind the profusion of billboards that lined Sunset. By night the hotel was marked with a simple neon-lit sign, modest by Sunset Strip standards, and even more so by day when the light was off. The hotel was technically located on Marmont Lane, which split off from Sunset and wound around the hotel and up into the hills. As they approached, Bosch saw that Marmont Lane was blocked by temporary barricades. Two patrol cars and two media trucks were parked along the hedge line at the front of the hotel. This told him that the death scene was on the west side or rear of the hotel. He pulled in behind one of the black and whites.

“The vultures are already here,” Chu said, nodding toward the media vans.

It was impossible to keep a secret in this town, especially a secret like this. A neighbor would call, a hotel guest or a patrol officer, maybe somebody down at the coroner’s office trying to impress a blond TV reporter. News traveled fast.

They got out of the car and approached the barricades. Bosch signaled one of the uniformed officers away from the two camera crews so they could speak without the media hearing.

“Where is it?” Bosch asked.ricBosch a

The cop looked like he had at least ten years on the job. His shirt plate said RAMPONE.

“We have two scenes,” he said. “We’ve got the splat around back here on the side. And then the room the guy was using. That’s the top floor, room seventy-nine.”

It was the routine way of police officers to dehumanize the daily horrors that came with the job. Jumpers were called splats.

Bosch had left his rover in the car. He nodded to the mike on Rampone’s shoulder.

“Find out where Glanville and Solomon are.”

Rampone cocked his head toward his shoulder and pressed the transmit button. He quickly located the initial investigative team in room seventy-nine.

“Okay, tell them to stay put. We’re going to check out the lower scene and then head up.”

Bosch went back to his car to grab the rover out of the charging dock and then walked with Chu around the barricade and up the sidewalk.

“Harry, you want me to go up and talk to those guys?” Chu asked.

“No, it always starts with the body and goes from there. Always.”

Chu was used to working cold cases, where there was never a crime scene. Only reports. Also, he had issues with seeing dead bodies. It was the reason he’d opted for the cold case squad. No fresh kills, no murder scenes, no autopsies. This time things would be different.

Marmont Lane was a steep and narrow road. They came to the death scene at the northwestern corner of the hotel. The forensic team had put up a canopy over the scene to guard against visual intrusion from media choppers and the houses that terraced the hills behind the hotel.

Before stepping under the canopy Bosch looked up the side of the hotel. He saw a man in a suit leaning over the parapet, looking down from a balcony on the top floor. He guessed it was Glanville or Solomon.

Bosch went under the canopy and found a bustle of activities involving forensic techs, coroner’s investigators and police photographers. At the center of it all was Gabriel Van Atta, whom Bosch had known for years. Van Atta had spent twenty-five years working for the LAPD as a crime scene tech and supervisor before retiring and taking a job with the coroner. Now he got a salary and a pension and still worked crime scenes. That counted as a break for Bosch. He knew that Van Atta wouldn’t be cagey about anything. He would tell Harry exactly what he thought.

Bosch and Chu stood under the canopy but stayed on the periphery. The scene belonged to the techs at the moment. Bosch noted that the body had been turned over and that they were far along. The body would soon be removed and transported to the medical examiner’s office. This bothered him but it was tg dbut it he cost of coming into a case so late.

The gruesome extent of the injuries from seven floors of gravity were on full display. Bosch could almost feel his partner’s revulsion at the sight. Harry decided to give him a break.

“Tell you what, I’ll handle this and meet you upstairs.”

“Really?”

“Really. But you’re not getting out of the autopsy.”

“That’s a deal, Harry.”

The conversation had drawn Van Atta’s attention.

“Harry B,” he said. “I thought you were still working cold cases.”

“This one’s a special, Gabe. All right if I step in?”

Meaning the inner circle of the death scene. Van Atta waved him in. As Chu ducked out from under the canopy, Bosch grabbed a pair of paper booties from a dispenser and put them on over his shoes. He then worked his way as best he could around the coagulated blood on the sidewalk and squatted down next to what was left of George Thomas Irving.

Death takes everything, including one’s dignity. George’s naked and battered body was surrounded on all sides by technicians who viewed it as a piece of work. His earthly vessel had been reduced to a ripped bag of skin containing shattered bones and organs and blood vessels. His body had bled out through every natural orifice and many new ones created by his impact on the sidewalk. His skull was shattered, leaving his head and face grossly misshapen like it would be in a fun house mirror. His left eye had broken free of its orbit and hung loosely on his cheek. His chest had been crushed by the impact and several sheared bones from the ribs and clavicle protruded through the skin.

Unblinking, Bosch studied the body carefully, looking for the unusual on a canvas that was anything but usual. He searched the inside of the arms for needle tracks, the fingernails for foreign debris.

“I got here late,” he said. “Anything I should know?”

“I’m thinking the guy hit headfirst, which is very unusual, even for a suicide,” Van Atta said. “And I want to draw your attention to something here.”

He pointed to the victim’s right arm and then the left, which were spread in the blood puddle.

“Every bone in both arms is broken, Harry. Shattered, actually. But we have no compound injuries, no breaking of the skin.”

“Which tells us what?”

“It means one of two extremes. One, he was really serious about taking a high dive and didn’t even put his hands out to break the fall. If he had, we would’ve had shearing and compound fractures. We don’t.”

“And the other extreme?”

“That the reason he didn’t put his arms out to break the fall was that he wasn’t conscious when he hit the ground.”

“Meaning he was thrown.”

“Yeah, or more likely dropped. We’ll have to do some distance modeling but this looks like he came straight down. If he was pushed or thrown, as you say, I think he would have been a couple feet farther out from the structure.”

“Got it. What about time of death?”

“We took the liver temperature and did the math. This isn’t official, as you know, but we think between four and five.”

“So he was here on the sidewalk for an hour before somebody saw him.”

“It could happen. We’ll try to narrow the TOD at autopsy. Can we get him rolling now?”

“If that’s all the wisdom you have for me today, yes, you can get him out of here.”

A few minutes later Bosch headed up the entrance drive to the hotel’s garage. A black Lincoln Town Car with city plates was idling on the cobblestones. Councilman Irving’s car. As he walked past, Bosch saw a young driver behind the wheel and an older man in a suit in the front passenger seat. The back seat appeared to be empty but it was hard to determine through the smoked glass.

Bosch took the stairs up to the next level, where the front desk and lobby were located.

Most people who stayed at the Chateau were night creatures. The lobby was deserted except for Irvin Irving, who was sitting by himself on a couch with a cell phone pressed to his ear. When he saw Bosch coming, he quickly ended the call and pointed toward a couch directly opposite his. Harry had hoped to stay standing and to keep momentum but it was one of those times when he took direction. As he sat down he pulled a notebook out of his back pocket.

“Detective Bosch,” Irving said. “Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t have the choice, Councilman.”

“I guess not.”

“First, I’d like to express my sympathy for the loss of your son. Second, I’d like to know why you want me here.”

Irving nodded and glanced out one of the lobby’s tall windows. There was an outdoor restaurant beneath palm trees and umbrellas and space heaters. It was empty, too, except for the wait staff.

“I guess nobody gets up around here till noon,” he said.

Bosch didn’t reply. He waited for the answer to his questt sto his ion. Irving’s signature physical trait had always been the shaved and polished scalp. He had the look going long before it was fashionable. In the department, he had been known as Mr. Clean because he had the look and he was the guy brought in to clean up the political and social messes that routinely came up in a heavily armed and political bureaucracy.

But now Irving’s look was shopworn. His skin was gray and loose and he looked older than he actually was.

“I always heard that losing a child was the most difficult pain,” Irving said. “Now I know it’s true. It doesn’t matter what age or what circumstances… it’s just not supposed to happen. It’s not the natural order of things.”

There was nothing Bosch could say to that. He had sat with enough parents of dead children to know there was no debating what the councilman had said. Irving had his head down, eyes on the ornate pattern of the rug in front of him.

“I’ve worked for this city in one capacity or another for over fifty years,” he continued. “And here I am and I can’t trust a soul in it. So I reach out to a man I’ve tried to destroy in the past. Why? I’m not even sure myself. I suppose it’s because there was an integrity to our skirmishes. An integrity to you. I didn’t like you or your methods but I respected you.”

He looked up at Bosch now.

“I want you to tell me what happened to my son, Detective Bosch. I want the truth and I think I can trust you to give it to me.”

“No matter how it falls?”

“No matter how it falls.”

Bosch nodded.

“I can do that.”

He started to get up but paused when Irving continued.

“You said once that everybody counts or nobody counts. I remember that. This would put that to the test. Does the son of your enemy count? Will you give your best effort for him? Will you be relentless for him?”

Bosch just stared at him. Everybody counts or nobody counts. It was his code as a man. But it was never spoken. It was only followed. He was sure he had never said it to Irving.

“When?”

“Excuse me?”

“When did I say that?”

Realizing he may have misspoken, Irving shrugged and adopted the pose of a confused old man even though his eyes were as sharp as black marbles in snow.

“I don’t remember, actually. It’s just something I know about you.”

Bosch st fo"3">Bosood up.

“I’ll find out what happened to your son. Is there anything you can tell me about what he was doing here?”

“No, nothing.”

“How did you find out this morning?”

“I was called by the chief of police. Personally. I came right away. But they wouldn’t let me see him.”

“They were right. Did he have a family? I mean besides you.”

“A wife and son—the boy just went away to college. I was just on the phone with Deborah. I told her the news.”

“If you call her back, tell her I’ll be coming to see her.”

“Of course.”

“What did your son do for a living?”

“He was a lawyer specializing in corporate relations.”

Bosch waited for more but that was all that was offered.

“Corporate relations? What does that mean?”

“It means he got things done. People came to him when they wanted things done in this city. He had worked for the city. First as a cop, then for the City Attorney.”

“And he had an office?”

“He had a cell phone.”

“What did he call his company?”

“It was a law firm. Irving and Associates—only there weren’t any associates. Just a one-man shop.”

Bosch knew he would have to come back to this. But it wasn’t useful to spar with Irving when he had so little basic knowledge through which to filter the councilman’s answers. He would wait until he knew more.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said.

Irving raised his hand and flipped two fingers out with a business card between them.

“This is my private cell number. I’ll expect to hear something from you by the end of the day.”

Or you’ll take another ten million out of the overtime budget? Bosch didn’t like this. But he took the card and headed to the elevators.

On the way up to seven he thought about the stilted conversation with Irving. What bothered him most was that Irving knew his code and Harry had a pretty good idea how he had come by the information. It was something he would have to deal witnci to deah later.

Contents

Front Cover Image

Christmas Even

Father’s Day

Angle of Investigation

A Preview of The Drop

About the Author

Also by Michael Connelly

Copyright

About the Author

Michael Connelly is the author of the recent #1 New York Times bestsellers The Fifth Witness, The Reversal, The Scarecrow, The Brass Verdict, and The Lincoln Lawyer, as well as the bestselling Harry Bosch series of novels. He is a former newspaper reporter who has won numerous awards for his journalism and his novels. He spends his time in California and Florida.

Books by Michael Connelly

Featuring Harry Bosch
The Black Echo	The Black Ice
The Concrete Blonde	The Last Coyote

Trunk Music	Angels Flight
A Darkness More Than Night	City of Bones

Lost Light	The Narrows
The Closers	Echo Park

The Overlook	Nine Dragons
Featuring Mickey Haller
The Lincoln Lawyer	The Fifth Witness

Featuring Harry Bosch and Mickey Haller
The Brass Verdict	The Reversal
Featuring Jack McEvoy
The Poet	The Scarecrow

Other Novels
Blood Work	Void Moon
Nonfiction
Chasing the Dime	Crime Beat

Short Stories
Suicide Run	Angle of Investigation

Copyright

AN ORION EBOOK

This collection first published in Great Britain in 2011 by Orion Books.

This eBook first published in 2011 by Orion Books.

Copyright © Hieronymus, Inc 2001, 2004, 2005, 2008

“Christmas Even” was originally published in Murder and All That Jazz, edited by Robert J Randisi.

“Father’s Day” was originally published in The Blue Religion, edited by Michael Connelly.

“Angle if Investigation” was originally published in Plots with Guns, edited by Anthony Neil Smith.

Excerpt from The Drop © Hieronymus, Inc 2011

The moral right of Michael Connelly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978 1 4091 4310 9

Orion Books

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper St Martin’s Lane

London WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK Company

www.orionbooks.co.uk

Table of Contents

Front Cover Image

Christmas Even

Father’s Day

Angle of Investigation

A Preview of The Drop

About the Author

Also by Michael Connelly

Copyright

Table of Contents

Front Cover Image

Christmas Even

Father’s Day

Angle of Investigation

A Preview of The Drop

About the Author

Also by Michael Connelly

Copyright