"Excuse me?"

The voice came from behind Bosch. In one fluid move he turned and pivoted out of his chair, drawing his gun and aiming it at the door.

A man holding a trash bag stood there, his eyes going wide in fright.

Bosch immediately lowered his weapon, and the office cleaner looked like he might faint.

"Sorry," Bosch said.

"I come back later," the man said in a thick accent from Eastern Europe.

He turned and disappeared quickly through the door.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" Bosch cursed, clearly unhappy about pointing his gun at an innocent man.

"I doubt we'll ever get our trash cans emptied again," I said.

Bosch went over to the door and closed and bolted it. He came back to the desk and looked at me with angry eyes. He sat back down, took a deep breath, and proceeded in a much calmer voice.

"I'm glad you can keep your sense of humor, Counselor. But enough with the f.u.c.king jokes."

"All right, no jokes."

Bosch looked like he was struggling internally with what to say or do next. His eyes swept the room and then held on me.

"All right, look, you're right. It is my job to catch this guy. But you had him right here. Right G.o.dd.a.m.n here! And so it stands to reason that he was here with a purpose. He came to either kill you, which seems unlikely, since he apparently doesn't even know you, or he came to get something from you. The question is, what is it? What is in this office or in one of your files that could lead to the ident.i.ty of the killer?"

I tried to match him with an even-tempered voice of my own.

"All I can tell you is that I have had my case manager in here since Tuesday. I've had my investigator in here, and Jerry Vincent's own receptionist was in here up until lunchtime today, when she quit. And none of us, Detective, none of us, none of us, has been able to find the smoking gun you're so sure is here. You tell me that Vincent paid somebody a bribe. But I can find no indication in any file or from any client that that is true. I spent the last three hours in here looking at the Elliot file and I saw no indication-not one-that he paid anybody off or bribed somebody. In fact, I found out that he didn't has been able to find the smoking gun you're so sure is here. You tell me that Vincent paid somebody a bribe. But I can find no indication in any file or from any client that that is true. I spent the last three hours in here looking at the Elliot file and I saw no indication-not one-that he paid anybody off or bribed somebody. In fact, I found out that he didn't need need to bribe anybody. Vincent had a magic bullet and he had a shot at winning the case fair and square. So when I tell you I have nothing, I mean it. I'm not playing you. I'm not holding back. I have nothing to give you. Nothing." to bribe anybody. Vincent had a magic bullet and he had a shot at winning the case fair and square. So when I tell you I have nothing, I mean it. I'm not playing you. I'm not holding back. I have nothing to give you. Nothing."

"What about the FBI?"

"Same answer. Nothing."

Bosch didn't respond. I saw true disappointment cloud his face. I continued.

"If this mustache man is the killer, then, of course there is a reason that brought him back here. But I don't know it. Am I concerned about it? No, not concerned. I'm f.u.c.king scared s.h.i.tless about it. I'm f.u.c.king scared s.h.i.tless that this guy thinks I have something, because if I have it, I don't even know I have it, and that is not a good place to be."

Bosch abruptly stood up. He pulled Cisco's gun out of his waistband and put it down on the desk.

"Keep it loaded. And if I were you, I would stop working at night."

He turned and headed toward the door.

"That's it?" I called after him.

He spun in his tracks and came back to the desk.

"What else do you want from me?"

"All you want is information from me. Most of the time information I can't give. But you in turn give nothing back, and that's half the reason I'm in danger."

Bosch looked like he might be about to jump over the desk at me. But then I saw him calm himself once more. All except for the palpitation high on his cheek near his left temple. That didn't go away. That was his tell, and it was a tell that once again gave me a sense of familiarity.

"f.u.c.k it," he finally said. "What do you want to know, Counselor? Go ahead. Ask me a question-any question-and I'll answer it."

"I want to know about the bribe. Where did the money go?"

Bosch shook his head and laughed in a false way.

"I give you a free shot and I say to myself that I'll answer your question, no matter what it is, and you go and ask me the question I don't have an answer to. You think if I knew where the money went and who got the bribe that I'd be here right now with you? Uh-uh, Haller, I'd be booking a killer."

"So you're sure one thing had to do with the other? That the bribe-if there was a bribe-is connected to the killing."

"I'm going with the percentages."

"But the bribe-if there was a bribe-went down five months ago. Why was Jerry killed now? Why's the FBI calling him now?"

"Good questions. Let me know if you come up with any answers. Meantime, anything else I can do for you, Counselor? I was heading home when you called."

"Yeah, there is."

He looked at me and waited.

"I was on my way out, too."

"What, you want me to hold your hand on the way to the garage? Fine, let's go."

I closed the office once again and we proceeded down the hall to the bridge to the garage. Bosch had stopped talking and the silence was nerve-racking. I finally broke it.

"I was going to go have a steak. You want to come? Maybe we'll solve the world's problems over some red meat."

"Where, Musso's?"

"I was thinking Dan Tana's."

Bosch nodded.

"If you can get us in."

"Don't worry. I know a guy."

Thirty-three

Bosch followed me but when I slowed on Santa Monica Boulevard to pull into the valet stop in front of the restaurant, he kept going. I saw him drive by and turn right on Doheny.

I went in by myself and Craig sat me in one of the cherished corner booths. It was a busy night but things were tapering off. I saw the actor James Woods finishing dinner in a booth with a movie producer named Mace Neufeld. They were regulars and Mace gave me a nod. He had once tried to option one of my cases for a film but it didn't work out. I saw Corbin Bernsen in another booth, the actor who had given the best approximation of an attorney I had ever seen on television. And then in another booth, the man himself, Dan Tana, was having a late dinner with his wife. I dropped my eyes to the checkered tablecloth. Enough who's who. I had to prepare for Bosch. During the drive, I had thought long and hard about what had just happened back at the office and now I only wanted to think about how best to confront Bosch about it. It was like preparing for the cross-examination of a hostile witness.

Ten minutes after I was seated, Bosch finally appeared in the doorway and Craig led him to me.

"Get lost?" I asked as he squeezed into the booth.

"I couldn't find a parking s.p.a.ce."

"I guess they don't pay you enough for valet."

"No, valet's a beautiful thing. But I can't give my city car to a valet. Against the rules."

I nodded, guessing that it was probably because he packed a shotgun in the trunk.

I decided to wait until after we ordered to make a play with Bosch. I asked if he wanted to look at the menu and he said he was ready to order. When the waiter came, we both ordered the Steak Helen with spaghetti and red sauce on the side. Bosch ordered a beer and I asked for a bottle of flat water.

"So," I said, "where's your partner been lately?"

"He's working on other aspects of the investigation."

"Well, I guess it's good to hear there are other aspects to it."

Bosch studied me for a long moment before replying.

"Is that supposed to be a crack?"

"Just an observation. Doesn't seem from my end to be much happening."

"Maybe that's because your source dried up and blew away."

"My source? I don't have any source."

"Not anymore. I figured out who was feeding your guy and that ended today. I just hope you weren't paying him for the information because IAD will take him down for that."

"I know you won't believe me, but I have no idea who or what you are talking about. I get information from my investigator. I don't ask him how he gets it."

Bosch nodded.

"That's the best way to do it, right? Insulate yourself and then you don't get any blowback in your face. In the meantime, if a police captain loses his job and pension, those are the breaks."

I hadn't realized Cisco's source was so highly placed.

The waiter brought our drinks and a basket of bread. I drank some of the water as I contemplated what to say next. I put the gla.s.s down and looked at Bosch. He raised his eyebrows like he was expecting something.

"How'd you know when I was leaving the office tonight?"

Bosch looked puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"I figure it was the lights. You were out there on Broadway, and when I killed the lights, you sent your guy into the garage."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Sure you do. The photo of the guy with the gun coming out of the building. It was a phony. You set it up-ch.o.r.eographed it-and used it to smoke out your leak, then you tried to scam me with it."

Bosch shook his head and looked out of the booth as if he were looking for someone to help him interpret what I was saying. It was a bad act.

"You set up the phony picture and then you showed it to me because you knew it would come back around through my investigator to your leak. You'd know that whoever asked you about the photo was the leak."

"I can't discuss any aspect of the investigation with you."

"And then you used it to try to play me. To see if I was hiding something and to scare it out of me."

"I told you, I can't-"

"Well, you don't have to, Bosch. I know it's what you did. You know what your mistakes were? First of all, not coming back like you said you would to show the photo to Vincent's secretary. If the guy in the picture was legit, you would've shown it to her because she knows the clients better than me. Your second mistake was the gun in the waistband of your hit man. Vincent was shot with a twenty-five-too small for a waistband. I missed that when you showed me the photo, but I've got it now."

Bosch looked toward the bar in the middle of the restaurant. The overhead TV was showing sports highlights. I leaned across the table closer to him.

"So who's the guy in the photo? Your partner with a stick-on mustache? Some clown from vice? Don't you have better things to do than to be running a game on me?"

Bosch leaned back and continued to look around the place, his eyes moving everywhere but to me. He was contemplating something and I gave him all the time he needed. Finally, he looked at me.

"Okay, you got me. It was a scam. I guess that makes you one smart lawyer, Haller. Just like the old man. I wonder why you're wasting it defending sc.u.mbags. Shouldn't you be out there suing doctors or defending big tobacco or something n.o.ble like that?"

I smiled.

"Is that how you like to play it? You get caught being underhanded, so you respond by accusing the other guy of being underhanded?"

Bosch laughed, his face colored red as he turned away from me. It was a gesture that struck me as familiar, and his mention of my father brought him to mind. I had a vague memory of my father laughing uneasily and looking away as he leaned back at the dinner table. My mother had accused him of something I was too young to understand.

Bosch put both arms on the table and leaned toward me.

"You've heard of the first forty-eight, right?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The first forty-eight. The chances of clearing a homicide diminish by almost half each day if you don't solve it in the first forty-eight hours."

He looked at his watch before continuing.

"I'm coming up on seventy-two hours and I've got nothing," he said. "Not a suspect, not a viable lead, nothing. And I was hoping that tonight I might be able to scare something out of you. Something that would point me in the right direction."