Bosch dropped the cigarette to the linoleum, stepped on it and then kicked the butt under Donovan’s desk. Donovan began reviewing some pages he had pulled from a file. Bosch could see that each one showed a top-view drawing of the motel room where Moore ’s body was found.

“Okay, then,” Donovan said. “The prints in the room came back to Moore. All of them. I did the comp-”

“You said that.”

“I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it. Let’s see, we have a thumb-fourteen points-on the stock of the weapon. That, I guess, was the bell ringer, the fourteen.”

Harry knew that only five matching points in a fingerprint comparison were needed for an identification to be accepted in court. A fourteen-point match of a print on a gun was almost as good as having a photo of the person holding the gun.

“Then, we… let’s see… we had four three-pointers on the barrels of the weapon. I think these kind of got smudged when it kicked out of his hands. So we got nothing real clear there.”

“What about the triggers?”

“Nope. Nothing there. He pulled the triggers with his toe and he was still wearing a sock, remember?”

“What about the rest of the place? I saw you dusting the air-conditioner.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get anything there on the dial. We thought he turned the air up, you know, to control decomp. But the dial was clean. It’s plastic with a rough surface, so I don’t think it would have held anything for us.”

“What else?”

Donovan looked back down at his charts.

“I got a lift off his badge-index and thumb, five and seven points respectively. The badge was on the bureau with the wallet. But nothing on the wallet. Only smears. On the gun on the bureau I only got a bunch of smears but a clear thumb on the cartridge.

“Then, let’s see, I got the whole hand just about, a palm, thumb and three fingers on the left cabinet door under the bathroom sink. I figure he must’ve put his hand on it to steady himself when he was getting on the floor there. What a way to go, man.”

“Yeah. That’s it?”

“Yeah. Er, no. On the newspaper-there was a newspaper on the chair, I got a big match there. Thumb again and three fingers.”

“And the shells?”

“Only smudges. Couldn’t get anything on the shells.”

“What about the note?”

“Nothing on it.”

“Somebody check the handwriting?”

“Well, actually, it was printing. But Sheehan had it checked by somebody in suspicious documents. He said it matched. Few months back Moore moved out on his wife and took a place in Los Feliz called The Fountains. He filled out a change-of-address form. It was there in the personnel file Irving grabbed. Anyway, the change-of-address card was printed, too. There were a lot of commonalities with the note. You know, ‘Found’ and ‘Fountains.’”

“What about the shotgun? Anybody trace the serial?”

“The number had been filed and acid-burned. No trace. You know, Harry, I shouldn’t be saying so much. I think we should just…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He turned his chair back to the file cabinet and began to put his charts away.

“I’m almost done, man. What about a projectile pattern? Did you do one?”

Donovan closed and locked the file drawer and turned back around.

“Started to. Haven’t finished. But you’re talking side-by-side barrels, double-ought shells. That’s an immediate spread pattern. I’d say he could have done it from six inches away and gotten that kind of damage. No mystery there.”

Bosch nodded and looked at his watch, then stood up.

“One last thing.”

“Might as well. I’ve already told you enough to put my ass in a permanent sling. You going to be careful with what I’ve told you?”

“Course I am. Last thing. Outstanding prints. How many lifts you get that you haven’t matched to Moore?”

“Not a one. I was wondering if anybody would care about that.”

Bosch sat back down. This made no sense. Bosch knew that a motel room was like a working girl. Every customer leaves a little something, his mark, behind. It didn’t matter if the rooms were made up and reasonably cleaned between renters. There was always something, a telltale sign. Harry could not accept that every surface Donovan had checked had been clean except for those where Moore ’s prints were found.

“What do you mean nobody cared?”

“I mean nobody said shit. I told Sheehan and that IAD stiff that’s been following him around. They acted like it didn’t mean a thing to them. You know? It was like ‘big deal, so there were no other prints.’ I guess they never did a motel-room stiff before. Shit, I thought I’d be collecting prints in there last night ’til midnight. But all I got were the ones I just told you about. That was the goddamned cleanest motel room I’ve ever printed. I mean, I even put on the laser. Didn’t see a thing but wipe marks where the room had been cleaned up. And if you ask me, Harry, that wasn’t the kinda place the management cared too much about cleanliness.”

“You told Sheehan this, right?”

“Yeah, I told him when I got done. I was thinking, you know, it being Christmas night that they were going to say I was full of shit and just trying to get home to the family. But I told ’em and they just said, fine, that’ll be all, good night, Merry Christmas. I left. Fuck it.”

Bosch thought about Sheehan and Chastain and Irving. Sheehan was a competent investigator. But with those two hovering over him, he could have made a mistake. They had gone into the motel room one hundred percent sure it was a suicide. Bosch would have done the same. They even found a note. After that they would have probably had to find a knife in Moore ’s back to change their minds. The lack of other prints in the room, no serial number on the shotgun. These were things that should’ve been enough to cut the percentage of their assuredness back to fifty-fifty. But they hadn’t made a dent in their assumption. Harry began to wonder about the autopsy results, if they would back the suicide conclusion.

He stood up once more, thanked Donovan for the information and left.

He took the stairs down to the third floor and walked into the RHD suite. Most of the desks lined in three rows were empty, as it was after five o’clock. Sheehan’s was among those that were deserted in the Homicide Special bullpen. A few of the detectives still there glanced up at him but then looked away. Bosch was of no interest to them. He was a symbol of what could happen, of how easily one could fall.

“Sheehan still around?” he asked the duty detective who sat at the front desk and handled the phone lines, incoming reports and all the other shitwork.

“Gone for the day,” she said without looking up from a staff vacation schedule she was filling out. “Called from the ME’s office a few minutes ago and said he was code seven until theA.M.”

“There a desk I can use for a few minutes? I have to make some phone calls.”

He hated to ask for such permission, having worked in this room for eight years.

“Just pick one,” she said. She still didn’t look up.

Bosch sat down at a desk that was reasonably clear of clutter. He called the Hollywood homicide table, hoping there would still be someone there. Karen Moshito answered and Bosch asked if he had any messages.

“Just one. Somebody named Sylvia. No last name given.”

He took the number down, feeling his pulse quicken.

“Did you hear about Moore?” Moshito asked.

“You mean the ID? Yeah, I heard.”

“No. The cut is screwed up. Radio news says the autopsy is inconclusive. I never heard of a shotgun in the face being inconclusive.”

“When did this come out?”

“I just heard it on KFWB at five.”

Bosch hung up and tried Porter’s number once more. Again there was no answer and no tape recording picked up. Harry wondered if the broken-down cop was there and just not answering. He imagined Porter sitting with a bottle in the corner of a dark room, afraid to answer the door or the phone.