Bosch turned on the light box and put the plastic sleeves down on it. He swung the magnifier over and studied the envelope and the letter it had once contained. There was nothing remotely readable on either document. One thing he noted was that it looked like there was no stamp on the envelope.

“Damn,” he said.

He flipped the sleeves over and kept looking. Edgar came over next to him as if to confirm the obvious.

“Woulda been nice,” he said.

“What will she do now?” Bosch asked Jesper.

“Well, she’ll probably try some dyes, some different lights. Try to get something that reacts with the ink, brings it up. But she wasn’t too optimistic yesterday. So like I said, I wouldn’t be getting my hopes up about it.”

Bosch nodded and turned off the light.

Chapter 9

NEAR the back entrance to the Hollywood Division station was a bench with large sand-filled ashtrays on either side. It was called the Code 7, after the radio call for out-of-service or on break. At 11:15 P.M. on Saturday night Bosch was the only occupant on the Code 7 bench. He wasn’t smoking, though he wished he was. He was waiting. The bench was dimly lit by the lights over the station’s back door and had a view of the parking lot jointly shared by the station and the firehouse on the back end of the city complex.

Bosch watched as the patrol units came in from the three-to-eleven shift and the officers went into the station to change out of uniforms, shower and call it a night, if they could. He looked down at the MagLite he held in his hands and rubbed his thumb over the end cap and felt the scratchings where Julia Brasher had etched her badge number.

He hefted the light and then flipped it in his hand, feeling its weight. He flashed on what Golliher had said about the weapon that had killed the boy. He could add flashlight to the list.

Bosch watched a patrol car come into the lot and park by the motor pool garage. A cop he recognized as Julia Brasher’s partner, Edgewood, emerged from the passenger side and headed into the station carrying the car’s shotgun. Bosch waited and watched, suddenly unsure of his plan and wondering if he could abandon it and get into the station without being seen.

Before he decided on a move Brasher got out of the driver’s side and headed toward the station door. She walked with her head down, the posture of someone tired and beat from a long day. Bosch knew the feeling. He also thought something might be wrong. It was a subtle thing, but the way Edgewood had gone in and left her behind told Bosch something was off. Since Brasher was a rookie, Edgewood was her training officer, even though he was at least five years younger than her. Maybe it was just an awkward situation because of age and gender. Or maybe it was something else.

Brasher didn’t notice Bosch on the bench. She was almost to the station door before he spoke.

“Hey, you forgot to wash the puke out of the back seat.”

She looked back while continuing to walk until she saw it was him. She stopped then and walked over to the bench.

“I brought you something,” Bosch said.

He held out the flashlight. She smiled tiredly as she took it.

“Thank you, Harry. You didn’t have to wait here to-”

“I wanted to.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

“Were you working the case tonight?” she asked.

“More or less. Started the paperwork. And we sort of got the autopsy earlier today. If you could call it an autopsy.”

“I can tell by your face it was bad.”

Bosch nodded. He felt strange. He was still sitting and she was still standing.

“I can tell by the way you look that you had a tough one, too.”

“Aren’t they all?”

Before Bosch could say anything two cops, fresh from showers and in street clothes, came out of the station and headed toward their personal cars.

“Cheer up, Julia,” one of them said. “We’ll see you over there.”

“Okay, Kiko,” she said back.

She turned and looked back down at Bosch. She smiled.

“Some people from the shift are getting together over at Boardner’s,” she said. “You want to come?”

“Um…”

“That’s okay. I just thought maybe you could use a drink or something.”

“I could. I need one. Actually, that’s why I was waiting here for you. I just don’t know if I want to get into a group thing at a bar.”

“Well, what were you thinking, then?”

Bosch checked his watch. It was now eleven-thirty.

“Depending on how long you take in the locker room, we could probably catch the last martini call at Musso’s.”

She smiled broadly now.

“I love that place. Give me fifteen minutes.”

She headed toward the station door without waiting for a reply from him.

“I’ll be here,” he called after her.

Chapter 10

MUSSO and Frank’s was an institution that had been serving martinis to the denizens of Hollywood-both famous and infamous-for a century. The front room was all red leather booths and quiet conversation with ancient waiters in red half-coats moving slowly about. The back room contained the long bar, where most nights it was standing room only while patrons vied for the attention of bartenders who could have been the fathers of the waiters. As Bosch and Brasher came into the bar two patrons slipped off their stools to leave. Bosch and Brasher quickly moved in, beating two black-clad studio types to the choice spots. A bartender who recognized Bosch came over and they both ordered vodka martinis, slightly dirty.

Bosch was already feeling at ease with her. They had spent lunch together at the crime scene picnic tables the last two days and she had never been far from his sight during the hillside searches. They had ridden over to Musso’s together in his car and it seemed like a third or fourth date already. They small-talked about the division and the details Bosch was willing to part with about his case. By the time the bartender put down their martini glasses along with the sidecar carafes, he was ready to forget about bones and blood and baseball bats for a while.

They clinked glasses and Brasher said, “To life.”

“Yeah,” Bosch said. “Getting through another day.”

“Just barely.”

Bosch knew that now was the time to talk to her about what was troubling her. If she didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t press it.

“That guy you called Kiko in the back lot, why’d he tell you to cheer up?”

She slumped a little and didn’t answer at first.

“If you don’t want to talk about-”

“No, it’s not that. It’s more like I don’t want to think about it.”

“I know the feeling. Forget I asked.”

“No, it’s okay. My partner’s going to write me up and since I’m on probation, it could cost me.”

“Write you up for what?”

“Crossing the tube.”

It was a tactical expression, meaning to walk in front of the barrel of a shotgun or other weapon held by a fellow officer.

“What happened? I mean, if you want to talk about it.”

She shrugged and they both took long drinks from their glasses.

“Oh, it was a domestic-I hate domestics-and the guy locked himself in the bedroom with a gun. We didn’t know if he was going to use it on himself, his wife or us. We waited for backup and then we were going to go in.”

She took another drink. Bosch watched her. Her inner turmoil showed clearly in her eyes.

“Edgewood had shotgun. Kiko had the kick. Fennel, Kiko’s partner, and I had the door. So we did the deed. Kiko’s big. He opened the door with one kick. Fennel and I went in. The guy was passed out on the bed. Seemed like no problem but Edgewood had a big problem with me. He said I crossed the tube.”

“Did you?”

“I don’t think so. But if I did, then so did Fennel, and he didn’t say jack to him.”