“Tom North, Pacific. We’ve never met.”

“No.”

Bosch shook his hand but didn’t act enthusiastic about the introduction.

“We never met but listen, I worked Devonshire burglary for six years before I got my homicide gig in Pacific. Know who my CO was up there back then?”

Bosch shook his head. He didn’t know and he didn’t care but North didn’t seem to realize that.

“Pounds. Lieutenant Harvey ‘Ninety-eight’ Pounds. The fuck. He was my CO. So, anyway, I heard through the network, you know, what you did to his ass. Put his face right through the fuckin’ window. That’s great, man, fuckin’ great. More power to you. I laughed my ass off when I heard that.”

“Well, I’m glad it entertained you.”

“No, really, I know you’re getting piped for it. I heard about that, too. But I just wanted to let you know you made my day and a lot of people are with you, man.”

“Thanks.”

“So what are you doing down here? I heard they had you on the Fifty-One-Fifty list.”

It annoyed Bosch to realize that there were those in the department whom he didn’t even know who knew what had happened to him and what his situation was. He tried to keep calm.

“Listen, I-”

“Bosch! You gotta box!”

It was the time traveler, Nelson. He was at the window, pushing a light blue box through the opening. It was about the size of a boot box and was held closed with red tape that was cracking with age. It looked like the box was powdered with dust. Bosch didn’t bother finishing his sentence. He waved off North and went to the box.

“Sign here,” Nelson said.

He put a yellow slip down on top of the box. It kicked up a small dust cloud, which he waved away with his hand. Bosch signed the paper and took the box in two hands. He turned and saw North looking at him. North just nodded once. He seemed to know it wasn’t the right time to ask questions. Bosch nodded back and headed to the door.

“Uh, Bosch?” North said. “I didn’t mean anything about what I said. About the list. No offense, okay?”

Bosch stared at him as he pushed through the door with his back. But he didn’t say anything. He then proceeded down the hall carrying the box with two hands, as if it contained something precious.

Chapter Seventeen

CARMEN HINOJOS was in her waiting room when Bosch got there a few minutes late. She ushered him in and waved off his apology for lateness as if it was unnecessary. She wore a dark blue suit and as he passed her in the doorway he smelled a light soapy fragrance. He took the seat on the right side of the desk near the window again.

Hinojos smiled and Bosch wondered why. There were two chairs on the other side of the desk from her. So far, in three meetings, he had taken the same one each time. The one closest to the window. He wondered if she had taken note of this and what, if anything, it meant.

“Are you tired?” she asked. “You don’t look like you got much sleep last night.”

“I guess I didn’t. But I’m fine.”

“Have you changed your mind about anything we discussed yesterday?”

“No, not really.”

“You are continuing this private investigation?”

“For now.”

She nodded in a way that told him she expected his reply.

“I want to talk about your mother today.”

“Why? It’s got nothing to do with why I’m here, why I’m on leave.”

“I think it’s important. I think it will help us get to what is happening with you, what has made you take on this private investigation of yours. It might explain a lot about your recent actions.”

“I doubt it. What do you want to know?”

“When you spoke yesterday, you made several references to her lifestyle, but you never really came out and said what she did, what she was. Thinking about it after the session, I was wondering if you have trouble accepting what she was. To the point of not being able to say she-”

“Was a prostitute? There, I said it. She was a prostitute. I’m a grown man, Doctor. I accept the truth. I accept the truth in anything as long as it’s the truth. I think you’re going far afield here.”

“Perhaps. What do you feel about her now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anger? Hatred? Love?”

“I don’t think about it. Certainly not hate. I loved her at the time. After she was gone that didn’t change.”

“What about abandonment?”

“I’m too old for that.”

“What about back then? Back when it happened.”

Bosch thought a moment.

“I’m sure there was some of that. Her lifestyle, her line of work, got her killed. And I was left behind the fence. I guess I was mad about that and felt abandoned. I was also hurt. The hurt was the worst part. She loved me.”

“What do you mean, left behind the fence?”

“I told you yesterday. I was in McClaren, the youth hall.”

“Right. So her death prevented you from leaving there, correct?”

“For a while.”

“How long?”

“I was there on and off until I was sixteen. I lived a few months two different times with some fosters but I always got sent back. Then, when I was sixteen, another couple took me. I was with them until I was seventeen. I found out later that they kept getting the DPSS checks for a year after I’d split.”

“DPSS?”

“Department of Public Social Services. Now they call it the Division of Youth Services. Anyway, when you took a kid into your home as foster parents, you got a monthly support payment. A lot of people took kids in just for those checks. I’m not saying these people did, but they never told DPSS I wasn’t in their home anymore after I left.”

“I understand. Where were you?”

“ Vietnam.”

“Wait a minute, let’s go back. You said that two different times before this you lived with foster parents but were then sent back. What happened? Why were you sent back?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t like me. They said it wasn’t working out. I went back into the dorms behind the fence and waited. I think getting rid of a teenage boy was about as easy as selling a car with no wheels. The fosters always wanted the younger ones.”

“Did you ever run away from the hall?”

“A couple times. I always got caught in Hollywood.”

“If placing teenagers was so difficult, how did it happen to you the third time, when you were even older, sixteen?”

Bosch laughed falsely and shook his head.

“You’ll get a kick out of this. I was chosen by this guy and his wife because I was left-handed.”

“Left-handed? I don’t follow.”

“I was a lefty and I could throw a pretty good fastball.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, Jesus, it was-see, Sandy Koufax was with the Dodgers then. He was a lefty and I guess they were paying him about a zillion bucks a year to pitch. This guy, the foster, his name was Earl Morse, he had played semipro baseball or something and never really made it. So, he wanted to create a left-handed major league prospect. Good left-handers were pretty rare back then, I guess. Or he thought that. Anyway, they were the hot commodity. Earl thought he’d grab some kid with some potential, slap him into shape and then be his manager or agent or something when it came to contract time. He saw it as his way back into the game. It was crazy. But I guess he’d seen his own big league dream crash and burn. So he came out to McClaren and took a bunch of us into the field for a catch. We had a team, we played other halls, sometimes the schools in the Valley let us play them. Anyway, Earl took us out to throw the ball around and it was a tryout but none of us knew it at the time. It didn’t even enter my mind what was going on until later. Anyway, he glommed on to me when he saw I was a lefty and could throw. He forgot the others like they were last season’s program.”

Bosch shook his head again at the memory.

“What happened? You went with him?”

“Yeah. I went with him. There was a wife, too. She never said much to me or him. He used to make me throw a hundred balls a day at a tire hanging in the back yard. Then every night he’d have these coaching sessions. I put up with it for about a year and then I split.”