One of the women in black-and-white came out from under the white canopy and toward him with a tray of champagne glasses. He took one, thanked her, and turned back to the view. He sipped at it and supposed that it was top quality, but he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. He decided he should gulp it and go when a voice from his left interrupted.

“Wonderful view, isn’t it? Better than a movie. I could stand here for hours.”

Bosch turned his head to acknowledge the speaker but didn’t look at him. He didn’t want to get involved.

“Yeah, it’s nice. But I’ll take the mountains I have.”

“Really? Where is that?”

“The other side of the hill. On Woodrow Wilson.”

“Oh, yes. There are some very nice properties there.”

Not mine, Bosch thought. Unless you like neoearthquake classic.

“The San Gabriels are brilliant in the sun,” the conversationalist said. “I looked there but then I bought here.”

Bosch turned. He was looking at Gordon Mittel. The host put out his hand.

“Gordon Mittel.”

Bosch hesitated but then figured Mittel was used to people losing a step or stuttering in his presence.

“Harvey Pounds,” Bosch said, taking his hand.

Mittel was wearing a black tuxedo. He was as overdressed for the crowd as Bosch was underdressed. His gray hair was cropped short and he had a smooth machine tan. He was as trim and tight as a rubber band stretched around a stack of hundreds and looked at least five to ten years younger than he was.

“Glad to meet you, glad you could come,” he said. “Did you meet Robert yet?”

“No, he’s kind of in the middle of the pack there.”

“Yes, that’s true. Well, he’ll be happy to meet you when he gets the chance.”

“I guess he’ll be happy to take my check as well.”

“That, too.” Mittel smiled. “Seriously, though, I hope you can help us out. He’s a good man and we need people like him in office.”

His smile seemed so phony that Harry wondered if Mittel had already pegged him as a crasher. Bosch smiled back and patted the right breast of his jacket.

“I’ve got the checkbook right here.”

Doing that, Bosch remembered what he really had in his pocket and got an idea. The champagne, though only a single glass, had emboldened him. He suddenly realized he wanted to spook Mittel and maybe get a look at his real colors.

“Tell me,” he said, “is Shepherd the one?”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“Is he going all the way to the White House someday? Is he the one that’s going to take you?”

Mittel sloughed off a frown or maybe it was a glimmer of annoyance.

“I guess we shall see. We’ve got to get him into the Senate first. That’s the important thing.”

Bosch nodded and made a show of scanning the crowd.

“Well, it looks like you have the right people here. But, you know, I don’t see Arno Conklin. Are you still tight with him? He was your first, wasn’t he?”

Mittel’s forehead creased with a deep furrow.

“Well…” Mittel seemed to be uncomfortable, but then it quickly passed. “To tell the truth, we haven’t spoken in a long time. He’s retired now, an old man in a wheelchair. Do you know Arno?”

“Never spoken to him in my life.”

“Then tell me, what prompts a question about ancient history?”

Bosch hiked his shoulders.

“I guess I’m just a student of history, that’s all.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Pounds? Or are you a full-time student?”

“I’m in law.”

“We have something in common then.”

“I doubt it.”

“I’m a Stanford man. How about you?”

Bosch thought a moment.

“ Vietnam.”

Mittel frowned again and Bosch saw the interest go out of his eyes like water down a drain.

“Well, I tell you, I ought to mingle a little more. Watch the champagne, and if you decide you don’t want to drive, one of the boys on the driveway can get you home. Ask for Manuel.”

“The one in the red vest?”

“Uh, yes. One of them.”

Bosch held up his glass.

“Don’t worry, this is only my third.”

Mittel nodded and disappeared back into the crowd. Bosch watched him cross beneath the tent, stop to shake a few hands, but eventually make it to the house. He entered through a wall of French doors into what looked like a living room or some sort of viewing area. Mittel walked to a couch and bent down to speak quietly to a man in a suit. This man looked to be about the same age as Mittel but with a harder appearance. He had a sharp face and, though sitting, clearly had a much heavier body. As a younger man he had probably used his strength, not his brain. Mittel straightened up and the other man just nodded. Mittel then disappeared into the further recesses of his house.

Bosch finished his glass of champagne and started moving through the crowd under the tent toward the house. As he got near the French doors, one of the black-and-white women asked if he needed help finding something. He said he was looking for the bathroom and she directed him to another door to the left. He went where he was told and found the door was locked. He waited for a few moments and the door finally opened, emitting a man and a woman. They giggled when they saw Bosch waiting and headed back to the tent.

Inside the bathroom Bosch opened his jacket and took a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket on the left. It was the photocopy of the Johnny Fox story that Keisha Russell had given him. He unfolded it and took out a pen. He circled the names Johnny Fox, Arno Conklin and Gordon Mittel, then, under the story, wrote, “What prior work experience got Johnny the job?”

He refolded the page twice and ran his fingers tightly over the creases. Then, on the outside, he wrote, “For Gordon Mittel Only!”

Back under the tent, Bosch found a black-and-white woman and gave her the folded paper.

“You have to find Mr. Mittel right away,” he told her. “Give him this note. He’s waiting on it.”

He watched her go and then made his way back out through the crowd to the sign-in table at the entry area. He quickly bent over the guest registry and wrote his mother’s name down. The table hostess protested that he had already signed in.

“This is for somebody else,” he said.

For an address, he wrote Hollywood and Vista. He left the line for a telephone number blank.

Bosch scanned the crowd again and saw neither Mittel nor the woman he had given the note to. Then he looked into the room beyond the French doors and Mittel appeared with the note in his hand. He walked slowly into the room, studying it. Bosch could tell by the direction of his eyes that he was studying the note scribbled on the bottom. Even with his phony tan, he seemed to Bosch to go pale.

Bosch took a step back into the entrance alcove and watched. He could feel his heart beating at a quicker pace. He felt like he was watching some secret play on a stage.

There was a look of perplexed anger on Mittel’s face now. Bosch saw him hand the page to the rough man who still sat in the cushioned chair. Then Mittel turned to the glass panels and looked out at the people under the tent. He said something and Bosch thought he could read his lips.

“Son of a bitch.”

Then he started talking more quickly, barking orders. The man on the chair rose and Bosch knew instinctively that it was his cue to leave. He walked quickly back out to the driveway and trotted down to the group of men in red vests. He handed his valet ticket and a ten-dollar bill to one of them and said in Spanish that he was in a great hurry.

Still, it seemed to take forever. As he waited nervously, Bosch kept his eyes on the house, waiting for the rough man to appear. He had watched which direction the valet had gone for his car and he was ready to bolt that way if necessary. He began to wish he had his gun. Whether he really needed it or not did not matter. In this moment he knew it gave him a sense of security that he felt naked without.