The surfer in a suit appeared at the top of the driveway and strode down toward Bosch. At the same time, Bosch saw his Mustang approaching. He walked out into the street, ready to take it. The surfer got to him first.

“Hey, buddy, hold on a sec-”

Bosch turned from his approaching car and hit him in the jaw, sending him backward onto the driveway. He moaned and rolled onto his side, both hands clutching his jaw. Bosch was sure the jaw was dislocated if not broken. He shook away the pain in his hand as the Mustang screeched to a stop.

The man in the red vest was slow in getting out. Bosch pulled him away from the open door and jumped in. As he settled in behind the wheel he looked up the driveway and saw the rough man was now coming. When he saw the surfer on the ground, he started running but his steps were unsteady on the downgrade of the driveway. Bosch saw his heavy thighs pressing the fabric of his pants and suddenly he slipped and fell. Two of the red vests went to help him up but he angrily shoved them away.

Bosch gunned the car and sped away. He worked his way up to Mulholland and turned east toward home. He could feel adrenaline surging through him. Not only had he gotten away, but it was clear he had struck a nerve with a hammer. Let Mittel think about that for a while, he thought. Let him sweat. Then he yelled out loud in the car, though no one could hear except himself.

“Spooked ya, didn’t I, you fuck!”

He banged his palm triumphantly on the steering wheel.

Chapter Nineteen

HE DREAMED OF the coyote again. The animal was on a mountain path where there were no homes, no cars, no people. It was moving very quickly through the dark as if it was trying to get away. But the path and place were his. He knew the land and knew he would escape. What it was he fled from was never clear, never seen. But it was there, behind him in the dark. And the coyote knew by instinct it must get away.

The phone woke Bosch, breaking into the dream like a knife stabbed through paper. Bosch pulled the pillow off his head, rolled to his right and his eyes were immediately assaulted by the light of dawn. He had forgotten to close the blinds. He reached for the phone on the floor.

“Hold on,” he said.

He put the phone down on the bed, sat up and rubbed a hand across his face. He squinted at the clock. It was ten minutes after seven. He coughed and cleared his throat, then picked the phone back up.

“Yeah.”

“Detective Bosch?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Brad Hirsch. I’m sorry to call so early.”

Bosch had to think a moment. Brad Hirsch? He had no idea who it was.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he said while he continued to search his mind for the name.

A silence followed.

“I’m the one…In Latents? Remember, you-”

“Hirsch? Yeah, Hirsch. I remember. What’s up?”

“I wanted to tell you I made the AFIS run you wanted. I came in early and ran it with another search I’m doing for Devonshire Homicide. I don’t think anybody will know.”

Bosch kicked his legs over the side of the bed, opened a drawer in the bed table and took out a pad and a pencil. He noticed that he had taken the pad from the Surf and Sand Hotel in Laguna Beach. He remembered he had spent a few days with Sylvia there the year before.

“Yeah, you made the run? What’d you get?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I’m sorry but I got nothing.”

Bosch threw the pad back into the open drawer and threw himself backward on the bed.

“No hits?”

“Well, the computer came up with two candidates. I then did a visual comparison and it was no good. No matches. I’m sorry. I know this case means…”

He didn’t finish.

“You took it through all the data bases?”

“Every one on our network.”

“Let me ask you something. All those data bases, do they include DA’s employees and LAPD personnel?”

There was silence as Hirsch must have been mulling over what the question might mean.

“You there, Hirsch?”

“Yes. The answer is yes.”

“How far back? You know what I mean? These bases have prints going how far back?”

“Well, each data base is different. The LAPD’s is extensive. I’d say we have prints on everybody who’s worked here since World War II.”

Well, that clears Irving and the rest of the cops, Bosch thought. But that didn’t bother him much. His sights were definitely somewhere else.

“What about people working for the DA?”

“The DA’s office would be different,” Hirsch said. “I don’t think they started printing employees until the middle sixties.”

Conklin had been there during that time, Bosch knew, but he would already have been elected DA. It would seem that he would not have submitted his own prints, especially if he knew there was a print card in a murder book somewhere that could possibly be matched to him.

He thought of Mittel. He would have been out of the DA’s office by the time employees’ prints were taken as a matter of course.

“What about the federal base?” he asked. “What if some guy worked for a president and got the kind of clearance you need to go visit the White House, would those prints be in that base?”

“Yes, they’d be in twice. In the federal employees base and in the FBI’s. They keep prints on record of everyone they do background investigations on, if that’s what you mean. But remember, just because somebody visits the president, it doesn’t mean they get printed.”

Well, Mittel isn’t a scratch but it’s close, Bosch thought.

“So what you’re saying,” Bosch said, “is that whether or not we have complete data files going back to 1961, whoever belongs to those prints I gave you hasn’t been printed since then?”

“That’s not one hundred percent but it’s close. The person who left these prints probably hasn’t been printed-at least by any contributor to the data banks. We can only reach so far with this. One way or another we can pull prints on one out of about every fifty or so people in the country. But I just didn’t get anything this time. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Hirsch, you tried.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be getting back to work now. What do you want me to do with the print card?”

Bosch thought a moment. He wondered if there was any other avenue to chase down.

“Tell you what, can you just hold on to it? I’ll come by the lab and pick it up when I can. Probably be by later today.”

“Okay, I’ll put it in an envelope for you in case I’m not here. Good-bye.”

“Hey, Hirsch?”

“Yeah?”

“It feels good, don’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“You did the right thing. You didn’t get a match but you did the right thing.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He was acting like he didn’t understand because he was embarrassed, but he understood.

“Yeah, I’ll see you Hirsch.”

After hanging up, Bosch sat on the side of the bed, lit a cigarette and thought about what he was going to do with the day. The news from Hirsch was not good but it wasn’t daunting. It certainly didn’t clear Arno Conklin. It might not even have cleared Gordon Mittel. Bosch wasn’t sure whether Mittel’s work for presidents and senators would have required a fingerprint check. He decided his investigation was still intact. He wasn’t changing any plans.

He thought about the night before and the wild-ass chance he had taken confronting Mittel the way he had. He smiled at his own recklessness and thought about what Hinojos might make of it. He knew she’d say it was a symptom of his problem. She wouldn’t see it as a tactful way of flushing the bird from the bush.

He got up and started the coffee and then showered, shaved and got ready for the day. He took his coffee and the box of cereal from the refrigerator out to the deck, leaving the sliding door open so he could hear the stereo. He had KFWB news on.

It was cool and crisp outside but he could tell it would get warmer later. Blue jays were swooping in and out of the arroyo below the deck and he could see black bees the size of quarters working in the yellow flowers of the primrose jasmine.